The Jerusalem Inception (22 page)

Benjamin laughed. “You know the answer. These are fences to guard us from an accidental sin.”

“Accidental incestuous cooking? Is that the reason we treat chicken like beef, lest one day a clever
Yid
farmer would breed a chicken that gives milk, and his dumb wife might cook a little, soft-feathered
chick’aleh
in the milk of its mother hen!”

“Could happen!”

“And finally, the rabbis decided that we should wait six hours after eating meat or fowl because, if we ingested dairy, it might lead to cooking!” Lemmy leaned forward and pulled on Benjamin’s side lock, extending the rolled hair until it straightened as long as his arm. “It’s written:
Do not shave the side of your beard like the Gentiles
.” He let Benjamin’s side lock spring back into place, dangling down to his shoulder. “God didn’t want Israelites imitating the pagan hairstyle of biblical times. But over generations,
Don’t shave
became
Don’t trim, Don’t cut, Don’t touch your payos from birth to death
, as if this hair,” he tugged again on Benjamin’s side lock, “these dead cells are somehow sacred. It’s ridiculous!”

“Is God ridiculous? Where do you get these ideas?”

Lemmy pulled out
The Painted Bird
and handed it to him.

Benjamin examined the front cover, the colorful drawings of a painted bird.

“This story is written so well that you feel like you’re watching a movie.”

It was an odd statement. Neither of them had ever seen a movie. Movies were for the sinful, empty-minded Zionists. Benjamin read a few lines, threw the book on the bed, and rubbed his hands against his pants. “It’s a sin to read books like that!”

“It’s about the life of a kid like us in a different time.” He picked the book up from the bed. “It makes you think about the horrible things people do to each other, and—”

“Shush!” Benjamin’s hand covered Lemmy’s mouth. “A good Jew must devote all his time to studying Talmud!”

“Aren’t we supposed to be a guiding light for the goyim?”

“So?”

“How could we be a guiding light for those about whom we know nothing?” It felt odd to repeat Tanya’s argument to his friend.

“You don’t need to commit sins to understand the sinners.” Benjamin went to the door. “Sabbath starts soon. We should go to the synagogue.”

“Wait!” Lemmy’s impulsive sharing of his secret had placed them on a risky path, and he was determined to make his friend understand. “At least read a page, see how wonderful it is!”

“No! Don’t you realize that Satan is trying to seduce you?”

He opened the book and started turning the pages of fine print. He was running out of time. “This boy’s parents left him with an old woman at the beginning of the war. They were Jews, or Gypsies. A few months later the old woman dies, and the boy hits the road. He encounters all kinds of strange people who abuse him. And after every cruel experience he finds hope in a new method of worship. First he is superstitious, completely obsessed by witchcraft and evil spirits. Next he becomes a devout Catholic, counting each prayer against each indulgence. Finally he decides that, because all his devotion didn’t save him from suffering, God doesn’t exist. So he becomes a communist, constantly reciting party slogans about equality and freedom. At one point, a peasant paints a bird in different colors, and when it’s released to rejoin its flock, they don’t recognize it and attack. The boy sees a rain of feathers—red, blue, yellow, green, and orange—fall to the ground.”

“And the same will happen to you!” Removing a volume of Talmud from a shelf, Benjamin opened it. “Generations of sages created this eternal wisdom for you. Why go to foreign pasture when your own field is already so lush?”

A loud knock sounded, and Rabbi Gerster entered the room. “Shall we go to the synagogue?”

Benjamin’s face lit up. “Bless be He who cures the ill!”

“Amen,” the rabbi said.

Despite his anger at his father, Lemmy was relieved. Eight days had passed since the abortion protest on King George Street. His father’s self-imposed confinement had deepened the division in the sect. Redhead Dan had boasted that Rabbi Gerster would soon order a violent struggle against the Zionist government, whereas Cantor Toiterlich timidly gave voice to Neturay Karta’s long-held principles of seclusion, prayer, and the study of Talmud. The debate in the sect had been brewing all week while the men had waited for their rabbi’s return.

Rabbi Gerster noticed
The Painted Bird
and picked it up.

Benjamin shifted in place as if his feet stood on red embers.

“Cheap entertainment for the feebleminded.” The rabbi tossed it on the bed. “Has my son become feebleminded?”

“It’s neither cheap nor entertaining,” Lemmy said. “It’s a story about a boy who spends the long years of the war hiding from the Nazis, freezing in the winters, hungry, terrified. Weren’t you once such a boy?”

Rabbi Gerster’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You have a clever mind,” he said. “Why don’t you apply it wholly to God’s books?”

Before Lemmy could answer, Benjamin took a step toward the door. “Shall we go?”

On the way to the synagogue, the rabbi rested his arm on Benjamin’s shoulder. “I hope you concentrate on the teachings of God, not on stories of the Goyim.”

“We study together.” Benjamin walked stiffly under the weight of the rabbi’s arm. “The two of us, every day, all day.”

“Apparently, my son finds time for idleness.” He spoke as if Lemmy was not behind them. “But not you. God blessed you with a pure soul. Our people need leadership and guidance. Continue to study hard, and one day you’ll be a great rabbi.”

The synagogue appeared before them with its tall windows and massive wood doors. The forecourt was filled with men, and they rushed to greet the rabbi.

Redhead Dan pushed through the crowd. “Rabbi! Have you heard the news? On Sunday morning the Knesset will approve the final abortion law! God wants us to fight! The death of babies takes precedence over the observance of the Sabbath!”

Everyone started talking at the same time, but Rabbi Gerster only smiled, lifted his arms into the air, and began singing: “
Heighten your heads, gates, exalt yourselves!
”

Confused, the men of Neturay Karta stopped arguing.

“
Doorways of the universe,
” he sang, “
the King of Honor, God is coming!
”

The men joined, and the rabbi started from the beginning. Quickly the singing intensified, and circles formed around him. Their faces grew more cheerful as they danced around him faster and faster, proceeding into the synagogue. Inside, the men’s singing filled the hall, their hands on each other’s shoulders, dancing with their beloved rabbi around the elevated bimah, under the glistening lights of the crystal chandelier. “
The King of Honor, God is coming!
”

Lemmy danced, his arms locked with the men, whose faces glowed with sweat and spiritual joy. The dancing grew faster, the singing louder. Someone broke between Lemmy and the man to his right. It was Redhead Dan, his round, freckled face full of excitement. He sang at the top of his voice, and slapped hard on Lemmy’s shoulder. “
Heighten your heads, gates! Exalt yourselves!
”

As he danced, Lemmy thought of the mysterious box and Redhead Dan’s talk of fighting. What was he up to? Yoram must have told the rabbi, but did anyone realize how crazy Redhead Dan really was? And who would Tanya tell about this, and what would they do?

Rabbi Abraham Gerster danced with his men, his hands bound with theirs, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the glowing chandelier. It went on and on, until the rabbi suddenly pulled free and leaped on top of the nearest wooden bench.

The men stopped dancing and stood still, watching him.

When the synagogue was completely silent, the rabbi filled his lungs and, very slowly, began singing again: “
Raise!
”

He paused, his hands reaching up. “
Your heads!
”

His face creased in great devotion. “
Gates, exalt yourselves!
”

Everyone looked up at him, holding their breath.

Like a conductor leading his orchestra, he suddenly waved his hands, and his forceful baritone bounced from the walls, “
Doorways of the universe!
”

They joined him with a wonderful, earthshaking roar, “
The King of Honor, God is coming!
”

The men of Neturay Karta danced in circles, their pace faster, their unbuttoned coats flying around them, their faces red with ecstasy, brilliant with sweat, their legs going up and down with boundless energy, their black shoes drumming the floor in honor of their beloved rabbi, who had returned to lead them.

But Lemmy broke off from the circle and went outside to the forecourt. The breeze was cool on his moist face. The sun had descended below the horizon. Sabbath had arrived.

“T
urning your head saved your eyes.” The doctor on call at the Sharay Tzedek Hospital smeared ointment on Elie’s left cheek, neck, and upper chest, where the tea had scalded him. “Eyes are like eggs. Hot water would boil them.” He was young and not too happy about having to work on Friday night.

Elie wasn’t listening. His mind was filled with vengeful images of Tanya suffering all kinds of torture. But those images would have to remain in his mind. Hurting Tanya in any way was outside the realm of possibility. It had been his fault anyway. His infatuation with her had loosened his tongue, and he had bragged like a schoolboy on a pubescent date, receiving his just reward in the form of second-degree burns. Now she was under guard at a safe house on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where she would remain until after tomorrow morning’s operation. The doctor put down the ointment jar and pulled off the gloves. “We’ll keep you overnight with a fluid drip. I can prescribe something to make you comfortable.”

“No.” Elie gave him a look that discouraged any argument. “Pain isn’t a problem. I’ll take this.” He pointed at the jar of ointment.

Ten minutes later, he walked out of the hospital, all the records of his treatment already in the trash. He wore a cotton undershirt, separating the rough khaki shirt from the ointment and his angry-red skin. One of the agents was waiting for him in the car.

“Drive me to the police compound at the Russian Yard,” Elie said. “They’re waiting for me.”

T
he Special Force combined experienced police officers and veterans of elite IDF units, men who engaged in extreme violence without raising their pulse. The group filled a conference room on the second floor of the building. Pinned to the wall was a street map of the Rehavia neighborhood, marked with green, blue, and black pushpins that represented the troops, the commanders, and the attackers respectively. The prime minister’s residence was circled in red.

Elie listened as Major Buskilah assigned men to positions, discussed the chain of command, the range from each position to the targets, the lines of fire assigned to each team, and the need to avoid civilian casualties.

When Major Buskilah was done, Elie addressed them. “This operation is based on a tip we received from an informant that two members of Neturay Karta plan to attack the prime minister in the morning. We don’t know their identity or appearance,” he lied, “and unfortunately, senior members of the media have already been invited to a press conference tomorrow on the roof of the prime minister’s residence.” He cleared his throat, and the movement shot burning pain across his scalded skin. “We suspect that the conspirators have obtained some kind of explosives. We’re still investigating how and what they have, but time is running out.”

He looked around the room, waiting for his lies to sink in. The faces he browsed showed no doubts. They were eager and attentive, open faces of men accustomed to trusting their commanding officers and adhering to a plan of action.

One of them raised his hand. “Why don’t we raid Meah Shearim tonight and search door to door?”

Elie was ready with an answer. “The political situation, especially with the abortion vote coming up, would make such a search appear to be politically motivated to harass the religious community.”

Another man said, “We can shoot them on approach, before they attack.”

“Israeli forces don’t shoot at unarmed Jews,” Elie said, “especially while a bunch of journalists are watching from the roof. A mishap like that could turn the whole Jewish world against this government. As you know, our desperate armament needs depend on the generosity of the Diaspora, especially American Jews.”

Some of the men nodded.

“You may only—and I emphasize the word
only
—shoot after you have clearly witnessed one or both of them using deadly weapons. Now, that’s me.” He pointed to a black pushpin at the intersection of King George and Ramban streets. “I’ll be scouting their probable approach path, dressed as an ultra-Orthodox Jew for the occasion, so make sure not to shoot me.”

Several of the soldiers laughed.

“Remember that on Sabbath morning many religious Jews go to their synagogues. Watch carefully, but do not engage anyone until you witness an actual attack. That’s your license to kill. Any more questions?”

Someone asked, “Why don’t we stop and search black hats who approach the area? If they carry nothing, let them walk. Why take the risk?”

It was a good question that Elie had expected. “We can’t stop and search religious Jews randomly. It would be viewed as police harassment of the innocent Orthodox community. And if we’re lucky enough to actually stop these two, they might detonate and kill themselves and the arresting officers. Either way, it’s bad. Better let them go through with whatever they’ve planned and act according to the orders you have received.”

There were no more questions. Major Buskilah dismissed the troops until sunrise.

T
he tall windows of the synagogue grew darker. Lemmy watched from his bench in the rear as his father mounted the dais and kissed the blue velvet curtain of the Ark. The silence was deep, almost unreal for a hall filled with hundreds of men. The moment of truth had arrived. Their rabbi was about to reveal his decision: How would Neturay Karta combat the Zionists’ most infuriating sin to date.