The Cantor Sang Off-Key

By Golda Fruchter Brunhild

What happens at synagogue doesnt always stay at synagogue.
This lively tale of a cantor and her congregation provides a second look at the Reform Jewish world.
At Temple Beth Shalom, Brunhild takes you inside the life of well-respected Cantor Abbey Rosen, thrown into the tangled ethical web involving temple finance manager, Willard Lubarsky.
Lubarskys own insatiable sexual desires cause him more grief than he ever imagined, and it all comes back to haunt him in an explosive conclusion.
Brunhild builds tension at the temple as well as the Lubarsky household, as Willards deceit and reckless ways involve him with the underworld and Cantor Rosen in a most unlikely scenario .
Youll cheer for other characters such as Charlie Hammer, who becomes a central figure in Abbeys present and future world.
The High Holidays at your temple never had drama like this.
Brunhilds other works include: MISHBUCHA, THE FAMILY; WORLDS INTERTWINED; THE EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN NEXT DOOR; MAYHEM IN THE MIST and KINFOLK AND WHISKEY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514472781

Golda Fruchter Brunhild

Golda Fruchter Brunhild, a native Californian, is a fifty-six year resident of Florida. With advanced degrees from UCLA and the University of South Florida, she is now engaged in her final endeavor—her lifelong dream of being an author. During her eighty-five years Golda raised four productive and successful offspring, taught public school, functioned as principal of a Jewish Sunday school, and successfully managed the family corporation for over thirty-two years. All this, along with being an active participant in both community and spiritual organizations. She now revels in her writing, a most gratifying passion. Her adult children and their families still play an important role in her active life. Through the publication of two semi-fictional autobiographical volumes, three novels, plus a piece in a women’s anthology Golda now pursues the singular ardor of her later years.

Book preview

THE CANTOR SANG

OFF-KEY

Golda Fruchter Brunhild

Copyright

© 2016 by Golda Fruchter Brunhild.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2016903750

ISBN:                  Hardcover                           978-1-5144-7280-4

          Softcover                              978-1-5144-7279-8

                            eBook                                   978-1-5144-7278-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/09/2016

Xlibris

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Contents

-Chapter 1-

-Chapter 2-

-Chapter 3-

-Chapter 4-

-Chapter 5-

-Chapter 6-

-Chapter 7-

-Chapter 8-

-Chapter 9-

-Chapter 10-

-Chapter 11-

-Chapter 12-

-Chapter 13-

-Chapter 14-

-Chapter 15-

-Chapter 16-

-Chapter 17-

-Chapter 18-

-Chapter 19-

-Chapter 20-

-Chapter 21-

-Chapter 22-

-Chapter 23-

-Chapter 24-

Chapter -25-

-Chapter 26-

-Chapter 27-

-Chapter 28-

-Chapter 29-

-Chapter 30-

-Chapter 31-

-Chapter 32-

-Chapter 33-

-Chapter 34-

-Chapter 35-

-Chapter 36-

-Chapter 37-

-Chapter 38-

The author would like to thank the following:

Cantor Victoria Silverman: for her professional input.

Joel Poiley: Editor

Steven Brunhild: for his assistance.

-Chapter 1-

Abbey Rosen, skirt billowing in the wind, stared up at a black Jacksonville sky. Overhead, a flock of noisy birds squawked their departure. Despite hurricane-force gusts the air hung heavy—thunder rumbled through the late afternoon. A sudden gale forced her to grab on to the rickety railings to keep from being blown off her feet.

A heavy scent of rain and humidity pervaded the atmosphere, while distant lightning illuminated the darkening gloom. In the small front yard sporadic flashes revealed Abbey’s elderly aunt dashing aimlessly about.

Aunt Rebecca, what in heaven’s name are you doing out there? It’s going to pour any minute. Her voice became lost in the crash of approaching thunder.

Rebecca Rosen yelled back over her shoulder, Be right there. The trash bin blew over and dumped everything all over the place! Her grey hair whipped about, flapping wildly around her eyes and face.

Abbey pushed her own long, chestnut colored hair behind an ear and dashed out to help. She reached for the plastic bag in Rebecca’s arms. This is ridiculous. In a few minutes everything could be strewn about all over again. Can’t this wait until after the storm?

A fork of lightning tore Rebecca’s eyes skyward and compelled her into an involuntarily duck. Right, she laughed. Goodness, that bolt did come close. Guess I’m being foolish. The pair scurried back to the steps, then turned around to survey their surroundings. Explosive squalls drove loose foliage and debris in every direction.

Abbey pointed off in the distance. Aunt Rebecca. Wait! Look over there. That dark cloud. Can you see it? Her eyes widened. That enormous black cloud. It has a tail—a tornado. Get in the house. NOW!

The two women raced up the wooden stairway and into the house, slammed the door behind them and scooted into a narrow hallway. The constant streaks of lightning and deafening clashes of thunder brought qualms of impending doom to the huddled pair. The small bungalow groaned and shook, as it threatened to take wing from its half-century-old foundation.

Rebecca frowned up at her niece. Sounds like Armageddon.

Abbey grinned, then tossed off her own lighthearted prattle. What a time to make jokes. Great, this must be how Dorothy felt in the Wizard of Oz. How well do you think this house would fly?

Rebecca raised an eyebrow and offered a critical glance at her niece. She shrugged. Perhaps we’ll soon find out. Of course, we could both get killed.

Abbey grinned, Well, at least we’ll go together.

Rebecca tried to calm her frantic thoughts. Now that sounds really asinine. Should it make me more relaxed?

Abbey hugged her aunt. The top of Rebecca’s 4-foot 9-inch frame hit directly under Abbey’s chin. Seventy-three-year-old Rebecca was short, or as she preferred to describe herself, architecturally challenged.

The pair huddled in the hallway while rumblings from the storm resonated through the afternoon. The cottage vibrated, the windows rattled and the narrow passage seemed to close in upon them. A sudden reverberation and the thunderous howling brought a look of dread to the women’s eyes. The pair clung to each other, their breathing became short.

Within a few minutes, except for the rumble of distant thunder and sporadic gusts of wind and rain, the world appeared to return to normal. Abbey peered into the living room. All looks okay. I think we’re lucky. Maybe we missed the worst. I’ll check out front.

Abbey opened the front room door and peered through. A couple of great oak-tree branches enveloped a large portion of their neighbor’s yard. Down the street a car laid upside down on another’s front lawn. Scattered yard furniture and dozens of trash containers lay tossed about, consigned to crazy angles and unexpected locations. Everything within sight looked tattered, saturated and dismal.

Abbey persisted in her optimism. Aunt Rebecca, come look. Appears we’re okay.

Rebecca Rosen glanced outside. The elderly woman shook her head and frowned. She put a hand out in front of herself. Look at me, I’m still shaking. I really could use a cup of tea, maybe calm down a bit.

Abbey smiled. All right, a quick cup. It’s a long drive back to Bay Vista and I need to get going.

You’re certainly not going to leave right this minute, not after all that? Honest, Abbey, I hate the look of that sky. I’d feel so much better if you waited for it to completely blow over. It always does.

Abbey took her seat at the kitchen table as Rebecca brewed the tea. She smiled at her aunt. When’s your next appointment with the cancer specialist?

Her aunt shook her head. This is not the time to discuss health problems. I’m still too shaken. Besides, I’m worried about your trip back. Couldn’t you stay the night?

Cantor Abbey Rosen finished her tea, picked up her overnight bag and reached into a corner of the living room for her red and white striped, golf umbrella. She smiled. "I’m sorry, Aunt Rebecca. You know I have to get home tonight. The roads will be slick and I imagine the traffic will be horrendous—probably take longer than usual. You know these Florida summer storms. They can stretch for hundreds of miles. This front could cover a large part of the state—probably keep me company most of the way home.

Please try not to worry. Remember, I’m 32 years old and hold a responsible position. Haven’t you always bragged about what an excellent driver I am? When was the last time I even sported a dented fender?

Rebecca grasped Abbey’s arm and peered up into her niece’s dark brown eyes. Wait, baby, are you sure this is sensible? You know darned well I’ll worry until I get your call. Please, please drive carefully. And call just as soon as you get back.

Cantor Abbey Rosen reached over and kissed her aunt’s wrinkled cheek. She offered a reassuring smile. Yes, Aunt Rebecca. I promise.

Abbey picked up her bag and once more gave a quick glance around the living room. Amazing how this place encompasses my childhood memories. Even to the small crocheted doilies covering the arms of that easy chair. A gentle smile remained as she moved onto the front porch.

The late August atmosphere lay thick with humidity, the leaden sky still heavy and gray. Ominous lightening flashed over distant rooftops. Although she appreciated her Aunt’s warnings, Abbey held no concerns as to her driving ability.

Before she could start down the steps, a powerful gust of wind tossed the porch swing into a bouncing half-twist. A fleeting recollection slid through her memory, the years she’d surveyed the world sitting on this rickety porch on that rusty old piece of furniture. How many exams had she prepared for? How many countless books had she read? She savored the thoughts of her cherished family, of this house and of the community. What was the pull of this Jacksonville home, of its tropical world? The memories hunkered deep within.

Heavy clouds still threatened, and a new squall returned with sudden ferocity. Few locations within the lower forty-eight could claim such brutal storms.

With her overnight bag slung over her shoulder, Abbey snapped open her large umbrella. A sudden gust yanked its canopy skyward.

Thoroughly drenched, Abbey shoved the bag and herself into the car, tossed the soaked umbrella to the floor and reached into her glove compartment for a hand-towel. After a brief wipe-off she backed out of the drive and headed southwest to the Gulf of Mexico and the city of Bay Vista, Florida.

Ω

The early Sunday evening traffic on Interstate #10 felt lighter than usual. Even with less traffic she knew the inclement weather would take the normally three-and-a-half hour drive a good bit longer.

Abbey was well acquainted with the route between Bay Vista and Jacksonville. Tests had confirmed Aunt Rebecca’s stage-two breast cancer three months earlier. Abbey made every effort to keep check on her beloved relative and felt bolstered by the specialists’ continued assurances that the chemotherapy treatments offered good possibilities for a complete cure.

Abbey smiled. Rebecca’s attitude always leaned toward the positive. The Cantor’s parents were killed in a five-car accident when she was two years old, and her aunt had flown to Texas to take custody of the child. During the following years the three—Rebecca, Abbey, and Grandma Sophie, a Polish Holocaust survivor—depended entirely upon one another. In Abbey’s heart, Aunt Rebecca had ceded her own life for Grandma’s and Abbey’s well-being.

Grandma Sophie, shriveled, grey and physically broken, seemed to exist in the shadows, a minor presence in a corner of their modest living room. The woman’s inability to speak English kept the youngster and grandmother remote from one another. Abbey, with the kinetic energy of a child, functioned in a world of bikes, roller skates, jump ropes and skinned knees. To the child, the old woman seemed little more than a piece of household furnishing, hunched over in her ancient arm-chair, immobile and silent.

In her mid-teens Abbey finally grasped a small understanding of the trauma and sorrow of her grandmother’s life. By this time, however, the aged relative had disappeared into the curse of dementia.

Meanwhile, Aunt Rebecca remained upbeat and confident, a pragmatic role model on which Abbey could replicate her own life.

Following graduation from the local university, Abbey took her musical soul and vocal talents to the Cantorial School at Hebrew Union College. On becoming vested, she felt fortunate to obtain a position only a few hours south of Jacksonville. For the past four years she’d functioned in that position at Bay Vista’s premier Reform Synagogue, Temple Beth Shalom.

The rain continued to drench the highway, at times so violent it shrouded the surrounding roadside. Most of the vehicle stream on I-10 remained under the stated speed limit, with most drivers well aware of skidding possibilities. Once Abbey switched onto Highway 301, however, traffic turned more congested and motorists appeared less cautious. Situated in the outside lane, she observed a number of careless drivers speed by, weaving and darting from one side to the other. She expressed a sigh of relief as through a new downpour she noticed large signs indicating her approach to I-75.

A glimpse in the rear view mirror drew Abbey’s attention to a driver pulling abreast on her right. A quick glance through her side window suggested a familiar face at the wheel of the black Mercedes. The driver’s speed, however, disallowed any positive identification.

With eyes intent on the road, Abbey observed the large sedan dart out in front of her and then scoot over into the left lane. Almost immediately, he fell in behind a slower driver, then switched lanes back to the right. After performing a number of similar maneuvers, the motorist made a sudden lurch, dashed ahead and quickly accelerated out of sight.

Relieved to be rid of the reckless driver, Abbey set the speedometer at an even fifty-five and leaned back. With two-thirds of the trip completed, she looked forward to a hot shower, a bowl of steaming, chicken-noodle soup and a quiet evening with her most recent read. She switched on the local music station, WWQJ Radio out of Bay Vista, and relaxed to an early rendition of Hoagy Carmichale’s Stardust.

An hour passed before Abbey—again, came upon what appeared to be the same black Mercedes, now positioned on her right rear. How had he ended up behind her? Without warning the capricious driver shot directly out between herself and a small pickup truck. He then followed with a sudden deceleration—slowing almost to a stop.

Generally speaking, Florida’s Interstate drivers held serious respect for their rain soaked expressways. Blacktops harbor a mix of oil and water residue melded together on their polished surfaces, an excellent recipe for unrestrained sliders to careen off into nirvana.

To prevent certain collision, instinct dictated Abbey’s next move. Barely aware of her reactions, she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, stepped on the brake and decelerated. Within moments her tormentor had shot around the pickup ahead of him, sped forward, and disappeared.

Abbey’s sudden braking, however, threw her small auto entirely out of control. Lacking any nearby traffic, the 3,000 pound vehicle hydroplaned into an accelerated circle and veered around in a full 360 degrees, then came to rest in its original direction.

Abbey sat frozen at the wheel. She could neither think nor breathe. Immobile and in a state of shock, some hidden instinct inspired her to move the automobile to the right-hand shoulder and come to a stop.

Abbey gasped for breath and thanked some unseen divinity for the night’s guardian angel. She remained motionless, soaked in perspiration. Unseeing eyes stared into empty space. Limp hands trembled on her lap. Few thoughts penetrated her trance-like mind.

A passing motorist, having borne witness, slowed to rubberneck, then proceeded to speed back up.

Abbey shrugged as she gradually began to position her thoughts back in order. So much for sympathetic concerns.

A half-hour down the road Abbey pulled off the interstate and onto the streets of Bay Vista. She stopped at the first signal and glanced to her left. That damn Mercedes waited next to her at the light. Now that city illuminations offered a more revealing glance, the Cantor nodded her head. No doubts. She definitely knew the driver.

The culprit, already impatiently gunning his engine, had to be none other than Willard Lubarsky, a prominent member and treasurer of her Jewish Synagogue in town.

That bastard, Abbey thought. He could have got us both killed.

-Chapter 2-

At 9:30 the following morning the bell rang to announce the start of Sunday School classes at Temple Beth Shalom Congregation. Rowdy youngsters quickly dispersed from the crowded hallways into their various classrooms to settle in for the morning’s lessons.

The Confirmation Class of Rabbi Benjamin Greenberg, however, offered a scene of boisterous disorder. In the rear of the room, class leaders Joey Lubarsky, Eli Goldfarb and Kyle McGuire, continued to argue about a recent football game on television. Others persisted in unruly laughter, while tossing a small rubber ball back and forth. Unrestrained conversation appeared to be the norm.

The elderly Rabbi cautioned, Okay, class. Settle down. Time to take your seats.

Few heeded his request.

The Rabbi assumed a professorial posture, resolved not to raise his voice. He crossed his arms, widened his stance and glared.

Any visible effect, however, appeared lost on the class of undisciplined tenth graders.

With the man’s frustration rising, he slammed a book down on his desk. Did any of you hear that bell?

Two girls seated in the front row nodded their heads and raised their hands. Much of the rest of the class continued their shenanigans.

The teacher again slammed down the book, louder this second time. Fury welled-up in his throat. Enough! he shouted. Stop! Take your seats!

A shocked silence filled the room. Eventually, the few recalcitrants did seat themselves and quiet down.

Take out your notebooks, the Rabbi demanded. You’ll need to take notes. We’ve been discussing what the ancient Hebrew scholars did to continue their religious studies after the Romans burned the second temple. Who can tell me where and how they tried to by-pass the new restrictions?

In the second row Ricky Artenias produced a clown-like grimace, stood up, raised his arms over his head, and danced about in a circle beside his desk. In a sing-song voice he laughingly mimicked Rabbi Greenberg’s previous question. Who can tell me about the new—?

Ricky. Sit down. The Rabbi glared at the roguish student. Stop making a fool of yourself.

Instead of sitting, Ricky continued to laugh and dance his undersized body next to his desk. He wiggled his skinny torso around into a twist and waved his arms above his head. I’m making a fool of myself, I’m making a —

Ricky, the elderly Rabbi roared, Sit down!

The sudden shout caught the teen off guard. For a moment he stopped and stared at the shouter. His eyes lit up. Could his devilment actually be a cause of torment for the unpopular teacher? How perfect. He grinned. But Rabbi, like you said, I’m just making a fool of myself.

Ricky turned to his classmates and continued to quiver. A ripple of laughter emanated throughout the room.

The Rabbi glared at the fifteen-year-old, infuriated with the teen’s provocative demeanor. The elderly scholar felt his blood pressure leap to dangerous levels.

Although usually difficult and unruly, the impertinence of today’s class surpassed its norm. A number of the boys, egged on by Ricky’s clowning, took advantage of the opportunity with their own chortling.

Hal Kramer called out from the back row, Hey Ricky, you gotta’ have some music for that crazy dance. Come on, man, shake it up, shake it up. His melodious tenor rang out with, T’dum, Cha, Cha…T’dum, Cha,Cha, T’dum, Cha, Cha. Hal, unusually handsome and physically muscled for a 15-year-old, assumed his vocal ability to be a fine addition to the show.

From the next row another boy clapped his hands in rhythm to Hal’s T’dum, T’dum.

By now the Rabbi’s face had turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He stalked over to Ricky and shouted into the boy’s face, Sit down and shut up!

Jarred by the teacher’s angry actions, during the next few minutes the class of twenty-eight boys and four girls appeared to settle down.

Determined to teach the morning’s lesson, Rabbi Greenberg turned to write a sentence on the blackboard. Spurred on by his anger he pressed too hard on the chalk. The long piece in his hand gave a loud squeak and splintered in half. The shattered piece flew to the floor, and the 70 year-old bent over to retrieve it.

Seated in the front row, Kyle McGuire stretched a lanky leg into the aisle, lifted the sole of his shoe and kicked the learned scholar directly on his posterior.

The unexpected action sent the respected Rabbi sprawling face down, flat onto his stomach, spread-eagle onto the beige shag-carpet.

A shared gasp filled the room. Even to these mischievous pranksters, this particular performance seemed too outlandish.

A pretty blond jumped out of her seat to assist the fallen elder, but infuriated, the Rabbi pushed her aside. He quickly came to a sitting position, grabbed onto his desk and pulled himself up. The learned man threw one last icy glare at