Wednesday the Rabbi got wet

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The next day Rabbi Small was driving along Route ‘28, that linear suburb of research laboratories, electronics firms and automated industrial plants, as he passed Goraltronics. Incorporated, he was suddenly struck by an idea. Forgetting his reason for being on Route ‘28 in the first place— that he was on his way to the monthly meeting of the Greater Boston Rabbinic Council— he took the next exit and made his way back to the plant.

Unused to the ways of large corporations, he listened patiently as Ben Goralsky's secretary explained that he was busy and would be occupied for the rest of the week; that he would not be available for the following week either since he was going out of town; that if Rabbi Small would tell her the nature of his business she would see about the possibility of arranging an appointment some time during the week after that.

"Can't you just tell him I'm here now?" he asked plaintively.

Her smile at his naivete was answer enough, and he was about to turn away when Ben Goralsky came striding out of the office and saw him.

"Rabbi Small, what are you doing here? Come in." And much to the chagrin of his secretary, he put a burly arm around the rabbi's narrow shoulders and steered him into his private office. Ben Goralsky was a big man with a large nose and knobby cheekbones. Though he was in his midfifties, his thick black hair showed no touch of gray, even at the temples. Seated behind his desk, he beamed affectionately at his visitor.

"Tell me what I can do for you. Rabbi."

"Well, I wanted some information about the property your father willed to the temple."

"Oh sure, what do you want to know? I see where Bill Safferstein finally got it."

"The board voted—" the rabbi broke off as he got the implication of Goralsky's remark. "You mean he tried to buy it from you?"

"That's right, from my father, he told Billy it wasn't for sale."

The rabbi smiled knowingly. "So as not to appear eager?"

Ben Goralsky looked at him sharply. "Why no. My father really didn't want to sell." He canted his head and considered, then he laughed shortly. "Maybe that's why Safferstein came to me— because he thought my father was just being cozy."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Oh, I said I'd talk to my father about it. I gave him a statement on the property— you know, income, expenses, what it's assessed for, lease obligations, the usual. On the basis of that, he made an offer a couple of days later. It was a very good offer, so I spoke to my father about it." He shook his head. "He said he didn't care to sell."

"Why not, if the offer was a good one?" the rabbi asked.

"Well, at the time I thought it was because my father didn't like to sell land. You see, we'd bought that property years ago because we had thought of building our plant there. It was right on the Salem Road with easy access for cars and trucks, but then Route One Twenty-eight opened up, and this was a better deal. In all that time, I couldn't get my father to sell the Salem Road property. But now I'm inclined to think he didn't want to sell to Safferstein because he was planning to give it to the temple."

"But couldn't he have sold the property and then given the money to the temple?" the rabbi asked.

Ben Goralsky chuckled. "And pay a capital-gains tax on the sale? Oh no, my father was too good a businessman for that."

"You say it was a very good offer. Why do you suppose Safferstein was so anxious to get that property?"

Goralsky shook his head. "I don't know, there's talk of a big apartment complex for senior citizens going up on the Salem side, that would improve the block some, but not that much."

"And can you think of why Safferstein would offer to buy the drugstore?"

"Aptaker's? He did? Hm, now that begins to make sense." "It does?" the rabbi asked.

"Sure," said Ben Goralsky. "It means he's planning to tear down the block. It's the land he wants, but I'll be damned if I see why, there's plenty of vacant land around there."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Look. Rabbi, the drugstore has a lease, and a lease is binding on all succeeding owners. If Safferstein's going to tear the place down, he has to have it free of encumbrances, any idea what he offered for the store?"

"Only that Aptaker said it was a good price, he said Safferstein wanted it for his brother-in-law."

Goralsky laughed.

"I take it you consider the brother-in-law a figment of his imagination," the rabbi said.

Goralsky shrugged. "What else? He had to have some reason for buying a pharmacy."

"How about the leases on the other stores? Wouldn't he have to buy those, too?"

"The other stores were tenants at will," Goralsky explained. "Only the drugstore had a lease, the old lease was about to expire, and Aptaker wrote to my father and he renewed it on the same terms, ten years. I thought it was a mistake tying ourselves up for that length of time—"

"But the tenant is equally bound, isn't he?"

"Not really, Rabbi. If the tenant is a large corporation or an individual of solid financial status, then sure, he's bound as much as we are. But if it's a small man, what can we do? Suppose the drugstore decided to go out of business tomorrow, would we sue him? Or would the temple— because the lease is binding on any subsequent owner— sue him for ten years' rent?"

"I see."

"But I didn't like to argue with my father about it. Toward the end he was pretty weak."

"Yes, I remember," the rabbi said. "When I'd come to see him—"

"Ah, but that was in the afternoon or the evening, Rabbi. In the morning he was apt to be pretty lively. Of course, that's when he'd conduct his business."

"You mean he actually was engaged in business even then, after he took to his bed?"

"Oh yes," Goralsky said proudly. "He'd dictate letters and instructions every morning until almost noon, he did that right up to a few days before his death."

"You mean he had a secretary at the house?"

Goralsky chuckled. "I guess she thought of herself as his secretary, actually, she's one of the girls from our stenographic pool. I'd send her out to the house every morning, and even if my father didn't have any business, she was someone to talk to— Alice Fedderman, her father is a member of the temple. Would you like to talk to her?"

"Why yes, if it's all right."

"Sure." Goralsky spoke into the intercom. "Rabbi Small would like to talk to Alice Fedderman from the steno pool about my father. Would you have her go to the conference room. It's free, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." And a few seconds later: "She'll be right down." "I'll have someone take you there, Rabbi."

She was waiting for him when he arrived, a slim girl of nineteen or twenty, heavily made up with eye shadow, liner and mascara, her lips were coated with a kind of white glaze, she was wearing high platform shoes and a very short skirt so that her crossed legs exposed considerable thigh. Rabbi Small had a vague recollection of having seen her at various young people's functions at the temple, but then perhaps not— they all looked so much alike.

"Hello, Rabbi, they said you wanted to talk to me about old Mr. Goralsky so I took along the notebook I used when I went to see him."

"I was interested in a letter he wrote to Mr. aptaker who has the drugstore—"

"Oh yes, about the lease." She smiled. "I remember that very well."

"Is that so? Any particular reason?" the rabbi asked.

"Well, it was just a little before— that is, toward the end, for one thing. But this letter I had to do a couple of times. It was like this." She leaned forward confidentially. "He didn't talk so good, I mean grammarwise. So he'd tell me what he wanted to say, and I'd like reword it in a business letter."

"I understand."

"We got this letter from Mr. aptaker asking if he could have his lease renewed. So Mr. Goralsky said since he was a good tenant, he'd give him the same lease he had before without any increase in rental. So I wrote the usual business letter. You know. 'In reply to your letter of the twentieth, I am instructing our attorneys to draw up a lease on the same terms as the present one. When you receive the forms, please sign both copies and return them to me for my signature.' The usual. But when I typed the letter and gave it to him to sign, he was kind of put out about the way I'd written it. I guess he was having one of his bad days, he said"— and she mimicked his heavily accented English— "'I want you should tell him because he was a good tenant and never caused me any damage to my property and always paid his rent on time and kept up the property, I'm giving him the same lease like before and not raising him the rent.'" She favored the rabbi with a self-satisfied wink. "I took it down just the way he said it. I was going to write it that way, too, because I was kind of annoyed with him, he was a nice man, but he could also be, you know, like gross."

"Gross? Mr. Goralsky?"

"Well, you know, like picky— picky. But by the time I got back to the office, I'd cooled down; so I fixed it up a little, but I still put in about how he was a good tenant and all, he liked it, so that's the way we sent it out."

"Mr. aptaker wrote back—"

Alice Fedderman shook her head. "I wouldn't know anything about that. I only went there a couple of days more. See?" Between thumb and forefinger she held up a couple of pages of her notebook to show how little had been written. "I was told Mr. Goralsky had taken a turn for the worse and wasn't up to giving dictation."

"You're sure no other girl was sent out?"

"Oh no, he liked me, and I liked him."

"Even though he was gross?" the rabbi asked with a smile.

"Oh, you know. I didn't mean gross like gross. I mean he was like nervous, maybe because he was so old."

Rabbi Small thanked her and refused her offer to escort him back to the office. "I'm sure I can find mv wav back,” he said.

He merely wanted to thank Ben Goralsky for his consideration, but after they shook hands and the rabbi had turned to go, he thought of something. "You said the lawyers went out to see your father about his will. Was that because he was confined to his bed?"

"That's right, Rabbi. It was just three weeks, maybe a month, before he died." His face grew somber and reflective as he added, "I guess he knew then he was going to die." He extended his hand again. "Well, good-bye, Rabbi. I hope we've been helpful."

The rabbi smiled. "You have, Mr. Goralsky. Believe me, you have."