THE NEXT MORNING I WAS ON THE ROAD TO CASABLANCA. THE CAR was an old Chevy four-door sedan, but it seemed to be running well. My driver was a civilian hired by the Consulate. His name was Moshe. He appeared to be about fifty, dressed in a very well-worn black suit and tie. His shirt used to be white but had faded badly. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora, shiny with age. He was sallow-skinned and had very dark eyes and a bushy beard that was showing signs of gray.
I was used to standing officer of the deck watches on the bridge of my ship and knew that the enlisted men would not initiate conversation. If you didn’t want to talk, the men would be respectfully quiet, and bridge would be silent for your four-hour watch, except for orders to the helm and so on. But if you did feel like talking, and if there was very little going on to worry about, all you had to do was show some interest in anything, and the men would respond. So I understood this arrangement. This driver was not a sailor, but he was an employee of the Consulate, so the same protocol existed.
For the first five or ten minutes or so we rode along in silence, after introductions. I was glad he didn’t feel he had to make conversation, like a taxi driver or barber. But it was going to be a long drive, and besides, I was new to the country. Any local information could be useful.
“How did you come to work for the Consulate?” I said. And that turned on the spigot.
“I was a rabbi,” he said, “but I have lost my vocation.”
“Really? That was careless of you.” I smiled to indicate I was not an idiot. It was a favorite joke of mine, stolen from The Importance of Being Earnest.
He looked at me skeptically, trying to decide.
“Eh? Oh. You are being humorous,” he said finally, grinning. “Ha! Careless. Very good. I will remember that one the next time I see a man with one ear. Yes, I lost my vocation. Now I am a driver for the Americans. Colonel Eddy hired me personally. He thinks that if there is one person you can trust not to be a Nazi, it is a Jew. It is what you call a safe bet.”
“I’ve been told you really can’t trust anyone in this country.”
“That is also true. It illustrates one of the reasons that I am no longer a rabbi.”
“That you can’t trust anyone?”
“No, sir. That two things that are opposites can both be true, simultaneously. Or false, mutually.”
“That you can’t trust anyone and it’s safe to trust a Jew?”
“Yes. These sorts of paradoxes used to puzzle and worry me to the point that I simply had to give up thinking about them. I realized I am an atheist who believes in God, and since there was nothing I could do about it, I decided not to think about it anymore.”
“I suppose the troubles your people are having in Europe didn’t help your faith very much.”
“No, it was not that so much. Those things are an old story. We have always believed that the atrocities and persecutions were signs that we are God’s chosen people. No, what changed me was a little dog I used to have. His name was Boris. He loved me more than anyone in my family did, but that is understandable. My marriage was arranged, according to our traditions, so there is no shame in the fact that my wife disliked me. I didn’t care much for her either. As for the children that came from it, well, they were a mixed blessing, also as usual. But Boris! His devotion was pure and unwavering.”
“What kind of dog was he?”
“What kind? Who knows? A mongrel of exceptional breeding. He was my constant companion and very devoted. He had only one eye and so was careful about turning left. But in all other respects, he was a fine dog. One day I was reading a story by one of your people, Jack London. Do you know of him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in it he said something that made think about a great many things. The gist of what he said was that dogs are the only creatures in the world that can actually see their god. Humans. Us. Me. Think of it! I was Boris’s deity! And I realized that this was a great responsibility, and I began to take it very seriously. Then Boris got sick and died, and at the end he would look at me with his one sad eye and whimper, as though asking me why I did not lift this terrible burden from him. And of course I could not. So that is when I realized how things really were. It is not that God does not care for us, but that He can’t do anything about it.”
“God is not omnipotent?”
“Well, sir, there are only two possible answers to that question. The first is—no. He is not. Terrible things happen in the world, but He is not responsible. But on the other hand, if you say that He is omnipotent and yet chooses to do nothing about what goes on, you are on the path to despair and madness. Since there is no way of knowing which is true, I prefer to choose the first and retain my sanity. After all, He is called the father. I am a father, too. When the children were sick, what could I do? And when one of them ran off and married a Gentile, what could I do? When finally they all grew up and went away, what was I supposed to do about it? And when the Russian Gentiles came to the village to burn us out, I could do nothing about what they did.
“It was then that I decided to leave Russia and stop pretending to be a rabbi, so I ended up in this country where they tolerate my kind, if only a little. But this is only a way station on the road to America, God willing. Not that I think God is following my progress with any interest.”
“You should do well there. Your English is remarkably good.” Moshe had a thick Russian accent, of course, but that was to be expected.
“Yes. Thank you. I am gifted. I learn languages easily. Besides, as a rabbi I had time to think and write and study. My people thought I was studying the sacred texts, so that I could explain inexplicable things to them, but in fact I was learning English by reading novels and newspapers, because by that time I knew there were no answers in the texts, or if there were, I could not understand them. So I decided it would be a better use of time to learn English, so that I could leave Russia and go to America and make some kind of living.”
“I’m surprised you were able to get English books and papers in Russia.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I had a friend who worked in the city library, until he disappeared, one way or the other. I heard that a policeman took a fancy to his wife, and very soon thereafter my friend was no longer there, or anywhere else, for that matter. For our people, having the matchmaker arrange a beautiful wife for you can be a mixed blessing. Poor Mordechai. I left owing a large library fine for overdue books. In my catalog of guilt feelings, that is one of the smaller ones. If I ever become rich, I will send them a check. If not, well, I will have to live with it.”
“Why did you come to Morocco?”
“Ah. Why? I can see you know very little about my people’s history.”
“I’m a Presbyterian originally from Ohio and recently exiled from Hollywood, California. The only Jews I know are movie producers, and they don’t talk to me about Old Testament history. When they talked to me at all, it was usually about finding a missing girlfriend or taking care of a blackmailer.”
“Ah! You were a policeman!”
“A private one. Now and then I’d go to a Jewish funeral, but that was only to be polite to someone I used to know. And all I knew about it was you’re supposed to wear a hat.”
“That is true. I believe this constant wearing of hats is the reason so many of our people are bald. It is bad for the hair, this lack of air and sunlight.” He raised his fedora to show his own shiny dome. “But if God wants you to be bald, what choice is there? Not that I believe He really cares.”
“In many of the Christian religions, it is the women who cover their heads in church.”
“Yes. That proves my point. That appears to be another of those opposite things that are both true at the same time. If it were really important to God, I am sure He would clear up the confusion. But I am glad to know that the Jews have a community there in Hollywood.”
“Yes, you have a community there.”
“I had been thinking of Brooklyn, New York, but now I think I would prefer Hollywood, California. You have changed my mind. But you asked why I came to Morocco. The answer is I believed I would be less unwelcome here than other places. It is simple as that.”
“And have you been?”
“Up to a point.”
Moshe had obviously been spending time with Colonel Eddy, and I said something about that.
“Colonel Eddy? Yes. I do errands for him now and then. ‘Up to a point.’ It is one of his favorite sayings. He is a very good man. He has promised to help me get to America, somehow.”
“Morocco is not quite as congenial as you would like?”
“Well, you see, the local Jews here are Sephardic, which means they originally came from Spain. The refugees from Europe who are fleeing the Nazis, like me, are Ashkenazi. We come from central Europe, Russia and Poland, mostly. The two of us don’t necessarily love one another as we should, but we like each other better than anyone else likes either of us. But there are differences. We speak different languages, although Hebrew is of course a common denominator. But in so many ways we are different. Ask a Sephardic for a knish, and you get a blank stare. Ask an Ashkenazi for money, and you get a blank check. Unsigned. Ha! That’s a joke. So staying in Morocco does not appeal very much. And there is always the possibility that the Germans will come here, in which case it will be better to be gone. Besides, America is the land of opportunity, so it will be better there, regardless of what happens here.”
“Where is your family now? Are they here, too?”
“Ah. Well, the children grew up and moved away somewhere. That was years ago. Life in a Russian shtetl has nothing much to offer. Poverty and hard work, seasoned by an occasional pogrom. I don’t blame them for leaving, but I have lost touch with them. They never write. They were very ungrateful, although in truth I cannot blame them for that either, because there was little or nothing to be grateful for. My wife, poor woman, was killed in a pogrom two years ago. This was just before the Germans were getting ready to invade Russia. The Russians wanted to get to us before the Nazis arrived and robbed them of the chance. I was hiding in the barn when it happened. I got out at the last minute, just before it collapsed and burned to the ground. I ran into the woods.”
“Is it possible your wife survived?”
“No. I saw what happened.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes. It was a very great shame. The world lost a genius at argument. She should have been the rabbi in the family, although such a thing is not heard of, of course. Her pet name for me was schnorrer. Do you know this word? If you do, I will be surprised.”
“No.”
“Good. I have come to the point in life when I do not like surprises. So I will explain. A schnorrer is a beggar. But not the pathetic kind of beggar you see on the streets of Tangier. No. The schnorrer is clever and he has a sense of humor, which for a Jew is two eyes in the same head. Is this a common expression?”
“I’ve never heard it. Maybe you mean two sides of the same coin.”
“That, too. The schnorrer is a beggar, because he likes it better than working. There is an old joke. A schnorrer is making his usual rounds of the rich men in the city, and he goes to the home of one who has been a reluctant but reliable giver in the past. But when the schnorrer asks for alms, the rich man says, ‘I have had a bad year and I can only give you half of what I have given you in the past,’ and the schnorrer says, ‘ You’re the one who had the bad year—why should I suffer?’ You see?”
“Yes. It’s pretty clear.” At least, it was clear on the surface.
“My wife knew something about me when she called me that. I had to smile, even though she did not mean it as a compliment, particularly. In thirty years of marriage the only compliments we ever shared were when we boiled a chicken, which was something rare and only happened when the bird grew too old and stopped laying eggs. But in that rare event I would say something like ‘This is good chicken soup.’ And in return she would sometimes say to me, ‘You don’t smell as bad as usual.’ This does not remind anyone of the Song of Solomon.”
“No. Nor the lines of a romantic poet. But now I think you’re going to tell me that, in spite of everything, you grew to love her in your own way.”
“Me? No. Not at all. She was very disagreeable. And her gruff behavior toward me was not an act; she really did dislike me. Of course, I was shocked and saddened to see her die, but I must say, when I thought about it afterwards, I realized it certainly simplified things. Especially because the Russians also burned down our house. And stole the cow. There was no reason to stay, and many reasons to go.”
“So how in hell did you get out and find your way here?”
He smiled and touched his nose and raised his eyebrows, meaningfully.
“Well, Lieutenant, my wife was right, you see. She married a schnorrer.”