There was the fellow with the gun—an old matchlock, or wheel lock, misdrawn, for what would the Jews know about guns: nothing but to look away.
Nonetheless, there he was, pictured on the plate, around him, in Hebrew, the words Matzoh, Maror, Karpas, the ritual foods of the Passover seder, and, by each word, a small depression in the plate. And in the center, once again, the chap, as he thought of him, holding his rifle.
“What a medieval scene,” he thought, “Wouldn’t one expect a man in that attire to hold a crossbow …?” For the chap wore a jerkin and what seemed to be a conical fur hat. He was caught in a resolute, misdrawn attempt to depict stealth, and there, beyond him, looking back, was the rabbit.
“Even I,” Frank said to the man from New York, “even I, in my ignorance and sloth, know that it cannot be ‘kosher’ for a Jew to hunt.”
He pronounced the word “kosher” gingerly, as if to say, I don’t disclaim that I have heard it, but I do not wish to say it freely, as to arrogate it to myself on the mere precedent of blood.
I don’t mean to disclaim it, but neither do I, for good or ill, wish to suggest a greater than accidental liaison between myself and that tradition.
“This is a very rare piece, I believe,” the other man said, “and I’ll explain it to you. You are most correct to state it is non-kosher—for we are enjoined against the shedding of blood other than quickly, painlessly, with respect, and by a man trained ritually and practically to ensure his competence, if I may. So, you are correct. That hunting is not kosher?”
“Nor the hare,” Morris said.
“The hare, no,” the man from New York said, “although the rabbit is.”
“What is the difference,” Frank said, “between the rabbit and the hare?”
The man from New York began his response, and Frank thought, “I hate myself. Who am I trying to impress, or what accomplish, by that ‘Jewish’ flight of interrogation? God forgive me. No. And what do I care …?”
“… while the hare,” the man continued, “is another species. Beyond that I cannot say.”
“Which brings up,” Morris said, “the rationality of the proscription.”
“Yes, it might,” the other man said. “Yes. It might.”
There was a pause.
“… the hare,” Frank said.
“… and there was a discussion,” the New York man said, “at one time, about various animals. The various animals. Why fish, for example, should be parve, or ‘neutral,’ if you will, while chickens should be classed as flesh.”
“I find this ludicrous,” Frank thought. “Why do I pretend?”
“… and the Rabbis,” the man said, “in the Talmud, discoursed on the goose, as there had been an observation, at one point, by travelers to some distant land, of geese, it was said, nesting in trees, and so they undertook to discuss if the goose could be classed as a fruit.” The man smiled slightly.
“Distant from where?” Frank said.
“Distant from where …?” The man sought to connect the question to the discussion. Then he nodded. “Babylon. Palestine, it would be, as it is in the Talmud, that the travelers would have been distant from. Which is in the present day Mesopotamia and in that day was Babylon, and in that year, where would they have traveled to,” he mused, “to see a goose in trees?”
“I loathe this man,” Frank thought.
“I hate the whole tradition. An amusement of slaves—calls itself philosophy. They might as well have chosen the advert on a pack of cigarettes and studied it four thousand years.” He looked down. “‘Costliest and most rare of tobaccos. Custom blended, selected, and cured for your smoking delight—a cigarette of distinction.’
“How many times could we find the letter c in here?” he questioned himself. “And what might that reveal to us of the workings of the world?”
“This idiot country,” he thought.
“Though, on the other hand, what might it mean that the letter c …”
“… the rules of … that land from which they came,” the New York man droned on.
“… and how many times, in the course of the day, do we jerk, if I may, convulsively, and call it ‘reason’?” Frank thought.
“But to give up hunting?” Morris said. “That is steep.”
The other man shrugged.
“All right, then,” Morris said. “Why is the fellow on the plate permitted?”
The other raised one finger. Frank was filled with disgust.
“Like a cartoon I saw,” he thought. “Judge on the bench. Old Jew in the dock. Judge says, ‘If you were so innocent, why did you not explain yourself to the arresting officer?’ Old Jew shrugs. ‘I was hendcufft.’”
“Yahknehaz,” the visitor said. “An acronym, or mnemonic of the component parts of the Seder. ‘Y.K.N.H.Z.’ Letters, in Russian, each symbolizing one portion of the order—in Hebrew, the Seder—of the ritual meal.
“Yahknehaz. I put it to you, a German speaker, does it not resemble Jagd den Hase—the Hunting of the Hare? It does, I say. It does.
“And I say it is ingenious to translate the mnemonic not once but twice—don’t you think? Who could forget it?” He turned to address the table.
“And I assure you,” he said, “having heard it once, you will never forget it till the day you die.” He raised his finger. “And that was the most excellent genius of the Rabbis.”