Monday the Rabbi Took Off by Harry Kemelman

morning prayers in their prayer shawls and phylacteries.
    “Are you awake, David?” asked Miriam. “The steward said they would be serving soon.”
    He nodded but did not answer, and seeing his lips move, she knew he was reciting the prayers. When he had finished, he said. “For this once. I said the prayers sitting down. At least I’m facing in the right direction. They” – nodding toward the men in the aisle – “are facing in the wrong direction.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The plane is heading east, and so am I. They are facing north and south.”
    Again the man across the aisle tapped him on the arm and nodded toward the men in the aisle. “What did I tell you? Fanatics!”
    After breakfast, the passengers began to make ready for the landing, although it was still several hours ahead. They shuffled in their bags for passports, for addresses; those who had left their seats to visit with friends returned to them; those who had made new acquaintances on the plane wrote out their intended itineraries or addresses at which they could be reached. Every now and then, the pilot announced points of interest that could be seen through the broken clouds – the Alps, the Greek coastline, the Greek islands – and dutifully, the passengers momentarily stopped what they were doing to look through the windows. Finally, he announced that they were approaching Israel and Lod Airport. For those on the right side of the aisle there was a glimpse of green fields and then the expanse of black tarmac. When, a few minutes later, the plane touched down lightly and taxied to a halt, there was a burst of applause from the passengers, whether at the pilot’s skill or in relief that the long trip was over and they were safe on Israeli soil the rabbi could not tell. He noticed that Miriam’s eyes were moist.
    In Hebrew the pilot said. “Blessed be the coming to Israel.” and then in English paraphrase. “Welcome to Israel.”
    It had evidently just rained, and there were puddles on the tarmac as they made their way to the lounge, clutching Jonathan firmly by the hand to ensure his walking around the puddles rather than through them. The air was as mild and clear as a May morning.
    A large crowd waited beyond the customs barrier, to greet friends and relatives among the passengers. While they kept an eye on the baggage chute, Miriam and the rabbi scanned the sea of faces for someone who resembled the photograph of Gittel in the family album, taken years before. By the time they had reclaimed their bags and gone through the customs desk the crowd had thinned out considerably, but still they saw no one who might be Gittel. Only after they had repaired to a bench and Miriam was searching through her bag for her address book did Gittel arrive, inquiring anxiously. “The Small family? Miriam?”
    “Oh, Gittel!”
    Gittel hugged Miriam to her breast and then shyly offered her hand to the rabbi. He took it and then kissed her upturned cheek.
    “And this is Jonathan!” She held him by the shoulders at arm’s length and then clutched him to her ecstatically. She released him and stood back to look at the family as a whole. And now she was ready for business. “I had trouble getting my car started.” she explained. “When it rains, the battery you know. And this morning it rained – the first time in weeks – the crops are thirsting for water, but you brought the rain. It is a good omen. You are hungry? You would like a coffee, perhaps? No? Then let us get started.”
    Waving her umbrella, she commandeered a porter with a luggage carrier, chivied them all out the front gate, and, planting the tip of her umbrella firmly on a spot on the sidewalk, ordered them to wait right there while she brought up her car from the parking lot. Before the rabbi could offer to accompany her in case she needed help with the car. she was gone. This time, however, the battery must have worked properly, for they did not have long to wait. She came chugging