A Tale of Two Rabbis

By Marvin J. Wolf

Rabbi Ben, hero of For Whom the Shofar Blows and A Scribe Dies in Brooklyn, is back. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—newly-engaged, Ben is in Pittsburgh for a medical procedure. Before passing out in the street, Ben saves a boy from an attacked by a trio of school bullies. He awakes in the home of the boy’s mother—Abby Silverblatt, older sister of his ninth-grade girlfriend. Invited to services at the Sanoker Shul, Abby’s tiny synagogue, Ben is asked to give a guest sermon—their Rabbi, Geltkern, has disappeared. Abby, her wife Yolanda, a Pittsburgh cop, along with Stan Bernstein (who helps run the shul) ask Ben to look into Geltkern’s disappearance. Oh, and could he fill in for him while he’s at it? Ben just wants to take it easy, but how can he say no?
Sifting through the clues of Geltkern’s disappearance, Ben discovers unusual goings-on at the synagogue. Papers are missing, a mysterious motion-detection camera alerts someone far away when the building is occupied, and a night intruder visits the premises. When Bernstein is found dead in his office, his files stripped bare, Ben knows he’s touched a nerve. The more Ben uncovers, the less it makes sense—until he begins to suspect that perhaps Geltkern isn’t really a rabbi. Using Talmudic logic and dodging several attempts on his life. Ben pieces together the puzzle, and comes up with millions of reasons why someone would want him out of the picture. With the help of a bowling alley’s oversexed accountant hoping to score a strike with our red-haired hero, Ben unravels an elaborate plot that goes back to Sanok, Poland on the eve of World War II, and beyond. It is a far, far better thing that he does, than he has ever done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antenna Books
• Release date: Sep 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781623061142

Marvin J. Wolf

Marvin J. Wolf served as an Army combat photographer, reporter, and press chief in Vietnam and was one of only sixty men to receive a battlefield promotion to lieutenant. He is the author, coauthor, or ghostwriter of seventeen previous books. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with his adult daughter and their two spoiled dogs.

Book preview

Prologue

The kid under the bridge looked to be about ten, nicely dressed in slacks with a white shirt and tie under a sports jacket. A yarmulke graced the top of an oval head covered with dark curls. His skin was cocoa, with carmine highlights, and his face was so finely featured that at first glance Ben took him for a girl.

A trio of white boys in jeans and running shoes had shoved him against a wall beneath the bridge. The smaller two were almost Ben’s height, about five feet, seven inches, a head taller than yarmulke boy. The third kid, old enough to sprout a few sparse hairs on his upper lip, was six feet tall and well over 200 pounds, soft in the middle, and working on a second chin. He was going through yarmulke boy’s backpack, dropping books and papers on the ground, tossing an orange to one of his henchman, a bagged sandwich to the other, and then pocketing a cell phone.

Taking this in at a glance from the top of a gentle slope above the bridge, Ben started forward, feeling weak and shaky, but unwilling to be a spectator to what was obviously a robbery or something worse.

It was his first Tuesday afternoon in Pittsburgh . Five days earlier, he had kissed Miryam goodbye at Ben Gurion Airport, swapped hugs with her maternal grandparents and a phalanx of cousins, and boarded a plane for Boston. After a night in his Cambridge apartment, Ben had packed his four-year-old Honda Accord and drove straight through to Pittsburgh.

And on the previous morning, Ben had gone to a university clinic to give a bone-marrow sample and the first of what would be a year-long series of weekly injections and blood tests. Afterward, he took a cab back to his rented room in Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill neighborhood, where he slept all that day and night. At noon Tuesday, weak but hungry, he had made coffee and toasted a bagel. Unable even to consider the five-mile run that for years had launched his daily routine, Ben had settled on a walk, a leisurely exploration of the community where he would live until he learned if the Human Immunodeficiency Virus had been eradicated from his body.

And now this. Three big kids robbing a smaller boy.

Instinctively, he reached up to remove his glasses, fingers fumbling on his face until he remembered that two weeks earlier, in Tel Aviv, he’d had Lasik surgery.

Ben no longer needed glasses.

He lengthened his stride, still walking but now with a purpose, and as he came into earshot, he heard the big kid laughing.

"Hey, you know what this is? It’s a Kigger—a kike and a nigger." The big kid laughed at his own joke, and the other two joined in.

Yarmulke boy didn’t seem to see the humor.

Ben said, Hey!

Four kids turned their heads as Ben approached.

Ben said, I’d ask what’s going on, but I can see that.

The tall kid said, Nothing going on. Just hanging out with my bros.

Ben said, You’ve got one minute to pick up all that stuff, take what you’ve stolen out of your pockets, and put everything back in this young man’s backpack. And then you’ve got one more minute to get out of my sight.

One of the smaller kids asked, Or what?

The tall kid smiled. Yeah. Or what?

Ben said, Or I kick all your bully boy asses.

Yarmulke boy said, Go away, Mister. You’re making everything worser.

The tall kid said, "Yeah, go away before we kick your ass."

Ben said, You’ve wasted half your minute.

The tall kid advanced on Ben, balling his fists, menace etched into his fair face. Ben waited, hands loosely at his sides, until he was six feet away.

Then he danced forward on his toes, whirling to his left, bending at the waist and bringing his right foot across to land solidly in the kid’s midsection.

The kid went down like a sack of onions. Gasping for air, he writhed on the ground.

One of the boys fumbled under his shirt and produced a 9mm Beretta.

Ben snatched it away before the kid could thumb back the safety catch.

Ben said, Pick up all those things and put them back in the pack. The smaller of the two boys knelt, stuffing papers and books into the bag. Ben turned to the still-writhing juvenile giant and hauled him to his feet, then pulled two cell phones, an iPod and a wad of cash from his pockets.

Ben turned to yarmulke boy. These yours?

Not the silver one. The phone, I mean. The black one is mine. And I think the iPod is Joey’s.

Who is Joey?

Joey Gordon. He’s in my class.

And the money?

No, sir. Not mine.

Ben handed him his things, then turned to the three boys. You’ve exceeded my store of goodwill. Get out of my sight—and if I ever hear that you bothered this young man, I’ll come after you and make you regret it for the rest of your lives.

He feinted a kick at the tall kid, who turned and ran, the others on his heels.

With a few swift motions, Ben checked to see that the gun was unloaded, removed the magazine, then detached the barrel assembly from the receiver and distributed the pieces among his pockets.

He turned back to yarmulke kid. You okay?

Yeah. Thanks, Mister.

What’s your name?

Zach.

How ‘bout I walk you home, just to make sure you get there in one piece?

Okay.

Midway up the incline, Ben’s adrenaline rush began to wear off. The toll of his exertions had to be paid . He grew lightheaded and nauseous. Spots appeared before his eyes. Each step became an effort. Ben realized that he couldn’t go on.

I have to rest, he gasped.

Yarmulke boy said, You don’t look so good, Mister. Are you sick?

Is there a bench…I…sit…a minute?

It’s only a little ways more.

Ben opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. Breathing became a labor. The sky revolved. The world grew dark and fuzzy.

Ben staggered toward the bushes lining the sidewalk.

Zach screamed, Mister!

Chapter 1

Earlier:

Short, lean but muscular, a man in his late thirties with a reddish crew cut opened the door and flipped a light switch, revealing a narrow bed with an ornate headboard, a highboy chest, a dresser, a table, two chairs . He left and returned moments later carrying a pair of suitcases that he set on the floor next to the bed. A moment later, he was joined by a petite Venus, 102 pounds of sensuality in a slender, bosomy figure topped by long, dark hair, flawless olive skin glowing with health, and the symmetrical face of a cover model.

So this is where you ravish all your women, Miryam sighed.

Their private joke. Rabbi Moshe Ben Maimon—Ben to his friends—giggled.

Miryam stepped into Ben’s arms, and they embraced for a long moment.

Is that a Chippendale chair? Miryam asked, looking around.

You have a good eye, he said. In fact, you have two wonderful eyes.

And a Seymour table? And—my God, is that a Samuel McIntire highboy?

Guilty as charged. How is it that you know about antiques?

I took a course in furniture design.

Ben looked confused. On your way to a graduate degree in early childhood development?

Before I transferred to Berkeley, she said. In Tel Aviv, at the Technion, I was thinking about a career in industrial design or architecture. Then I discovered that I love teaching children.

Ah.

She turned, searching the room, taking in each piece, eyes narrowing as she calculated. Ben! If these are real, you have at least half a million dollars in antique furniture. More, probably. Are they real?

Ben said. "My insurance company’s appraiser thinks so. But I don’t think they’re worth that much—and my grandparents bought each of them for less than a hundred dollars."

So you inherited all this?

"My bubbe—grandma—came from Vienna in the thirties. Her brothers started a used furniture shop in Brooklyn; she sometimes worked there. It was mostly junk, but once in a while, they’d buy something worth keeping. These pieces were in my grandparents’ guest room, and when my mother and I moved in—I was a baby—it became our room. When I started first grade, Mom moved to a rollout in the living room.

A few years after my grandparents died, somebody clued me in that they were valuable. I’d kept them only because I couldn’t afford anything newer.

So that explains your fancy security system.

That, and I’ve been solving other people’s problems and cleaning up their messes for long enough to make a few enemies…

"There is that. Ben, are we going to get naked tonight?"

Remember what Bert—Doctor Epstein—told us? That we need to be extremely careful? He wants to see what my virus numbers are. We should wait for my blood work to come back.

You look pretty healthy to me.

Ben had to smile. The last six months have been very stressful. There were days when I didn’t eat, or I got hardly any sleep, and a few when I got off my drug regimen. The drugs suppress the virus, but can’t kill it. HIV is incredibly adaptable. And it’s patient. It’s in my marrow—waiting for me to get run down or to screw up my drug regimen. Then it could mutate and start to reproduce . If I can’t suppress it again, it’s one opportunistic disease after another till something kills me. It’s possible that it’s already happened. I won’t know until my test results are back.

"But what if we used a lot of precautions? A condom and spermicide?"

"I suppose we could get partly naked. If we’re very careful."

What if Dr. Epstein put me on Truvada? Didn’t he say that its FDA approved?

Ben shook his head. It has horrible side effects—and the best trial, even when participants used condoms, was only about seventy-five percent effective in preventing new infections. You have better odds at Russian roulette—and if you lose at that, it’s a painless death.

Miryam sighed and moved back into Ben’s arms. Is my hair ever going to grow back?

You look gorgeous in that wig.

Miryam ducked her head and pulled off the hairpiece, revealing a head covered with dark fuzz. Dropping the wig on the dresser, she peered at her reflection in its mirror. "I am sooooo ugly."

Ben stepped up behind her and circled her waist with his arms. I’ve never seen you more beautiful than the day we lost our hair. And you’re still awfully cute.

You walked through fire to save me. How can I ever thank you enough?

Live a long and happy life at my side, and we’ll call it even.

She turned and looked at Ben. Let’s go look in your box.

Come on! We just got here.

"I don’t want to wonder for another minute if you might be a mamzer."

Ben sighed. Until a few weeks earlier, helping Miryam retrieve an ancient Hebrew codex that had been stolen from her great uncle’s home, he never had reason to think that he might be a child of incest.

Ben never knew his dad; growing up he was told that his father was not Jewish and that he had died in some mysterious fashion that no one would talk about. Ben was raised in his maternal grandparents’ home with his mother, who took her own life when Ben was twelve.

Then, several months earlier, he had stumbled upon his father’s tombstone in a Jewish cemetery in California. He learned that his father had been a career swindler with a string of aliases and a long arrest record. Just before leaving California, Ben discovered that he had a half-sister and half-brother. From them, he learned that he was the spitting image of their late father.

Shortly after that, in Brooklyn, Ben renewed acquaintances with an elderly rabbi who had been a close friend of his maternal grandfather, Salomen. To Ben’s surprise, Rabbi Zeev at first mistook Ben for Salomen.

But how could he so closely resemble his father, his father’s child, and his mother’s father? The obvious but horrible answer was that his parents were siblings or first cousins, which would make him a mamzer and therefore, as many rabbis understood Jewish law, barred from marriage to a Jewish woman. It might also explain why his mother took her own life. Religious aspects aside, Ben’s ancestors, the Jews of northern Europe, were descended from an extremely small population that had intermarried for centuries and were therefore much more likely to carry a gene for a variety of nasty genetic disorders. A child of incest from this group was almost certainly a carrier of at least one deadly gene

Ben’s grandparents died within a few months of each other. Stricken by their loss, he had left everything in their apartment except the steel box where his grandfather kept valuables and family documents. Ben had hired a moving company to ship him the bedroom furniture that he had used as a child, and had them get rid of everything else.

For years, he had, avoided the pain of thinking about the loss of his beloved grandparents. Now he was going to see whether the papers in the box held clues to the puzzle of his ancestry. He had faced down men with guns or knives, risked his life a dozen times, but the thought of what he might find among his family’s documents terrified him.

***

Ben said, I’m hungry. Can we at least eat before we tackle the box?

Miryam smiled. I’ll make something while you get started.

Ben shook his head, no. There’s almost nothing in the house. I’ve been home only a few days at a time over the last year. There’s just a few canned goods and what little is in the freezer. Let’s order in, eat, and then look at the box together.

Miryam smiled. You’re stalling. I’ll go through your freezer and pantry. If I can’t whip something up, I’ll go out. There must be a dozen restaurants around here.

Ben sighed. So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re now my conscience?

A manifestation of your highest aspirations. And you’re mine. Get the box.

I’m dreading what I’ll find.

As you once told me, ‘Anticipation of pain is usually worse than the pain.’

Ben smiled. He was cornered and knew it.

While Miryam scouted the kitchen, Ben got a ladder from the service porch, carried it into the bedroom, and then into the closet. He climbed three steps, then turned his upper body and with arms outspread pushed on two sections of ceiling molding simultaneously. A square hole yawned in the wall above the molding.

The box was two feet long, 18 inches deep, a foot high and heavy; he stood it on end and propped it between his head and his right shoulder, steadying it with one hand as he backed down the ladder. He carried the box into the dining area and set it on the table, turning to find Miryam watching.

You were right. There’s nothing much to eat. Where should I go for takeout?

How about, The Great Wall of Jerusalem. It’s just around the corner.

Kosher Chinese?

The best in Boston. Hurry up. I’m really hungry."

Miryam stepped close and kissed him on the lips, softly. I don’t care what you find in that box. I just want to be with you.

That makes me only a little less terrified.

Ben watched Miryam as she put her wig back on, straightened it in a mirror, then took the key card and left.

He opened the box. Inside was a large accordion folder filled with photos, another with papers, and a box of what Ben supposed was his grandmother’s jewelry.

He took the document folder out of the box and opened it. Then he rose and went to his home office, returning with a yellow legal pad and three pencils.

Then he got himself a glass of water from the kitchen, drank it, and sat down at the table.

Chapter 2

Ben opened his eyes. A tall, blonde woman of perhaps forty, with piercing blue eyes and a blunt, Slavic face knelt before him. She shined a tiny light in his eyes. Welcome back. Do you know your name, sir?

Ben.

The woman frowned, holding up his wallet and peering at his Massachusetts driver’s license. This says your name is Mark Glass.

Legal name. Same as …father. But my fa…um, he deserted us. Nobody wanted to say name. Ben took a deep breath. They called me by my Hebrew name, Moshe Benyamin. Ben.

The woman smiled. You don’t look Jewish.

"Neither does that little yeshiva bocher, student, who was with me."

The woman chuckled. Point taken.

She held up a card from Ben’s wallet. This says you’re a patient in a gene therapy trial at Pittsburgh Medical. And that if you need a doctor, I should call the number on the card.

Ben tried to sit up and found that he was sprawled on the sidewalk. The woman restrained him, a big hand firmly against his chest.

Easy, she said. Can you tell me what happened? Was it from the fight? Did you get punched?

Ben said, No, no. The nurse at the clinic…said that I’d feel weak and nauseous after each treatment. I was to rest. Take it easy for a few days. And that gradually I’d get used…and soon I’d only need to rest a few hours each time. That was yesterday. I’m used to a lot of exercise, so I went for a walk. I, I, guess I tried to push it. Too soon.

But you weren’t hurt in the fight?

Out of Ben’s sight, Zach said, I told you, Mom. Tommy Rollins never touched him. Mr. Glass put some kind of Kung Fu move on him, and boom! It was over. And then Luther Hoffman pulled a gun, and Mr. Glass like just snatched it away.

Thank you, Zach.

Ben said, Please call me Ben. Not Mr. Glass.

Ben it is. Can you get up?

Slowly, he hoisted himself to his feet. His head swam, but after several seconds, he began to feel better.

Thank you for coming to help me.

"Thank you for helping Zach. Can you walk a little way? Less than a block?"

Let’s try.

Ben tottered forward, gradually feeling strength returning to his legs. By the time they reached the residential street a hundred yards up the road and turned the corner, he felt nearly normal, although still very tired.

They stopped before a small house painted bright blue. The woman said, Please come in. I’ll check your vitals before I decide whether to call your clinic.

Ben said, "You’re a doctor?

CRNP—a certified registered nurse practitioner. And a neonatal nurse. Abigail Silverblatt.

Thanks for your help, Nurse Silverblatt.

Just Abby is fine.

Wait a minute, Ben said, peering very closely at Abby. Did you grow up in a three-story house on East 34th Street, off Avenue D in Flatbush? Were the shutters painted royal blue?

Abby stared. How could you possibly know that?

Because you have a younger sister, whose name is Sara. Sara Tamar Silverblatt. Who is now a fellow in pediatric oncology at Duke University’s Lenox Baker Children’s Hospital.

Yes! Who are you?

Sara was my first girlfriend—in the ninth grade.

Ohmygod—Bennie?!

Abby burst into tears and hugged Ben tightly. After a long moment, she released him, and then gave him a big kiss on the forehead.

Let’s go inside, she said.

Ben climbed the steps to the porch and followed her into the house. She shooed Zach into the kitchen, then led Ben to a small, bright office outfitted with medical equipment. He sat in a straight-backed chair as she rolled a blood pressure meter with an automatic cuff and digital readout over, then took a digital thermometer from a cabinet and slipped on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

Abby asked, Are you allergic to latex?

No.

She fastened the pressure cuff around Ben’s upper arm and flipped a switch on the device. Slowly, the cuff inflated, tightening around his arm.

As the cuff filled, she took Ben’s pulse. The machine chimed, then slowly deflated, and Abby put the thermometer sensor in Ben’s ear and held it until a soft beep sounded. She read the blood pressure readout, detached the cuff and smiled.

BP is slightly low. Your pulse is terrific. And you’re a little warm, ninety-nine point four, but there’s no reason to call the clinic.

Ben said, "Thank you. Your son is Beyta Yisroel? An Ethiopian Jew?"

Abby smiled. He was born here, but his birth mother was from Ethiopia.

And he’s about ten?

Almost twelve. Small for his age. He goes to a Jewish day school, not a yeshiva.

He seems like a fine young man.

He is. I hate to change the subject, but Zach said that you took a gun from those kids. What did you do with it?

Ben got to his feet, pulled the clip and both halves of the gun from his pockets and laid them on her desk. The police should look that over, check the ballistics, and see if it’s tied to any shootings.

Abby smiled. My spouse is a police officer. She’ll be home in a little while. Forgive me for asking, professional curiosity, but what is the gene therapy for? If you don’t mind saying.

Ben hesitated. I consider you a long-lost friend. But do we now have a professional relationship? Healer to patient?

Abby frowned. You’re talking about patient confidentiality?

Ben said, Yes.

Then, yes, of course. I will keep whatever you tell me in confidence.

My trial is to find a cure for HIV. The first trial was in Denmark and produced excellent results: Most of the participants show no trace of the virus after one year. But it was a very small study. The second trial was a somewhat larger group, and it’s in progress. The interim data looks promising. My virologist thinks the protocol has an excellent chance to genetically modify my T-helper lymphocytes–T-cells. In other words, kill the virus hiding in my marrow. Cure me.

Abby said, You sound like a scientist.

Ben grinned. I went to M.I.T., but my B.S. is in electrical engineering. Computers. But many of my close friends and former classmates became doctors.

You were describing the study. Is there more to it?

My cohort is getting somewhat stronger dosages and more frequent injections than earlier groups, and it’s double-blind. I won’t know if I’m getting a therapeutic series or a placebo until the trial concludes.

Abby asked, Side effects?

It makes me feel tired, nauseous and dizzy. But as I said, that’s supposed to pass as my system adjusts.

Abby said, There are so many, many people in our community that will benefit from this trial, no matter how it turns out. Thank you for stepping forward.

There’s nothing to thank me for. I’m doing this strictly for myself. I hope, after this trial, to be virus-free, which will allow me to marry and have children without worrying about infecting anyone.

Abby’s face registered surprise. Oh. I thought maybe—

Ben interrupted. I have great sympathy for every human being afflicted with this virus, but I wasn’t infected the way that most people who got the virus are.

Abby asked, A needle stick? An open wound?

Ben nodded, yes. In Jerusalem, nine years ago. Almost ten now. A bomb in a café. My wife was killed. Everyone who wasn’t dead had multiple cuts, including me. A guy near me was choking on his tongue, so I put my hand down his throat to pull it out, and, of course, he bit me. Not his fault. Then an IDF doctor came. He asked me to stick my fingers into a man’s leg wound and showed me how to pinch off his femoral artery, until he could deal with the man’s other problems. I got a lot of other people’s blood on me, and some of it must have been infected.

Abby frowned, her face sympathetic. It’s a terrible thing to lose a wife. Even more terrible at such a young age. Do you have children?

Ben shook his head. My wife—Rachel—was in her seventh month. The baby was delivered by caesarian but died the next day.

Abby made a face. Sorry. I should never have asked.

It was a long time ago.

Abby said, But that’s why you’re still single—because of the virus.

Ben said, I recently got engaged. Well, engaged to be engaged—put it that way. We hope to marry next year.

Is your fiancé here in Pittsburgh?

In Israel—she’s visiting her grandparents. Pretty soon, she’ll go down to Argentina to spend some time with her father’s side of the family She’s coming for Pesach, if I’m feeling up to it. Then she’s going to Berkeley to take one last class and finish her master’s thesis.

I bet you miss her.

I do. And it’s only been a week.

You must think I’m a Nosy Nellie, but what do you do for a living? When you’re not saving little boys from juvenile thugs?

Ben paused before answering, uncertain of how much he wanted to share.

Since I became aware of my condition, I’ve been unable to find fulltime employment in the field for which I am trained. I guess you could say that now I do stuff like saving little boys from juvenile thugs.

Abby looked puzzled. I don’t understand.

"I practice tikkun olam. I work to heal the world, a little at a time, as and when my help is needed. Usually, the gig is somewhat longer and more interesting than today’s little tête-à-tête by the bridge, and there’s a fee arrangement."

I suppose it’s really none of my business. But you’ve piqued my curiosity. You were trained for computer science. Why can’t you find work? You’re on anti-retrovirals, right?

After MIT, I went to rabbinical school.

You’re a rabbi?

Ben inclined his head, yes.

"You mean that no shul will hire you? Because you’re HIV-positive?"

Every board of directors invariably decides that their members won’t want me around their children. They’re afraid that I might infect them.

"That’s ridiculous. But you look healthy. How would they know your HIV status?"

"Abby, being a pulpit rabbi is not like driving a bus or running a corporate I.T. department. The spiritual leader of a sacred congregation must set a moral example. His behavior, especially in private, must be above reproach. Rabbis are privy to congregants’ personal confidences. We must be the one person that everyone knows with absolute certainty they can trust. And to do what is right and proper and morally correct under all circumstances. But rabbis are human. We are fallible. I know wonderful rabbis, beacons of morality and probity. But, sadly, I also know, or have met, or read about, rabbis who are thieves, swindlers, adulterers, child molesters, even murderers. One of my rabbinical classmates made a fortune peddling underwater Red Sea real estate. Developing trust between a rabbi and a congregation does not happen easily or all at once, but over a long period.

How could I expect to earn that trust if I began a relationship with my congregation by concealing such an important fact?

So you just told them? Is that it?

Each time I interviewed for a pulpit. Straight up, including how I was infected. And each time, they apologized for declining to offer me a position.

"That’s just wrong. What exactly do you do now, Rabbi?"

I’m sort of a roving troubleshooter for Jewish institutions. Or individuals.

Sorry. You just told me that, but I didn’t get it.

Ben smiled then got to his feet. He was hungry, which he took as a good sign. Thanks for checking me over, Abby. I feel much better, so I should be going.

Can’t you stay for dinner? My wife will be home soon—I’m sure she’d love to meet you.

I’d be honored to share your meal. But I need to know that it’s kosher.

We’re not exactly a kosher household. But we eat only vegetables, dairy and fish in this house. No meat or meat products, ever. It’s a compromise between my wish to be a vegan and Yolanda’s craving for animal protein. We’re having fresh salmon tonight—I could use paper plates and plastic tableware, if that would make you more comfortable?

Ben smiled. Then I accept.

Wonderful. And I bake my own bread. We even have a bottle of Baron Herzog Zinfandel, if you’d care to try some.

Chapter 3

Abby asked, Zach, would you lead us in the blessing over wine?

Gripping a wine glass half full of grape juice, the boy stood up and chanted, "Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha’olam, bo’re p’ri ha’gafen."

Amen, replied Ben, Abby and Yolanda.

Yolanda was in her early thirties, tall and shapely, with olive skin, huge brown eyes and dark, silky hair. She had come directly from work, and wore a severely tailored business suit that barely left room for a holster and a badge. She had locked both in a safe before sitting down to eat.

Yolanda said, "We’ve never had a rabbi over for dinner. It feels almost like Shabbos."

Ben said, "It does kind of feel like Shabbat."

Zach asked, "Rabbi, how come you say Shabbat and Momma