The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Agnes looked at her watch. “There’s no way. They’re taking off in an hour.”

  “Book me on tomorrow’s flight to Tel Aviv,” he said, grabbing his hat.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Agnes, what’s so hard to understand? Get me a seat on the next flight to Israel and please don’t tell anyone. Understood?”

  “Sure, okay, Arnold.”

  When Arnold got home to pack he told his wife, Sadie, that he was going to visit his brother in Miami.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, placing a worried hand on her cheek.

  “Yes, of course. I just need to go see Sammy about a few things. It’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her.

  Arnold knew it was best not to tell her the truth. Under the slightest duress, she would easily give up his travel plans to Safed. Agnes, on the other hand, would take a bullet before she would share any of his secrets.

  The flight from New York to Tel Aviv gave Arnold time to think about what he had stirred up by exposing the tzaddik to those skilled enough to notice. Maybe it was a crazy idea thinking that someone like Moshe, such an unassuming and gentle man, could battle the evil Solomon and his contemptible son.

  With the dinner meal served and the lights turned down for passengers trying to sleep on the redeye flight to Israel, Arnold reminisced how this all began. Ten years ago, he met Rabbi Shapira at an event at his synagogue in Riverdale. Rabbi Shapira had arranged for the famous Kabbalist, Rabbi Babi Sali, to visit the Riverdale Synagogue during his New York City tour.

  Arnold remembered how excited he was to meet the heralded Moroccan rabbi. The synagogue held a banquet in his honor. Rabbi Baba Sali was a thin and frail man, with dark deep-set eyes. Even with his fragile-as-glass looks, he portrayed a man of immeasurable wisdom, as he scanned the room from his seat of honor upon the dais.

  The synagogue’s cavernous ballroom was set up with dozens of large round tables and, by chance, sitting next to Arnold was Rabbi Shapira. After the ceremony, which included a few words by the esteemed rabbi of honor, Arnold asked Rabbi Shapira if he would like to get a coffee with him at the Fordham Diner.

  “Is it true that Rabbi Babi Sali is tzaddik?” Arnold asked as he reached for the sugar.

  The rabbi leaned forward, with his elbows on the laminate table top, looked around at a few patrons at other tables and whispered, “Keep it down. It’s best not to speak too openly about this.”

  Arnold nodded, feeling as if he was just let into a private club. He whispered, “I understand that there are only thirty-six tzaddikim on the earth at any one time.”

  “This is true,” the rabbi said, barely audible.

  “Do you know who these people are?” Arnold asked.

  “I only knew of one,” the rabbi said.

  “Who is that?”

  “There was a boy, who my father knew in Krzywcza. He escaped during the war with his family to the Lower East Side. He never told me his name, but he said his father was a cobbler. My father told me how he offered comfort to the wounded soldiers just moments before they passed. He said he witnessed the hand of Hashem.”

  Arnold patted his cheek and said, “You think this man is still alive and living in New York?”

  “It’s possible.” The rabbi shrugged.

  “We need to find him,” Arnold said.

  “No, we must not interfere.” The rabbi wagged a finger.

  “Why not?”

  “The Zohar says that tzaddik must remain anonymous.”

  “What about Rabbi Baba Sali? He is certainly not anonymous.”

  “That’s because he’s not of the thirty-six.”

  “But he is known as tzaddik,” Arnold said, squinting his eyes and expressing confusion.

  “He is tzaddik because of his age. All good and studious observers of our faith become tzaddik when we reach ninety years of age.”

  That was when Arnold’s obsession with finding the tzaddik began. It took a decade of researching newspaper archives in the library, taking courses on Kabbalah and speaking to countless intellectuals, writers and educators before he finally had a breakthrough.

  Through many months of research, he discovered the documents of the Landsman Society of Krzywcza at the New York Public Library. In timeworn, handwritten documents he read about the society’s founding member Pincus Potasznik, who had a cobbler shop on Grand Street in the Lower East Side.

  With a renewed sense of optimism Arnold scoured the area, asking merchants if anyone remembered Pincus the Cobbler. After weeks of dead-ends he wandered into a carpentry business called Rubenfeld’s. A man wearing an apron was seated at a lathe, carving out a decorative leg for a chair. He looked up as Arnold approached.

  “Can I help you?” the carpenter asked.

  “Are you Mr. Rubenfeld?” Arnold asked.

  “Indeed I am. How may I be of service?”

  “I am trying to find someone who remembers a cobbler who had a business on Grand Street around the year 1910.”

  “Well, that’s before my time, but perhaps my father may know.”

  “Your father?” Arnold said, sounding upbeat.

  “Yes, he’s the original Rubenfeld. He’s ninety-five years old and his memory is not great. But for some reason he remembers things from long ago.”

  “Would it be possible to speak to him?” Arnold asked.

  Later that afternoon, Stanley Rubenfeld took Arnold to meet his father, Hersch. Not only did Hersch Rubenfeld remember Pincus the Cobbler, but they were also cousins.

  “We were from the same shtetl,” Hersch said. “When he arrived here, he came and found me and asked for help starting this Landsman Society. I had to explain that I was too busy to assist him and that made him very angry. We never spoke after that,” the old man said.

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Pincus became famous after he gunned down the gangster, Leo Gorpatsch. It was in all the newspapers.”

  “Pincus the Cobbler, killed a gangster?” Arnold asked.

  Hersch nodded, and smiled.

  “Do you know what happened to Pincus?”

  “The family moved up to the Bronx years ago. His son Moshe took over the business.”

  That was when Arnold found that the tzaddik was right across the street from his office on the Grand Concourse in the form of Moshe the Cobbler.

  Chapter 12

  Moshe had never seen a place as beautiful as Safed. His childhood memories of the Galician village and surrounding countryside where he was born were few and fading. For the most part of his sixty years Moshe lived in the Bronx, which was nothing like this city carved into the rolling hills and cliffs.

  From the back seat of the car Moshe observed tall buildings made of white limestone crowded around the spiderweb of roads and alleyways. Open shuttered windows displayed arrays of colorful flowers in window boxes and glimpses of long purple wisteria wrapped itself across wooden beams over inviting patios.

  After parking the car, they walked through an alleyway to a small outdoor cafe that was squeezed in between two buildings. Moshe, Rabbi Shapira and Aaron were served hummus and pita bread.

  “This is how we eat,” Aaron said, showing Moshe how he used the pita bread as a utensil.

  Moshe scooped the pita into the hummus, and tasted the creamy dish of mashed chickpeas, seasoned with paprika, lemon and olive oil.

  “Delicious,” Moshe agreed, and quickly grabbed another piece of bread.

  After lunch, they walked down a narrow path and came out onto a plaza that led them to the entrance of a synagogue.

  “This is the Ari Ashkenazi Synagogue,” Aaron said, gesturing to the ancient building of white limestone blocks, with two sets of large windows, deeply recessed into the building’s façade. Aaron led the men through the large wooden doors hanging off black wrought iron hinges.

  As they entered, Moshe grabbed a yarmulke from a small unadorned wooden box placed on a table. Aaron was wearing a beautiful embroidered yarmulke and the
rabbi had on his black fedora hat. Moshe cringed inwardly at the fact that he had to borrow a yarmulke from the shul, but his life in America was not one as an observant Jew.

  Once inside, Moshe knew he was not in an ordinary synagogue. Aaron had told him at lunch that the synagogue was established by Sephardic immigrants from Greece in the sixteenth century. It was destroyed in an earthquake in 1837 and wasn’t rebuilt until twenty years later. During the 1948 Arab-Israeli War a bomb exploded in the nearby courtyard. Shrapnel flew into the synagogue packed with people seeking shelter. Miraculously, no one was hurt.

  Moshe gazed at the unusual series of limestone archways that formed the hallways leading into the sanctuary. He stepped inside and stopped in his tracks. Towering before him was the Torah Ark. As his head tilted back to take in its magnificence, his mouth fell open, absorbing its holiness.

  “This was carved from olive wood in 1857,” Aaron said, gesturing to the series of columns rising from the floor to twenty feet overhead. Each column featured colorful, carved depictions of flowers, fruits and vines intertwined among other symbols of stories from the bible.

  “This is the most holy of places for the study of Kabbalah,” said Rabbi Shapira.

  “Are we here to speak with someone?” Moshe asked looking around at the people coming and going.

  “No, I just thought this would be a good place to start your journey,” Aaron said glancing over to the rabbi for support.

  “The truth is, Moshe, we don’t know where to go, or who to see about your condition,” said the rabbi.

  “Perhaps you’re wrong about me. I don’t feel anything unusual and I doubt I still have a connection to Hashem,” Moshe said, adjusting the borrowed yarmulke to prevent it from slipping off his head.

  “My father, and your rabbi, was sure of it, Moshe. He recognized the signs and I have no reason to doubt him. We are here in the spiritual city of Safed to find a way to rekindle the flame inside you,” the rabbi said as he placed both hands on his hips and leaned back to admire the Torah Ark.

  Chapter 13

  Myron bit into an olive as he stared out the window from his first class seat, hoping the martini he was sipping would help him sleep at least a few hours on the redeye to Israel. He needed to slow down his thoughts. He kept rehashing what his father had said to him earlier when he stopped by on his way to the airport to say goodbye.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Even though he was short on time, his father insisted that he visit him before leaving for the airport.

  “It’s important,” he told his son on the phone.

  When Myron arrived, Solomon shared a story of how he had met Leo Gorpatsch in Warsaw as teenagers working for a local Jewish mobster named Berek Weis, whose business was offering high-interest loans to those who had nowhere else to go. Berek employed teenage boys like Solomon and Leo to pick up his payments from clients who borrowed money from him.

  Shortly after Solomon and Leo both turned eighteen, they were summoned to Berek’s office.

  “Berek had an office in the back of a butcher shop,” Solomon said.

  “I know, Pops, with the sawdust on the floor,” Myron interjected.

  When the boys walked into Berek’s office, a man was sitting in a chair with his back to them.

  “Ah, come in, boys. I want to introduce you to someone.”

  The man sitting in a chair twisted around to look at the boys.

  “This man is visiting from a place called Argentina. His name is Mr. Martin Roitman,” Berek said.

  A thin man wearing a bright robin’s egg blue suit, with a sunflower yellow tie, stood up and offered a large and charming smile. “It’s nice to meet you, boys. Berek has told me wonderful things about the two of you.”

  Neither Solomon nor Leo had heard of the country Argentina. They had also never met someone quite like Mr. Roitman, with his charm, and his funny accent.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Weis has told me how resourceful you boys are,” he said with elaborate gestures that involved sweeping his arms from side to side.

  Solomon tilted his head, trying to understand the man’s lyrical delivery of his words.

  “Mr. Roitman has a wonderful opportunity for both of you to make good money,” Berek said.

  “How would you boys like to travel around the country and recruit beautiful young Jewish women to come work for rich men in my country?” Mr. Roitman asked.

  Solomon looked at Leo, and they both shrugged.

  “Sure, sounds good, what does it pay?” asked Leo.

  “You will make more in a week than you were making here in two months,” Mr. Roitman said.

  The boys looked at each other and let out a laugh.

  That was how they started working for the Tsvi Midal, an operation that lured young Jewish girls and young women from shtetls, to work as sex slaves for wealthy Jews in Argentina. Mr. Roitman gave the boys an advance to buy suits, and instructions on how to travel from village to village. He told them to place posters in local synagogues that advertised a rosy future for young Jewish girls. Frightened parents, most financially desperate, would send their daughters away in hopes of a better life for them.

  Part of their job was for Solomon and Leo to bring the girls to a large house in Warsaw’s business district, where they were taught the prostitution trade by several older women who initially befriended the girls, nurturing them in a maternal way. This endeared the frightened girls to them and eventually earned their trust. Gradually, they were introduced to a few men, who took part in the training and understood the delicate process.

  The girls were told that these lonely men were looking for nothing more than companionship. It’s only an innocent night out with a gentleman so he can enjoy himself with a pretty girl on his arm, they preached.

  Over the eight weeks, the expectations of the dates increased from hand-holding to kissing, then to fondling, oral sex and eventually intercourse. Escape was not possible for the girls, since the only option was on foot to home hundreds of miles away. Those who did try to run away were soon caught, beaten and returned back to the brothel with visible deep purple bruises on them.

  After the two months of training, they were taken by train to Hamburg where they boarded a steamship to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Once they arrived, they were assigned to large brothels, some housing as many as sixty to eighty sex slaves.

  After telling the story about his friend Leo and the Tsvi Midal, Solomon finally got to his reason for having asked Myron to come. “Leo was shot dead in The Donnybrook on Clinton Street during a business meeting, and do you know who killed him?” Solomon asked his son.

  “I don’t know, Pops,” Myron said shaking his head.

  “It was a cobbler, named Pincus Potasznik.”

  “A cobbler killed Leo Gorpatsch?” Myron asked.

  “That’s only part of it. Pincus had a son named Moshe, who is also a cobbler.”

  “Okay, Pops. What does all of this mean?”

  “Moshe the Cobbler’s shop is across the street from the Paradise Theater.”

  “Are you serious?” Myron asked.

  Solomon nodded and said, “It means that the Moshe in my dreams is the son of Pincus the Cobbler, the one who killed Leo. Moshe the Cobbler is the tzaddik and is going to Safed. He is the one coming to me in my dreams. We have to stop him.”

  Myron tried to contemplate the significance of the father of a tzaddik murdering the childhood friend of a rasha, nearly a half-century ago. Besides his father’s eerie ability of predicting future events, Myron never witnessed anyone else with these so-called powers from the mystical realm of Kabbalah. Apparently, now that was about to change, as he was heading directly to its source—Safed, Israel.

  Chapter 14

  On the morning of the second day in Safed, Moshe awoke hours before sunrise as he struggled with the effects of jetlag. While Aaron and the rabbi slept he decided to take a walk. The experience of traveling to Israel had so far been a blur. Everyth
ing had happened so fast. Just a few days ago, he was a simple cobbler from the Bronx and now he was in one of Israel’s four holy cities, searching for a way to understand what it meant to be called tzaddik.

  There was no doubt that there was some spiritual connection he felt he had when he was young. There were the incidents of when he would fall ill, just before a tragic event occurred. Moshe remembered people explaining this phenomenon by calling him an empath, which he understood to mean a person with an ability to sense and feel the emotional state of another. But that didn’t really describe what he experienced.

  The most significant connection he felt with Hashem was when he was able to calm those in pain, just through his touch. He never forgot that day in the shul in Krzywcza, with the wounded soldiers. Men cried out in agonizing pain, with no medical care to relieve their suffering, and they were magically eased just by his touch, ultimately allowing them to pass on peacefully.

  After his family escaped from the ravages of the war and emigrated to America, his abilities diminished over the years. It was true that his customers commented often on how wonderful it was to visit him at his cobbler shop.

  “You always make me feel better, Moshe,” they would often say.

  But that would hardly qualify as divine intervention, he lamented.

  Aaron’s small apartment was not far from the Ari Ashkenazi Synagogue. But that was all Moshe knew of the neighborhood. Unlike the box-like grid layout of the streets in the Bronx, Safed was a meandering web of roadways that morphed into alleyways, and back into streets, barely wide enough for cars or trucks to pass through.

  Moshe soon found himself on a street with several art galleries. It was still hours before they would open, but he enjoyed looking at the paintings and sculptures in the window displays.

  As the sun began to brighten the white roads and buildings of Safed, Moshe walked into a large park with views overlooking the valley below. He realized that he had wandered too far from Aaron’s apartment and would need help finding his way back.