In the morning they held a conference.
“Mother, I think we should go straight to the new Rebbe. He will know what to do. Maybe there was something wrong in the way we buried Aaron, God forbid. Maybe there is some rational explanation in the Bible.”
“The words rational and Bible do not go together. May God forgive me for speaking so ill of the Torah but you forget that I was both a scientist and an intellectual before I married Aaron’s father, God rest his soul.”
A scientist? Miriam racked her brain trying to remember what her mother-in-law was actually qualified in while Myra hobbled over to a dusty cabinet and pulled out an ungainly reel-to-reel tape recorder that looked as if it had been designed in the 1950s.
“We will switch this on and see whether we can record the snore. If we succeed, we will have empirical evidence that the phenomenon exists outside our own minds,” Myra declared, comforted by the thought of logical action.
“And if it does?”
“Then we worry.”
“What about going to a mashpia?” Miriam ventured. A mashpia was a wise counsel—either a rabbi or simply a wise person.
“We would have to go to one we really trust. It would have to be Mordecai Bergerman. He is like family; besides, I have one over him—a little indiscretion that is only about fifty years old but he still sweats it.” Myra grinned cheekily, her false teeth slipping a bit.
And so it was that on the third night of the haunting Miriam and Myra sat up and recorded three unadulterated hours of Aaron’s snore. The next morning they both went trudging through the snow to Rabbi Bergerman’s house, Miriam laden with the antiquated tape recorder hidden in a backpack.
Rabbi Bergerman had been Myra’s husband’s best friend. At ninety-one he was a year older than Myra but, if Abraham had been alive, ten years younger than him, therefore Myra still patronizingly referred to him as “the kid.”
“The kid is no schmuck, he’ll know what to do, but the last thing we want is this getting out to the community. They think I’m a little meshuga anyways; next thing we know we’ll be executed for being communist spies, just like the Rosenbergs,” Myra whispered dramatically. She’d been talking the whole way from Union Street to Montgomery Street and Miriam guessed that she was nervous. But she also wondered for the first time what her mother-in-law’s politics actually were, and whether Aaron’s sudden death and now the haunting weren’t actually sending Myra a little crazy.
They arrive at the ugly apartment block. Gray and oppressively rectangular it had been built at the height of the 1930s’ depression. Rabbi Bergerman lived with his son, his son’s wife, their twelve children, three grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. The family owned practically the whole building but the rabbi lived in the top-floor apartment with three of his unmarried grandchildren. The place was chaotic, a living hell of screaming kids and indignant shouting women, but it was a hell in which Mordecai reigned supreme.
Mordacei Bergerman was already waiting for them at the door of his apartment, leaning heavily on his walker. He ushered them in, then, after looking quickly for spies along the corridor, he slammed the door shut.
“Looking as beautiful as ever, Myra,” he croaked hoarsely.
The old woman smiled flirtatiously back. “Considering my loss.”
“My sorrow goes out to you, may God rest his soul.”
The old woman settled herself into a large leather armchair and rested her walking stick across her legs. She studied the rabbi.
“That’s the tough thing, kid. God hasn’t…”
“God hasn’t what?”
Myra sighed. “God hasn’t rested his soul. Miriam,” she barked, “play the kid the tape. Let’s see what an authorized member of the rabbinical council has to say about this.”
Half an hour later Rabbi Bergerman gave a low moan. “This is serious.”
“I know, kid, I know,” Myra replied, secretly pleased that Mordecai had listened so carefully.
“Do you think we have done something wrong, Rabbi? Do you think my husband’s soul is unhappy somehow?” Miriam piped up anxiously, worried by the dark look that clouded the cleric’s brow.
“His soul? Don’t be stupid, I’m worried about your sou
ls!” he thundered, slamming his gnarled fist on the desk. “Myra, how could you come up with such nonsense? A ghostly snore! Such a thing does not exist! What are you trying to do—make an idiot out of me?”
Myra sat still for a moment in disbelief, then leaped up furiously, sending her walking stick flying. Miriam, worried that her mother-in-law might have a sudden heart attack like her son, rushed to her side.
“Mordecai Bergerman, who do you think I am to waste my precious time on such a schmuck as yourself? This is the ghost of my dead son!” she announced, tears welling up. Placing her veined hand ceremoniously on the ancient reel-to-reel she added, “And this is his snore. Either you believe or you don’t. Once…you would have.”
The two geriatrics gazed steadily into each other’s eyes for so long that Miriam began to fear that perhaps they had both slipped into some kind of empathetic coma. Then Rabbi Bergerman finally hauled himself up by his walker and moved painfully into the center of the room.
“Oi, what I do for a beautiful woman. Okay, this is what I suggest. Tonight, very secretly, I make a visit to your house. I will spend the night in the bedroom of your dead son witnessing this…this shemozzle! Then I will know if it is real or not.”