The Adams Street Shul

Written by Rabbi Norbert Weinberg
It was fated to happen.  It had been waiting for decades, perhaps even centuries, but it was inexorably destined to occur. It is a known fact even among marginally observant Jews: any chametz (leavened food) may not be owned during the entire festival of Passover. It is a stringency above and beyond the rules regarding non-kosher foods, which simply may not be eaten. This commonly accepted rule used to place the Jewish housewife in quite an annual quandary.  Does she throw all her non-Passover food out?  She could incur quite a loss, not to mention that wastefulness is, after all, frowned upon by religion. Businesses with large inventories stand to lose a lot more.

What to do?  The rabbis, in their inimitable wisdom, finally worked out a plan. Let all chametz be sold to a willing gentile.  Then, when Passover is over, this good person will relinquish his sale and the items will revert to the original Jewish owners.

Now that you have been introduced to this bit of Talmudic erudition, you must immediately be disabused of the notion that Stanley Medeiros was an anti-Semite. Nothing could be further from the truth. What he did was in justified anger, albeit that the reverberations of his actions echoed in Jewish circles around the world.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. This is a story that must begin at its very genesis.

Stan was an upstanding member of a small New England town by the name of Glendale, where he had served with distinction on its fire department for no less than three decades. He had narrowly escaped death in two infernos, during which three people owed their very lives to his heroism.  When he retired from the Department, it was with the highest accolades.

In his late fifties, Stan was too young and much too robust for the rocking chair. Broad-shouldered and tall, his weather-beaten face exuded a surprising gentleness. A slight potbelly was misleading, since it was not fat, but solid muscle. He puttered around his house a great deal to the good-natured mutterings of his wife ("I married him for better or for worse - not for lunch."), but he constantly kept his eyes open for possible employment.

It was on a bright and cold day in December that Fred Greenstein, the dapper president of the Sons of Israel synagogue stepped across the well-manicured lawn of the Medeiros home and sauntered up the steps of the Cape cottage. Stan's stout frame was hugging the top rung of a ladder, stringing small decorative bulbs to the side of the building.

"Happy holidays, Stan. How've you been?"

A few feet of wire remained draped over the ladder as Stan gingerly hopped down.  He was genuinely pleased to see his old friend. With a broad smile, he extended a burly hand.

"Fred!  What a surprise.  How've you been?"

"Fine, fine. I was driving through the neighborhood and decided to drop by instead of calling you on the phone." Fred gingerly ran a finger along one of the boards lining the side of the house, making sure that his neatly pressed suit would not get stained. Satisfied, he leaned against the building. "Here's the story, Stan.  The janitor at our synagogue will be retiring next week and I think you're the perfect man for the job. It's not too demanding and I know you can handle it without any trouble."

Stan was intrigued from the first moment.  The folks down at the "Jewish church" were well thought of in town.  Stan knew quite a few of them.  In fact, he had gone to school with at least a dozen. He was eager to get busy again and the extra money would come in handy, to say the least.

The two men went into the house, sat in front of a generously decorated Christmas tree and sipped steaming coffee that Stan's wife, Marla, had brewed.

"I'm sure the salary won't be a problem," Fred Greenstein ventured as he adjusted a green bow tie. "It will be reasonably generous and you'll work out the details with the Finance Committee." He paused tentatively.  "How does that sound?"

"It sounds fine," Stan said as he tried to suppress his excitement. "Do I have to go to any interviews or anything like that?"

"Well, technically  … no. Our board of directors votes on matters of hiring staff and my recommendation should do it." He squirmed in his seat and straightened the crease in his pants.  "There's just the matter of Al Brogan."

"Al Brogan? Can't seem to remember him."

"He's fairly new in Glendale. He's done well in business and has supported our synagogue pretty heavily. But," Fred leaned close to Stan and almost whispered, "it's cost us a price. He wants things his way.  We can't do anything without his consent. You see, if I don't get his approval for everything I do, I could antagonize him and we'd be in real trouble."

Stan chuckled. "We got guys like that in church, too. They love to push their weight around."

"You've got to give me your word, Stan, that you won't whisper a word of what I've told you. I only did it to let you know how I've got to proceed."

Stan extended his hand and started to rise. "No problem whatsoever, Fred. If I get the job, it'll be great.  If not, I'll keep bothering Marla."

The two men shook hands warmly. The following week, Stan Medeiros became the new caretaker of the congregation.

 

It began like a match made in heaven. Stan discharged his duties with distinction. The interior of the synagogue was immaculate and the lawn and bushes matched those of his home.  Having driven many a fire engine, it was easy for him to obtain a driver's license for a school bus and he added to his responsibilities by driving children to and from Hebrew school and to special events.  Many a parent permitted their children to participate in these congregational outings only because Stan was on the bus to look after them.

He was especially intrigued by the many exotic customs that were constantly taking place at the synagogue.  Everything had to be prepared in the kitchen before the Sabbath and only very specific foods could gain entry. Not being bound by Jewish law, Stan turned the lights out after Sabbath and holiday services and performed many similar functions.

His relationship with Rabbi Eli Gordon, a middle-aged scholarly looking man with a slender build and short trimmed beard, was especially cordial and friendly. The rabbi could always be depended upon to explain activities in the synagogue that seemed somewhat quaint and difficult to understand. They soon became warm friends.

One of the most intriguing ceremonies in which Stan became the central figure occurred each year on the day before Passover. It took Rabbi Gordon quite awhile to clarify it all to him the first year. After that initial introduction, he prided himself in being an expert in all aspects of the transaction.

The first year was the most exciting.  Stan was asked to be at the Rabbi's home on Thursday evening.  As he arrived, he noticed that the house was in total darkness. Did he have the wrong time?  Then, to his utter astonishment, he saw the rabbi, flanked by his wife and three children with a lit candle, wending his way through the dark rooms.  With the help of a feather, he brushed breadcrumbs into an old shoebox. After saying a few words that sounded like Hebrew, the lights went on and the rabbi jovially greeted him.

"What was that all about?" Stan asked incredulously.

"Just our way of effectively getting rid of all the chametz.  We search for the last particles and then we're done."

Stan was fascinated. "Do you think that's where we got the idea for the Easter egg hunt?" he asked with a guffaw.

Within the next few minutes, three men walked into the home.  Esther, the rabbi's wife, greeted them and ushered them into a study. Stan noticed that two of them wore head coverings that he had come to know as yarmulkes, while the third placed it on his bare head as he entered the house. The walls of the study were lined with books of every size, and a computer stood on a table at the far end of the room.  A large mahogany desk, surrounded by cushioned chairs, dominated the center of the room.  Rabbi Gordon rose from his chair behind the desk, pushed his glasses back on his nose, and extended his hand to each visitor.  He asked them to sit in the three chairs that were standing in a straight line.

Esther smiled at Stan as she handed him a number of bills.  "These are the deposit.  Remember?"

"I sure do, Ma'am.  Do I go in now?"

She nodded toward the door.

As soon as Stan was seated, Rabbi Gordon got down to business. "Now, Mr. Medeiros," he said as he again adjusted his glasses, "you know we are about to sell you the chametz of all those whose signatures I have on this list. By entering into this transaction, their property will become yours. It will totally shift ownership.  If, at the end of the festival, you choose to return it, the sale will be nullified. Do you understand these conditions?"

None of this was new to Stan, who had been thoroughly briefed by the rabbi before the meeting. He nodded solemnly.

The rabbi's serious faced creased into a warm smile. He looked at Stan. "Do you have a deposit for me?"

Stan dutifully handed him the bills.  The rabbi placed them into a folder. "Now I would ask you to stand and lift this handkerchief with me in the presence of these three witnesses.  This is an ancient act indicating that we have entered into a binding contractual agreement." Stan rose and gripped the cloth.  The three men looked at each other and decided that they should also be standing. As soon as the rabbi retrieved the handkerchief, everyone wished each other a happy holiday and left for their separate ways.

 

 

Now this is where our story could have ended on a happy and congenial note.  But, alas, events often become twisted and corrupted because unfortunate extraneous incidents intrude upon the status quo. Congregation Sons of Israel was no exception. Winter had charged upon Glendale with the fury of a Nor'eastern storm. Fresh snow lined the streets and was heaped high along the sides of the steps of the synagogue, which had been cleared by Stan to allow entry into the building. It was the Sunday of the eight-day festival of Hanukah and an emergency meeting had been called by Fred Greenstein.

The large oval table in the middle of the boardroom was surrounded by about twenty men and women, some of them muttering about the stupidity of convening such a meeting on Hanukah.

"What's the matter, Fred?" Paul Stein, elder statesman of the congregation, called out. "Your wife didn't make any latkes so you thought you'd get some after the meeting?"

Before Fred could reply, the door swung open as Ed Brogan briskly strode into the room. He was dressed in a sweatshirt, rumpled jeans and tattered sneakers. A large man in his late sixties, he allowed his unkempt gray hair to straggle over his ears as he made his way to one of two empty chairs at the head of the table.  He was flanked by an immaculately dressed man, thin and tall with a razor-thin moustache, who deferentially took his place in the other empty chair.

An ominous silence descended upon the room. Fred Greenstein cleared his throat as he banged a wooden gavel upon the table.

"I hereby call this meeting to order"

"Let's dispense with the theatrics, Fred," Al Brogan said as he stood up. "Some serious developments have occurred and I want to call upon counsel for the congregation, Attorney Antonio Ciorelli, to tell us what's going on."  He turned to the lawyer and said, "Go ahead, Tony."

The attorney rose purposefully and pulled his jacket to smooth any creases.  Holding a number of typewritten sheets, he looked at the group with a serious expression and said,  "My firm has carefully studied the financial and legal relationship between Mr. Brogan and the congregation. As you may be aware, the wonderful support he is giving is not in the form of outright contributions. There are investments, trusts and other instruments. We now find that there are many problems, not the least of which is the tax-exempt status of the synagogue. We are working on it and will, of course, keep you posted." He paused.  "You will be expected to sign a number of documents to legalize and authenticate the various deals that are in progress."

Ethel Greenberg, the matronly president of the sisterhood, rose. "I would like to know if our rabbi has been kept aware of these issues. After all, this is a house of worship, not a Wall Street company."

Rabbi Gordon, sitting in a corner seat, began to rise.

"Hold everything for just one minute," Brogan jumped to his feet. His face had turned a deep red and his thick lips had formed into an ugly expression. "I don't give a rap what the rabbi thinks about this matter or anything pertaining to the business of the synagogue. He shouldn't even be allowed to attend these meetings.  We hired him to look after the religious affairs of the congregation."  He paused to catch his breath.  "Well, this isn't religion - it's business."

Fred Greenstein leaped out of his chair. He banged his gavel on the table.  "Now let's all calm down.  After all, I'm the president and insist on some decorum." Satisfied that he had their attention, he continued. "Now I know that some of you don't altogether agree with Al's methods, but we all know how much he's done for our shul.  Why, without him, our dues would be at least double what they are. So let's give him the respect and …"

"That tears it, Fred!" " Herb Farber, one of the younger board members fairly shouted. "Your kowtowing to Brogan is going to be the ruination of this congregation. I'm not one of his lackeys and I have yet to see a financial report that we can understand. Brogan has no interest in religion.  His whole involvement with us financial and none of us know if all these deals that we hear about are shady and what his personal interests are. He looked around and took a deep breath.  "Since you're obviously too weak to do anything about this mess, I want to announce that I'll be running for president and once elected, you can be sure that all will be up front and we'll know what's going on."

The shocked silence in the room was like an oppressive presence. Brogan rose slowly. The deep red of his face and rapid breathing showed him to be livid. "Now you all listen to this and listen well. Too much money is being spent already.  The rabbi's getting way too much and I'm not sure that we even need a cantor.  And we certainly don't need that full-time janitor who's such a pal of the rabbi. Leave that to me." He turned to Herb Farber. "And as far as you're concerned, I consider your remarks to be libelous against me. I expect our attorney, who is sitting right here and heard you, to file a suit against you." His eyes narrowed as they swept the stunned group. "And if any of you should get similar ideas of running against Fred or defaming my character, you can expect to see me in court, too. And now, Fred, consider this meeting adjourned. I'm going to play golf"

 

 

 

It was the first growth of grass in the spring season. Stan pushed the lawnmower in even rows as the aroma of freshly cut grass regaled his nostrils. Spring was definitely in the air as tiny dabs of snow were quickly disappearing from under the shaded corners of the building. Looking up, Stan saw Phil Schnid, chairman of the House Committee, approaching. As he walked up to Stan, he averted his eyes and said in a voice hardly above a whisper. "I've been asked to inform you that you are fired as of now.  Please let me have your keys to the synagogue."

Stan's face turned a ghastly pale. "Is this some kind of a joke?" he asked.

"It's no joke," Schnid replied, keeping his eyes riveted on the ground. "I want your keys and I want you to leave these premises."

Stan's instincts were to lash out with his fist, but he held himself in check.  "Why are you doing this? Have I done anything wrong?"

"I'm not authorized to say anything except what I told you."

"You know I could sue you for this," Stan was now shouting.

Backing away, Schnid mumbled, "Go ahead. The synagogue has its lawyers."

Stan hurled the keys at Schnid, stormed into his car and, with a screech of tires, lurched into the street.

 

 

Rabbi Gordon was immersed in a Talmudic text when the phone jarred him into the present.  It was Cantor Ezra Kirsch.  His voice was low and strained.  "Eli, the janitor's just been fired."

"What?"

"That's right.  About an hour ago. No reason given. In fact, and this I couldn't believe even of them, they already changed the locks on the doors."

The rabbi ran out of his house, jumped into his car and raced to Montgomery Street.  Sprinting up the steps of the Medeiros home, he didn't bother to ring the bell. The door was slightly ajar and he pushed it open. He rushed into the living room.  Stan was sitting on an ottoman, his face in his hands.  His wife's arm encircled his shoulder. Rabbi Gordon couldn't believe his eyes.  This great hulk of a man was actually crying.

"Stan, I don't know what to say. I'm horrified. I just got off the phone with the cantor."

"It's not your fault, rabbi," Stan managed to say as he fought to control himself. "It's a bad bunch running that synagogue. There's nothing you or I can do about it now.  But the day will come…. you'll see." He paused for a moment and looked straight at the rabbi.  "What goes around, comes around."

Rabbi Gordon left in a state of total despair.  He knew that the people who had done this to Stan were now going to exert every effort to harm him, as well as the cantor. He knew that Al Brogan considered him a threat and an enemy. The future was not going to be easy.

 

 

 

Passover was again around the corner. Homes were engaged in a bevy of activities as plans were made to invite relatives and friends to the Seder services, cleanse the homes of all chametz and, of course, sell the chametz, which could then be used again after the festival had passed.

Rabbi Gordon adjusted his glasses as he sat at his desk going over the bill of sale. Conditions at the synagogue had been going from bad to worse and he was seriously considering a change in pulpits.  But first things first. He had to find a secure room where all the sold chametz would be placed under lock and key. He leaned back in his chair as he contemplated how unique this custom was in his congregation.  In most communities, the seller simply placed the items to be stored in a separate room or closet in his own home. This arrangement had been decisively terminated by the late Rabbi Asher Abramovitz, the saintly rabbi who had been the spiritual leader of Sons of Israel over sixty years ago. He was adamant about the fact that a sale could only be legitimate if the sold goods were removed to a place where the buyer had total jurisdiction and the right of entry.  Otherwise, he had staunchly maintained, the sale would be a farce. And, miracle of miracles, the congregation went along with him.  Each year, a sufficiently large area was rented where all the items were stored.  The purchasing gentile received the key and he was the only one who could enter the premises.

The rabbi smiled when he remembered how the scope of this annual process had grown over the years.  Many congregants did not realize that only foodstuffs were involved.  Some placed priceless chinaware and silver into their boxes. It was rumored that one family actually included a Chanukah Menorah, which was a prized family heirloom, although no one knew the reason. After all, they would get it back in a few days.

On a whim, Rabbi Gordon picked up the receiver and called his old friend.

"Stan, it's Rabbi Gordon. How've you been?"

"Fine, rabbi, we're all good.  What's new?"

"I've been thinking.  How would you like to buy the chametz again this year?"

"Rabbi, you can't be serious. I'm not the custodian anymore.  Remember?"

"That has nothing to do with it.  The purchaser does not have to be connected to the synagogue in any way. I'm in charge of the ceremony and it's in my home." He paused.  "How about it?"

"Well, for you, rabbi - you know I'd do anything."

 

 

The following Wednesday, the day before Passover, Stan stood in front of a small but well-secured red brick building. There was a constant stream of cars as people deposited boxes that Stan neatly piled up. Many were surprised to see him and enthusiastically pumped his hand. They told him how sorry that were and wished that he was back. Most delivered small cartons with their names prominently displayed. Some brought much larger boxes. Stan could only guess at the contents of these large cartons as he helped many of the older folks carry them into the building. When the last car had pulled away, Stan affixed the huge padlock and smilingly strolled to his car.

 

 

Rabbi Gordon looked at his watch repeatedly as night was approaching. Passover would be over in a matter of minutes.  As soon as the correct time arrived, he rushed to the phone to make sure Stan would be opening the door. The people were going to be in a hurry to retrieve their chametz and it would not do to keep them waiting even for an extra minute. He frowned when there was no response at the Medeiros home. He must have left already, the rabbi reasoned. Then why, he asked himself, am I feeling nervous?

 

Within minutes of the announced time, cars began to pull up in front of the building. It was a clear night and the chirping crickets left no doubt that spring was in the air.  Stan had not, as yet, arrived and people began to chat in groups. When fifteen minutes had passed, a sense of unease was felt among the now sizeable crowd that had gathered on the street.

"Hey, what's going on?" Miriam Silverstein wailed.  "This is a busy night.  I've got to pack away all the Passover stuff and bring in the chametz.  Where's Stan?"

But even after the passage of half an hour, there was no trace of Stan. A nasty mood was rapidly spreading.

The shrill voice of Al Brogan rose above the commotion. "Something is not right here and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.  Rabbi Gordon had no right to take Medeiros for this job.  We fired him and good riddance to him. If Gordon doesn't get this door open right now, he'll be looking for a new pulpit besides his chametz."

"Just take it easy, Al," Herb Danis, a former member of the board of directors, who had since been excluded from membership, called out. "It's that kind of attitude that's been tearing our shul apart.  You got no right to talk about our rabbi like that. And his name isn't 'Gordon' …  it happens to be 'Rabbi Gordon.' It's high time you showed a little respect."  He paused and said with some hesitation, "I'm sure there's a logical explanation for all this."

As pandemonium broke out among the crowd, someone managed to call the rabbi from his cell phone.  "Rabbi, you better do something fast.  This crowd's getting uglier by the minute. What happened to Stan?"

Rabbi Gordon desperately tried to reach Stan on the phone again.  This time, there was a response.

"Hi, rabbi," Stan said pleasantly.

"Stan! What are you doing at home? Why didn't you open the building?  People have been milling around for almost an hour."

"For a very simple reason. I've decided to go through with the sale."

"You've what?"

"Now wait a minute, rabbi.  Just set me straight on something. Didn't you tell me, year after year, that this was a legitimate sale and that I had the option not to return the deposit?"

"Yes, of course, but  ……"

"If you now tell me that the sale was never for real, that it was just a fake, I'll open the building right now.  Otherwise," Stan chuckled, "the sale is a done deal and you're speaking to the owner of all the chametz and whatever else is in that building."

Rabbi Gordon felt as if a tornado had burst through his home. He stood in silence until Stan asked if he was still there.  Finally he said, "The sale was and is legitimate.  If you decided not to rescind it, there is nothing anyone can do." He replaced the phone into the receiver, sat down and stared at the wall.

 

 

The next morning, a letter was mailed to every member of the congregation.  It was signed by Al Brogan in his capacity as advisor to the president. The letter stated that legal counsel for Sons of Israel was going to appear in court as quickly as possible, requesting a court order to force Stanley Medeiros to immediately open the building and give the people free access to retrieve their hijacked goods.  The letter further stated that, in light of the fact that Rabbi Gordon was clearly responsible for manipulating this unforgivable crisis, a motion would be entertained at the next board meeting to terminate his contract for any number of reasons. The lawyer would also investigate the possibility of assessing damages against Stanley Medeiros and Rabbi Eli Gordon.

 

 

The synagogue was in turmoil. The piously inclined felt that if the sale was legitimate, as the rabbi claimed, they would have to take the loss. "It's a sacrifice a good Jew is called upon to make," they intoned philosophically. A tiny group, headed by Al Brogan, venomously accused the rabbi of all types of malfeasance and promised to bring dire consequences upon him.  The majority of the congregants were silent. They wanted their boxes returned, but clearly felt that it was Al Brogan and his small group that had precipitated this crisis and brought shame and ridicule upon the synagogue from the entire community. Not wanting to get involved, they kept their counsel and hoped for the best.

 

 

Judge James Walters decided to conduct the hearing in the confines of his chambers. To accentuate his authority, he appeared wearing his judicial robe. He had served as a judge in Glendale and its environs for some twenty yearse had servedHHHH

. During his tenure, he had earned a reputation of keen insight into the maze of legal intricacies which daily confronted him, strict even-handedness and zero tolerance for nonsense.

After calling everyone to order, he asked Antonio Ciorelli, counsel for the congregation, to state the synagogue's case. Dressed in an impeccably tailored gray suit and heavily starched blue shirt, he stroked his moustache and cleared his throat.

"Your honor", he began in a judicious voice, "this case does not belong here.  You see ― "

"Counselor," the judge cut him off roughly, "I don't see anything. If I felt the court should not hear this matter, you would not be in my chambers.  Now state your case and get on with it."

"Yes, your honor," Ciorelli stammered.  He had not expected such a severe rebuke. After all, he was representing a house of worship and that should have earned him some slack from the judge. He again cleared his throat. "Our Constitution guarantees a strict separation between Church and State. Matters of religion clearly are not in the purview of secular courts.  Regardless of the details of the supposed agreement between Mr. Stanley Medeiros and Congregation Sons of Israel - an agreement whose very validity we seriously question - it is a matter that must be decided between themselves or an ecclesiastical body, certainly not by a secular court. That is the crux of our position," Ciorelli concluded in a miffed voice, "and I have nothing further to say."

The judge impassively turned to the desk where Stan Medeiros was seated with his lawyer and nodded in his direction. "Counselor, please state your client's case."

Attorney Waldo Clarke, adjusting his ever-present red bow tie, dragged his massive frame out of his chair. His fierce bulldog expression mellowed greatly when he chose to soften it with a warm smile. He scratched his craggy chin, looked at the judge and said, "Your Honor, my client's position is simple. We agree that the setting, even the basis of this sale, have religious ramifications. However, all of those considerations are totally separate from the sale itself.  We maintain that the transaction and the contract that defines it are perfectly legal and have no religious connotations whatsoever. While I agree with my esteemed colleague that our legal system does not involve itself in any aspects of religion in and of itself, it certainly is responsible to uphold the law and all legal dealings that do not reflect matters of a religious nature. We are dealing here with a legal contract of sale - nothing more and nothing less."

Judge Walters left his chambers for fifteen minutes.  The room was filled with tension as everyone fidgeted and made small talk.  The only one who sat with a serene smile was Stanley Medeiros. He acted as if he were viewing a most enjoyable drama in which he had no part whatsoever.

When the judge returned, he briskly took his seat, coughed a few times and skimmed some papers that he held in his hands. "I am taking the unusual step of rendering an immediate decision because of the urgent nature of this case. I understand that there may be food in some of the cartons that could be subject to spoilage. More importantly, it is my understanding that many parcels contain invaluable family heirlooms and the disposition of these articles is of intense importance to those who deposited them.

"The law regarding the separation of Church and State is clear.  This court has no jurisdiction over any religious matter and I will totally respect that stricture."

Al Brogan's face broke into a wide smile. He nudged his lawyer with his elbow. Antonio Ciorelli did not return the smile.  In fact, his expression seemed to betray a sense of dire foreboding.

"It is a fact," Judge Walters continued in a neutral voice, "that the basis of this whole matter rested on religious actions and beliefs.  However, and I have studied all pertinent documents carefully, there is not a single phrase or allusion to religious practice or doctrine in the document which defines the sale of items by the congregation to Mr. Medeiros.  In fact, money representing a deposit has changed hands and witnesses attested to the legality of the sale.

 

 

"Therefore," the judge swept his eyes over the tense chamber, "this court rules that the sale is legal and all particulars of the transaction will be binding upon the parties."

Judge Walters brought his gavel onto the desk with a resounding bang, rose, and left his chamber.

 

 

Marla and Stan retired late that night. Stan was in a state of euphoria, much too excited to sleep.  Marla was concerned. "You stirred up a hornet's nest, Stan. We're quiet people. This isn't for us. What are you going to do with all that stuff that you bought? They may make you pay each family a certain amount of market value."  She wrung her hands and tried to fight back the tears.

Stan put his arm around his wife, stroked her hair. She looked so petite and vulnerable. "Don't worry, Marla. It'll all work out. The rabbi's a decent man.  Look what they're doing to him. He'll have some advice. The Medeiros's are not the kind of people who lay back when things like this happen. You'll see. Just wait awhile and trust me."

They lay side by side in the dark bedroom, trying to capture the sleep that continued to elude them. Suddenly the jangling telephone shattered the silence. Stan looked at the alarm clock.  It was two o'clock in the morning.  They stared at each other. Stan picked up the receiver and carefully held it to his ear.

"Mr. Medeiros?" a subdued voice said. "I'm sorry to bother you this late. It's Al Brogan. You know, from the synagogue."

Stan felt a rage racing through his body. With an effort, he controlled his voice. "Yes, Mr. Brogan. What can I do for you?"

"I apologize for calling in the middle of the night.  I can't seem to sleep and I've done a lot of thinking." There was long pause. "Quite frankly, you can get me off a very painful hook."

"Why would I want to get you off a hook?" Stan demanded in an angry voice.

"Because it might also be to your advantage. I don't think you really want all that junk you bought. I think you're trying to prove a point." Marla was now sitting upright and looking at him questioningly. Stan gestured for her to be quiet, but pointed to his lips, which had formed into a big smile.

"You see, Mr. Medeiros," Brogan continued, "I'm a businessman and in business you either win or lose. When you realize that you're in a losing position and don't immediately trim those losses, you can be in big trouble." He paused. "My phone has been ringing off the hook.  I've already received numerous threats of being sued because of the sale, and a group in the synagogue is asking certain agencies to look into my financial dealing with the congregation."  Stan gave his wife thumbs up signal. "My family is ready to disown me and most of the congregants won't even speak to me.  I really don't need this."

Stan suppressed a smile. "Mr. Brogan," he said, "you're calling me in the middle of the night and telling me about your troubles that you brought on yourself.  Just what is it you want me to do?"

"Let me come to the point," Brogan continued.  "If you would be willing to call off the sale and return all items first thing in the morning, what would you expect from me in return?"

 

 

 

The next day, the news spread like wildfire. It was a major item not only in the synagogue, but also among the general community that had begun to take a strong interest in the affair. Al Brogan had tendered his resignation as a member of the congregation. Rabbi Gordon was offered a long-term contract that he happily accepted. Stan Medeiros was reinstated as custodian of the synagogue, and all the "chametz” was returned to the people.

 

It was an event long remembered by all the good people of Glendale.