The Righteous One
Page 7
Myron put down his glass and stared at Dov. “You lost him? Are you kidding me? I paid you to follow him and tell me exactly where they are—not guess,” Myron said, slamming his open palm on the table. The sudden bang reverberated off the rock walls, and the few patrons turned their heads to check out the commotion.
“It’s okay, Myron, relax. I’ll find them. It’s not going to take me long,” Dov pleaded.
Myron stood up, pointed a finger at Dove and said, “You’re done,” and stormed out of the café.
“Myron, wait,” Dov said.
Myron turned as he walked out the door, giving Dov a glare of disgust.
Chapter 19
Arnold saw Safed’s white stone buildings reflecting the morning light. What a beautiful city, he marveled, as he drove in from the west. The last time he visited Safed had been six years earlier, when he attended a conference on Kabbalah at the Ari Ashkenazi Synagogue.
Arnold surprised himself by finding the synagogue easily and parked his car nearby. As he walked up the steep incline to the pathway leading to the landmark building, he recalled being told that the synagogue was built in memory of the great Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria who died in 1572. This seems like a good place to inquire whether anyone has seen Moshe and Rabbi Shapira, Arnold thought.
Arnold entered the synagogue, which was full of young rabbinical scholars milling about. He wandered the administrative halls unnoticed until he came upon an open office door and peeked inside. A man was sitting behind his desk busy punching numbers into an adding machine.
Arnold knocked on the door.
“Excuse me. Sorry to bother you,” Arnold said.
The man looked up and said, “How may I help you?”
Arnold took a few steps into the office, and said, “My name is Arnold Lieberman. I was here six years ago for a conference, and I was wondering if you could help me find someone.”
The man leaned back and gestured to the empty chair. “Okay, Mr. Lieberman, please sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” Arnold said, and reached across the desk to shake the man’s hand.
Arnold looked at the name plate on the desk which read: Gerald Abramowitz
“Mr. Abramowitz, I am looking for two of my associates who just recently arrived in Safed from New York. One is Rabbi Shapira and the other is a cobbler named Moshe Potasznik.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I need help finding them,” Arnold said, and began to realize how ridiculous he was sounding.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lieberman, but I am just an accountant. I don’t know how I can help you find your friends.”
“I’m sorry to waste your time,” Arnold said, rising from his chair. Then he saw a photo displayed on the desk of the accountant posing with the renowned kabbalist Rabbi Yitzhak Rubin.
“Is that Rabbi Rubin?” Arnold asked, pointing to the framed photograph.
“Yes, you know of him? I‘ve met the rabbi several times. He lives here, in Safed.”
“Can you direct me to where I can find him? Perhaps he can help me locate my friends.”
Later that afternoon, Arnold found Moshe and Rabbi Shapira sitting at an outdoor café speaking to Rabbi Rubin.
“I found you,” Arnold said, spreading out his arms joyfully.
“Arnold, what are you doing here and how in the world did you find us?” Rabbi Shapira, said, surprised.
“I’ll tell you later,” Arnold said and turned to the rabbi and reached out to shake his hand. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Please sit, Arnold, the rabbi was about to tell us something important,” Moshe said pointing to the empty chair.
“What is it, Moshe?” Arnold said.
“After Moshe and I spoke, I did some thinking and spoke with some of my colleagues,” Rabbi Rubin began.
“And what did they say?” Arnold asked.
The old man clasped his hands together, shook them back and forth and said, “I’m afraid that Moshe will not be able to relight his connection to the Almighty. For some reason, which only Hashem knows, Moshe is no longer tzaddik.”
Chapter 20
The car pulled up to a townhouse on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 124th Street in Harlem.
“Where the hell are we?” Solomon asked as he was ushered out of the car and up the steps to a large brownstone and into an entrance foyer. He looked about in awe at the dramatic interior of the Roman style columns towering alongside a sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors.
“This way, Mr. Blass,” instructed the tall, thin man.
Solomon entered into a dimly lit, well-appointed room decorated with antique furnishings. Standing in front of a large, mahogany desk was a man in a perfectly tailored suit.
“Mr. Blass, thank you for coming,” said the man, extending a hand.
“Who are you, and why the fuck am I here?” Solomon said, refusing to shake hands.
“There’s no need for profanity. Please sit, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Solomon sat down without taking his eyes off the man’s nose. It looked the nose of a boxer who lost more fights than he won.
“My name is Mikey Coppola. I’m a businessman just like you and your son Myron.”
“So what? Tell me why I’m here?” Solomon asked again.
“You and your son have made quite a reputation up in the Bronx.”
Solomon said nothing. This was not the first time he had been approached by an Italian curious about his success.
“I’m not going to ask you about your methods, but you have an uncanny ability of picking winners. Have you and your son ever considered expanding beyond the Bronx?”
“No, we’re happy with what we have,” Solomon said.
Mickey rubbed his chin before he spoke. “I appreciate your caution. But wouldn’t it be easier for us to be partners rather than competitors?”
Solomon shook his head. “You know, Mr. Coppola…”
“Please call me Mickey,” he interrupted.
Solomon nodded. “Okay, Mickey. I’ve had many similar proposals from your ilk over the years and I’ve never agreed to one. Why would I now?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone. This is just a discussion about a business opportunity. No need to get testy.”
“Now you listen to me, Mickey,” Solomon said wagging his finger at Mickey. “First of all, you can address me as Mr. Blass. Second, I have every right to be testy. It’s not like I came here on my own free will. So if you and your goons here don’t mind, I would like you to take me home now, or do I need to call a taxi?”
Mickey leaned back in his chair, spread his arms out wide, and said, “Okay, Mr. Blass, I want no trouble. But all I ask is that you discuss this with your son, Myron. You should be thinking about his future. How will he carry on, when you are not around anymore?”
This statement carried more weight than Mickey could have known. It tapped right into Solomon’s underlying and persistent fear that Myron would flounder without Solomon’s ability to make strategic decisions based on his foresight offered in dreams. Solomon slumped back in his chair, thinking, Maybe he’s right.
“All right, Mickey, I’ll discuss it with my son, and get back to you. Can you have someone take me home now? I’m an old man and need my rest.”
“Of course, Mr. Blass,” Mickey said, flicking a finger at the tall, thin man.
Chapter 21
Arnold, Rabbi Shapira and Moshe huddled around the table staring at Rabbi Rubin after his startling announcement that Moshe was no longer tzaddik.
“I don’t understand. How can Moshe suddenly stop being tzaddik?” Arnold asked.
“It’s not sudden. The last time Moshe had an episode was when his father passed. That was over fifteen years ago,” the illustrious rabbi said, patting Moshe’s clasped hands resting on the café table.
“But what about what you said about how I could salvage my abilities if I dedicated myself to being a studious and devout Jew?” Moshe asked.
“I suppose this was a waste of time. I’m sorry, Arnold,” Moshe said.
“Wait a second, what if you’re wrong? Why should we give up?” said Arnold looking at Rabbi Rubin.
The rabbi tried to sit a little taller in his chair and said, “Our body is a vessel for our soul, and when we die, our soul is reborn into a new body. This continues through many incarnations, until our soul connects to the spiritual world. This takes devotion and work to rise above the basic egotistical desires of man. The soul of tzaddik, however, has already made this connection to the spiritual world, but must continue to strive in his lifetime to keep this connection strong, or as we can now see, it could be broken. Apparently, this is what occurred with Moshe.”
Arnold looked at Moshe and asked, “What do you have to say about this?”
Moshe exhaled a long breath. “I never asked for this gift and was never told that I needed be an observant Jew in order to keep it. What I experienced was something that just happened. I’m sorry, Arnold.”
“It’s not your fault, Moshe. I suppose we should make plans to head back home,” Arnold said.
“But what about the rasha? What will we do now?” asked Rabbi Shapira.
All eyes turned to Rabbi Rubin who just shrugged.
Arnold exhaled a long breath and said, “I’ll make the arrangements. We will leave tomorrow.”
Later that night, Moshe lay awake in the small bedroom in Aaron’s apartment. The open window provided a pleasant breeze, but that didn’t relieve his anguish. How could he be so ignorant? He knew he had a gift that only thirty-five others in the world also had. Now he was being told that he was no longer tzaddik.
But what was worse was how he found a way to disconnect his soul to Hashem. Rabbi Rubin said that the soul of tzaddik has made the connection to the sacred world, while all others must continue to be reborn into a new soul in order to achieve this ultimate spirituality.
Moshe placed both hands on his face and started to cry. As tears rolled down his cheeks, he realized that the last time he lived his life where his daily practices included observing Judaic law was his childhood years leading up to his Bar Mitzvah. His life since then has been at best one where he could call himself a Jew in name only. He had been given a gift from the Creator that he had squandered.
Moshe looked up to the heavens, lifted his arms into the air and thought, How is it possible to carry this shameful burden for the rest of my life? It was one thing to disappoint a loved one, a friend, but to neglect Hashem, this is unimaginable.
Chapter 22
The next morning Myron wandered along the streets of Safed. He stopped for a coffee at a small café and struck up a conversation with a waiter.
“So tell me, where would someone go to learn from the top Kabbalists in Safed?” Myron asked the young man, who just shared with Myron that he was studying Kabbalah.
“That would be the Ari Ashkenazi Synagogue,” he told Myron.
Myron thanked the waiter and after a short walk, found himself standing before the illustrious building. That was when he saw Arnold Lieberman walk out of the front doors and head in the opposite direction of where Myron was coming from.
Myron reached into his jacket pocket and touched the small handgun that Dov had given him. Spotting Arnold was a stroke of good fortune that Myron couldn’t pass up.
He followed Arnold through the winding streets until he came to a staircase that led to a second floor apartment. Arnold climbed the steps, turned the unlocked doorknob and entered the apartment.
Myron followed quietly up the staircase and stood behind the closed door. The open window alongside it allowed Myron to clearly hear the conversation going on inside.
“We’re all set. We have a flight out tomorrow morning. Aaron, if it’s okay with you, can you drive us to Tel Aviv this afternoon? We will spend tonight at the Tel Aviv Hilton and catch a taxi in the morning to the airport,” Arnold said.
“All of a sudden I don’t feel so good,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“What’s wrong, Moshe? You look terrible.”
Moshe is here, Myron thought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handgun. He slowly turned the doorknob and stepped into the apartment. Seated at the round table were four men gawking at Myron’s sudden appearance.
“Myron, what are you doing here?” asked Arnold.
“Get up, and stand against the wall,” Myron ordered, waving the gun.
Arnold, Moshe, Aaron and Rabbi Shapira slowly rose from their chairs.
“You must be Moshe,” Myron said observing beads of sweat rolling down Moshe’s pale face.
Moshe looked over to Arnold. “You know this man?”
“This is Myron Blass, the son of Solomon Blass. Come now, Myron, put the gun down, there’s no reason for violence,” Arnold pleaded.
Myron pointed the handgun at Moshe. “I came here to stop you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“No, don’t,” the rabbi said, and stepped in front of Moshe the instant Myron pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out loudly in the small apartment. Rabbi Shapira clutched his chest where the bullet entered. Blood oozed between his fingers and he collapsed to the floor.
Moshe quickly kneeled down beside the rabbi who was now lying in a growing puddle of his blood.
“What have you done?” Moshe said.
Myron looked at the gun, then back at Moshe, and mumbled, “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”
Moshe lifted the rabbi’s head onto his lap and clutched his hands. “I’m with you, Rabbi. You’ll be okay.”
The rabbi’s eyes became glassy and watery. He squeezed Moshe’s hands. Then it happened. As Myron stood over them, he watched the pained expression on the rabbi’s face melt away into one of contentment. He could even say that he witnessed a brief smile.
Could it be that there was some divine force that Myron could actually see travel through the hands of Moshe and into the passing soul of the rabbi?
Upon his last breath, the rabbi said the words that shook Myron to his core. “Moshe, you are still tzaddik.”
Chapter 23
On a Saturday afternoon, Myron met his father at Charlie’s Crab House. The place was nearly empty, as it typically was at the end of the summer season.
“Hi, Pops,” Myron said as he entered the restaurant.
“What’s going on with you? You look terrible. Are you nervous about the trial?” Solomon said.
“Wouldn’t you be? I murdered a man in front of witnesses.”
“You need to pull yourself together, Myron. There is something I need to speak with you about.”
Myron picked up the cloth napkin from the table and patted beads of sweat off his bald head and asked, “Can I get a drink first, Pops?”
“Sure, Myron,” Solomon said and signaled Ralph to bring over another scotch by holding up his tumbler.
A few minutes later Ralph came over with the drink and said, “How you doin’, Myron?”
“I’ve been better,” said Myron.
“Enjoy,” Ralph said with a forced smile and returned to the bar.
Myron quickly downed his glass of scotch in one swallow and said, “All right. What do you want to talk about, Pops?”
“While you were in Israel, I was forced into a car on my way home from Charlie’s. It was Mickey Coppola’s goons. They brought me to his home in Harlem.”
Myron’s eyes widened and his jaw fell open. “What did he want?”
“He wants a partnership.”
“Really? I’m sure you told him to fuck off,” Myron said.
“I did at first, but then I reconsidered.”
“You did? Why?” Myron asked spreading his hands out wide.
“After you killed that rabbi in Safed, I had no choice but to make a deal with Mickey. That’s how we got his lawyer to represen
t you. Hopefully, he will get you off from getting fried in the electric chair.”
Myron nodded, placed a finger on his lips and then pointed towards his father and said, “But now we owe Mickey Coppola.”
“For now we do. But I’ll give him something big as payback. Then we’ll be square.”
“But what are we going to do about the tzaddik?” Myron asked.
“Tell me, what did you see in Safed?” Solomon asked.
“After I shot the rabbi, he clutched his chest and fell to the floor in excruciating pain. Moshe just reached out, and touched him.” Myron paused and shook his head. “Pops, it was magical. The rabbi looked at Moshe in total peace. There was no more suffering. It was if Moshe allowed the rabbi’s soul to peacefully depart from his body.”
Solomon nodded, listening to his son. Even if Moshe the Cobbler was really tzaddik, Solomon still did not know how the tzaddik could be a threat to his existence. Moshe’s ability to ease the passing of the soul meant nothing to Solomon. Unless there was something else he had not yet come across. Perhaps his dreams would provide an answer.
Chapter 24
It was a sunny day, three weeks after he came home from Israel when Moshe took Leah to Orchard Beach in his 1956 seafoam green, Chevy Impala. He loved going to the beach after the hectic summer season was over.
“Sit here on the bench, Leah. I’ll go set up the chairs and blankets, and come back and get you,” Moshe said.
“Okay, Moshe, just don’t forget I’m here,” Leah yelled, as he walked along the sand toward the shoreline.
Unable to wave, since he carried two chairs, a beach bag, and an umbrella, he acknowledged her command with an exaggerated nod.
After he set up their spot, he helped Leah across the unsteady sand and into her beach chair. He sat down beside her and tried to relax. So much had happened since coming home. The first thing was the funeral for Rabbi Shapira, at the Riverdale Jewish Cemetery.