stolen money.”
“You stole money?”
“No, that’s just it,” Timothy agonized, “somebody robbed my aunt’s savings, and when she found the money I earned from you—”
“You didn’t explain?”
He shook his head. “My uncle said she wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, Tim,”—the Rav frowned—“you have to tell her now.”
“It’s too late. She’s seeing Father Hanrahan tonight about sending me away.”
There was another silence, and then almost involuntarily Tim blurted out, “Would you help me, Rabbi?”
“How might
I
be of assistance in these circumstances?”
“You could speak to Father Hanrahan,” Tim pleaded. “I know he would believe you.”
The rabbi could not suppress a bitter laugh. “That is, one might say, a rather large leap of faith.”
“Well,” Tim argued, “you’re both men of the cloth, aren’t you?”
Rav Luria nodded. “Yes—but very different fabrics. Still, I’ll call him and see if he’s willing to talk.”
Tim stood up. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Timothy—excuse my intrusion,” Rav Luria inquired cautiously, “but even if you can’t convince them you’re innocent, isn’t there any way you can make your aunt and uncle forgive you?”
“No, Rabbi,” Tim answered painfully. “I guess you don’t understand.” He paused and, holding back the tears, burst out, “You see, they hate me.”
With that, he turned and left the room without looking back.
Rav Luria stood there for a moment and thought to himself,
Now
I understand why he broke windows.
Rav Moses Luria had stared down the gun barrels of angry Czech policemen; he had fearlessly confronted half a dozen hooligans daubing swastikas on his synagogue. But calling up a priest was something altogether different.
Finally, he took a thoughtful puff on his pipe, asked the operator for the number of the church, and dialed. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Good evening. This is Father Joe.”
“Good evening, Father Hanrahan. My name is Rabbi Moses Luria.”
“Oh,” the priest replied. “The Silczer Rebbe himself?”
How did Hanrahan know such things? the Rav wondered.
“How can I help you, Rabbi?”
“Well, I was wondering if you could spare the time for a conversation?”
“Of course. Would you like to come for tea tomorrow?”
“Well, actually, it would be best if we could meet outside.”
“You mean, in neutral territory, so to speak?”
“Well, yes,” the rabbi replied candidly.
“Do you play chess, by any chance?” the priest inquired.
“A bit,” the rabbi answered. “I don’t really have much time for games.”
“Well, then,” the priest suggested, “why don’t we meet at the outdoor chess tables in the park? We could have a relaxing game while we chat.”
“Fine,” the rabbi concurred. “Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow?”
“Eleven it is,” replied the priest. To which he added a cheery
“Shalom.”
The next afternoon the two clergymen sat at a concrete table, a chessboard embedded in its surface. The rabbi opened by moving his king’s pawn forward two squares.
“How can I help, Rabbi?” asked the priest affably, countering with the identical move.
“It’s about one of your parishioners—”
“And who might that be?”
In a series of symmetrical moves, both players began to develop their knights and bishops.
“A young boy named Timothy Hogan.”
“Oh dear.” The priest sighed as he edged his queen in front of his king. “Has he broken another window?”
“No, no. This is something completely different.”
The Rav paused, castled on his king’s side, and then continued in slightly apologetic tones. “I really shouldn’t be interfering, Father. But it has come to my attention that this boy is in some difficulty … about some stolen money.”
The priest nodded. “He’s such a bright lad, but he seems to have a talent for getting into trouble.”
In an even exchange on the eleventh move, both
“You stole money?”
“No, that’s just it,” Timothy agonized, “somebody robbed my aunt’s savings, and when she found the money I earned from you—”
“You didn’t explain?”
He shook his head. “My uncle said she wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, Tim,”—the Rav frowned—“you have to tell her now.”
“It’s too late. She’s seeing Father Hanrahan tonight about sending me away.”
There was another silence, and then almost involuntarily Tim blurted out, “Would you help me, Rabbi?”
“How might
I
be of assistance in these circumstances?”
“You could speak to Father Hanrahan,” Tim pleaded. “I know he would believe you.”
The rabbi could not suppress a bitter laugh. “That is, one might say, a rather large leap of faith.”
“Well,” Tim argued, “you’re both men of the cloth, aren’t you?”
Rav Luria nodded. “Yes—but very different fabrics. Still, I’ll call him and see if he’s willing to talk.”
Tim stood up. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Timothy—excuse my intrusion,” Rav Luria inquired cautiously, “but even if you can’t convince them you’re innocent, isn’t there any way you can make your aunt and uncle forgive you?”
“No, Rabbi,” Tim answered painfully. “I guess you don’t understand.” He paused and, holding back the tears, burst out, “You see, they hate me.”
With that, he turned and left the room without looking back.
Rav Luria stood there for a moment and thought to himself,
Now
I understand why he broke windows.
Rav Moses Luria had stared down the gun barrels of angry Czech policemen; he had fearlessly confronted half a dozen hooligans daubing swastikas on his synagogue. But calling up a priest was something altogether different.
Finally, he took a thoughtful puff on his pipe, asked the operator for the number of the church, and dialed. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Good evening. This is Father Joe.”
“Good evening, Father Hanrahan. My name is Rabbi Moses Luria.”
“Oh,” the priest replied. “The Silczer Rebbe himself?”
How did Hanrahan know such things? the Rav wondered.
“How can I help you, Rabbi?”
“Well, I was wondering if you could spare the time for a conversation?”
“Of course. Would you like to come for tea tomorrow?”
“Well, actually, it would be best if we could meet outside.”
“You mean, in neutral territory, so to speak?”
“Well, yes,” the rabbi replied candidly.
“Do you play chess, by any chance?” the priest inquired.
“A bit,” the rabbi answered. “I don’t really have much time for games.”
“Well, then,” the priest suggested, “why don’t we meet at the outdoor chess tables in the park? We could have a relaxing game while we chat.”
“Fine,” the rabbi concurred. “Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow?”
“Eleven it is,” replied the priest. To which he added a cheery
“Shalom.”
The next afternoon the two clergymen sat at a concrete table, a chessboard embedded in its surface. The rabbi opened by moving his king’s pawn forward two squares.
“How can I help, Rabbi?” asked the priest affably, countering with the identical move.
“It’s about one of your parishioners—”
“And who might that be?”
In a series of symmetrical moves, both players began to develop their knights and bishops.
“A young boy named Timothy Hogan.”
“Oh dear.” The priest sighed as he edged his queen in front of his king. “Has he broken another window?”
“No, no. This is something completely different.”
The Rav paused, castled on his king’s side, and then continued in slightly apologetic tones. “I really shouldn’t be interfering, Father. But it has come to my attention that this boy is in some difficulty … about some stolen money.”
The priest nodded. “He’s such a bright lad, but he seems to have a talent for getting into trouble.”
In an even exchange on the eleventh move, both
Similar Books
