by Sam Bourne
‘Rabbi, you know Will Monroe.’
‘We’ve met.’
‘I know how strange this must seem, Rabbi Freilich, me turning up like this after all these years. I promise you, I never thought I’d come back, truly I didn’t. But Will is an old friend of mine. And he asked for my help when his wife went missing. He didn’t know about my … my background.’
She paused, to collect herself. ‘But now we know what’s going on. We’ve pieced it together. It’s taken some time and it’s not been easy but we are certain.’
Rabbi Freilich held TC’s gaze and said nothing.
‘Good men are dying. First it was Howard Macrae in Brownsville, then Pat Baxter in Montana. Then Samak Sangsuk in Bangkok. And now this British politician. Someone is killing the lamadvavniks, aren’t they, Rabbi? Someone is killing the righteous of the earth.’
‘Yes, Tova Chaya. I’m afraid they are.’
Will drew breath, a tiny gasp. He had expected a battle with Freilich, a round of game-playing as the rabbi played dumb, forcing TC and Will to produce all their evidence. But he was denying nothing. A dread thought surfaced. What if the rabbi had already realized that these two had indeed exposed his murderous plot and had therefore decided there was no alternative but to silence them? They would have walked straight into his hands! No need for the man in the baseball cap, Pugachov’s killer: Will and TC had done his job for them. How could they have been so stupid? They had not even planned a strategy for this encounter. TC had just stormed over there …
‘A plot is indeed underway to murder the thirty-six hidden just men. For some reason, this plot is taking place now, during the Ten Days of Penitence — the holiest time of the year. The killing started on Rosh Hashana and it has not stopped. Whoever is behind this must have decided that these are the judgment days, that a righteous man murdered in this period will not be instantly replaced by the birth of another. Perhaps they have seen something in our texts we never saw, the existence of a kind of limbo period between the New Year, when people are inscribed in the Book of Life, and the Day of Atonement, when the Book of Life is sealed. During these ten days maybe the world is especially vulnerable. Whatever their reasoning, they have set out to kill the lamad vav and they seem determined to do it by sunset tomorrow, by the end of Yom Kippur.’ He faltered. ‘I didn’t think anyone else would find out.’ He turned towards Will, though not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Tova Chaya was always an exceptional student. And you, you have shown admirable persistence.’
Thanks for nothing, thought Will.
‘We have known about it only for a few days. But I tremble for the world at the very thought of it. Some will say this is only a legend, only a fairy story. But it has deep roots, ones that go back to Avraham Avinu, to Abraham our father. It has endured for millennia. Whoever is doing this is gambling that the story is just a story. That it is not a true statement about the way the world has worked since the beginning of time.
But what if they are wrong? They are testing this idea to destruction. It will be the destruction of everything.’ The rabbi was drumming his fingers on the table. If he was faking anxiety, thought Will, he was doing a very good job.
‘You keep saying they,’ Will said suddenly, his confidence taking even himself aback. ‘But I’m not sure there is a they. I think there’s a you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think you do, Rabbi Freilich. So far there are no suspects in any of these cases, except you and your, your… followers.’ He knew it was the wrong word. The only leader these people followed was the man whose photograph hung on every wall. And he was dead. ‘You more or less admitted killing Samak Sangsuk to me.’ The muscle around the rabbi’s left eye gave a slight twitch. ‘And I know you are holding my wife, though what she has to do with any of this still no one has explained to me.’ On those last words, he had raised his voice, betraying an anger he could not conceal. He stopped, to bring himself back under control. ‘The only people we know have been engaged in criminal activity are you and the people who work with you.’
‘I can see how it looks.’
‘So can I. And I’m sure the police, who have you in their sights already, would get the picture very quickly if they knew half of what we know. I don’t think I need to mention Mr Pugachov, the super at TC’s, sorry, Tova Chaya’s, building, do I? Killed last night by that goon in a baseball cap you had chasing us?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on. We really can’t play these games much longer, Rabbi. Don’t you see? We know what’s going on.’
‘Will, that’s enough.’ It was TC, speaking in her normal accent.
‘I have no idea about any Mr Pugachov. And I know nothing of any man in a baseball cap.’
‘I don’t believe this. This is ridiculous! You sent a man to follow me yesterday. We saw him, we got away and the man who helped us is now lying dead in her apartment.’ He could hardly bring himself to use the name Tova Chaya again. It sounded strange enough the first time.
‘Will, please.’ TC was imploring him to stop. But he could not help himself. The pressure of the last few days had been coiled up for too long.
The rabbi’s face was tensing. ‘I promise you, I know of no man in a baseball cap. I did not send anyone to follow you. I have not lied to you. Not once. When you confronted me about the man in Bangkok, I did not deny it. I told you that a terrible mistake had occurred. When we,’ he paused for the right word, ‘met on erev shabbos — excuse me — when we met on Friday night, I even conceded that we are indeed holding your wife. I have not lied. And I am telling you the truth now: what you tell me happened in Tova Chaya’s building was nothing to do with me.’
‘So who do you think did it, then? Eh? If you didn’t kill that man, who did?’
‘I don’t know. Which should worry you infinitely more. It suggests that whoever is behind this dreadful scheme is now aware of you.’
‘Rabbi Freilich, I think you have to tell us what’s going on.’ TC was sounding like Tova Chaya again. ‘You know things, we know things. We all know time is running out. It is already the Day of Judgment. Whoever is doing this wants to finish the job before the Ten Days of Penitence are over. We don’t have time to fight each other. So far, handling this alone, what have you done? Have you stopped the killing?’
The rabbi had his head bowed, his right palm flat on his forehead. It moved up onto his scalp, tucking under his yarmulke, and back down again. Whatever TC was saying, it was striking a nerve. The man looked weighed down with worry. He muttered a barely audible ‘no’.
TC sat forward, trying to close the deal. ‘The killing is still going on. In twenty-four hours they might have killed the last of the lamadvavniks. And who knows what will happen then. You can’t do this alone. We can help you and you have to help us. You must do it. For the sake of HaShem.’
For the sake of the Name, for the sake of God himself. It was the ultimate argument, the one no believer could refuse. Was TC deploying it because she knew which buttons to press? Or was Tova Chaya speaking sincerely, genuinely fearing for the sake of the world if they did not act? Will was not sure. But if he had to guess one way or the other he would, to his great surprise, declare for the latter. For all her scepticism, for all her ten years away from Crown Heights, for all her bacon breakfasts and body piercings, she was not acting merely to find Will’s wife, nor even for the sake of the remaining righteous men. At that moment Will realized that TC was driven by nothing less than fear for the fate of the world.
‘Tova Chaya, we have so little time.’ Rabbi Freilich was looking up. He had removed his glasses, revealing a face etched in anguish. ‘We have tried everything. I don’t know what more there is you can do. But I will tell you what we know.’
Unexpectedly, he rose to his feet and made for the front door. He put on his trilby and his coat and, without another word, gestured for TC and Will to follow him.
Outside was a quiet
Will had never experienced in a city. The streets were desolate. No cars travelled because the Yom Kippur restrictions prohibited all driving. A few knots of young men walked together, wearing their prayer shawls. Even though the evening was warm and people were out together, the atmosphere was not festive. Instead Crown Heights seemed to be under a blanket of contemplation and silent thought; it was as if the whole neighbourhood was a single, roofless synagogue. Will felt grateful for his costume, so that he could move through this extraordinary atmosphere without breaking the spell.
They were, Will now understood, moving towards the synagogue. Once again, he wondered if he and TC were walking voluntarily into the wolf’s lair — with the wolf as their guide.
But they did not go inside the main entrance. Instead they entered a building next door, one that seemed entirely out of place in this neighbourhood. It looked like a redbrick annexe to an Oxford college, ancient by New York standards. Outside were crowds of men, spilling out from the lobby. They did not have to wade through the throng: people stepped out of the way the moment they recognized the rabbi. Will could see some raised eyebrows. He assumed they were directed at him, a face they did not know. But when he saw TC looking down at her feet, he understood: they were shocked to see a woman in this usually male terrain.
TC managed to whisper an explanation. They were entering the Rebbe’s house. This was the home the late leader had lived in and which had doubled as his office.
Will stared. He had been here before, forty-eight hours earlier.
Soon they had reached a staircase. The crowds were thinning now. They moved up another flight, to a corridor empty of people. Straight into his trap, thought Will.
Rabbi Freilich led them through one door, which revealed another. But he did not go in. Instead he turned around, to offer an explanation to TC.
‘I want you to know that what you are about to see is a mark of our desperation. It is a violation of Yom Kippur that has never before occurred in this building and, please God, will never happen again. We are doing it for—’
‘Pikuach nefesh.’ TC had interrupted him. ‘I know. It is a matter of saving lives.’
The rabbi nodded, grateful to TC for her understanding.
Then he turned around, breathing in sharply through his nostrils as if bracing himself for the secret he was about to reveal. Only then did Rabbi Freilich dare open the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 11.01pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn
This place, Will realized, would normally be still on such a holy evening: no lights on, no machines in use, no phones answered, no eating, no drinking. Even Will could tell that the scene before him was an act of mass sacrilege.
It looked like the control room of a police station. Perhaps a dozen people at computers, surrounded by in-trays spilling over with paper and, on a back wall, a large wipe-board, covered with names, phone numbers, addresses. Down one side, Will could see a list of names. In a quick scan, he spotted Howard Macrae and Gavin Curtis — a line through each of them.
‘No one knows about this room apart from the men working in it — and now you. We have been working in here day and night for a week. And today we lost the man who knew it best, the man who set it up.’
‘Yosef Yitzhok,’ said Will, noticing a pile of maps — one of them for Montana — and a stack of guide books, for London, for Copenhagen, for Algiers.
‘All of this was his work. And today he was murdered.’
‘Rabbi Freilich?’ It was TC. ‘Do you think you could start at the beginning?’
The rabbi led them to the front of the room, where a desk had been set out as if for a teacher to invigilate an exam.
The three of them sat around it.
‘As you know, the Rebbe in his later years spoke often about Moshiach, about the Messiah. He gave long talks at our weekly farbrengen touching on this theme. Tova Chaya will also know how we preserved those talks for posterity.’
TC took her cue. ‘Because he spoke on the sabbath, the Rebbe could not be tape-recorded or filmed. That’s not allowed. So we relied on an ancient system. In the synagogue would be three or four people chosen for their amazing memories. They would stand just a few yards away from the Rebbe, usually with their eyes closed, listening to every word, memorizing what he said. Then, the minute the sabbath was over they would gather together and kind of spew out their memories, while one of them would scribble it all down. They would get it out of their heads as quickly as they could. While they were doing it, they would check what they remembered against each other, adding a word here, correcting a word there. I can still picture it: these guys were incredible. They could listen to a three-hour speech by the Rebbe and recite it off by heart. They were called choyzers, literally “returners”. The Rebbe would say it, they would play it back. They were human tape recorders.’
‘And, Tova Chaya, do you remember who was the most brilliant choyzer of them all?’
TC’s eyes suddenly widened, as a long-buried memory came back. ‘But he was just a boy.’
‘It’s true. But he became a choyzer soon after he had reached the age of Bar Mitzvah. He was just thirteen when he began relaying the words of the Rebbe. He had a special gift.’ Freilich faced Will. ‘We are speaking about Yosef Yitzhok.’
‘He could memorize whole speeches, just like that?’
‘He always said he could not memorize whole speeches. Only the words of the Rebbe. When the Rebbe spoke, he would make himself, his own thoughts, disappear. He would try to insert himself into the mind of the Rebbe, to become an extension of him. That was his technique. No one else could do it the way he could. The Rebbe had a special affection for him.’ Rabbi Freilich rolled back into his seat, his eyes closed. Will could only guess, but this grief looked genuine.
‘As I said, in the last few years, the Rebbe began to speak more and more about Moshiach. Telling us to prepare for the coming of Messiah, reminding us that Messiah was a central belief in Judaism. That it was not some abstract, remote point of theology but that it was real. He wanted us to believe it, that Moshiach could be with us in the here and now.
‘No one knew this teaching of the Rebbe’s better than Yosef Yitzhok. He heard it week after week. But it was more than hearing. It was absorbing. He was ingesting this material, taking it into himself. And then, in the last days of the Rebbe, Yosef Yitzhok — who was a brilliant scholar in his own right noticed something.
‘He thought back to all the talks the Rebbe had given on the theme of the Messianic age and he discerned a pattern.
Very often the Rebbe would quote a pasuk—’
‘A verse.’
‘Thank you, Tova Chaya. Yes, the Rebbe would quote a verse from Deuteronomy. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof.’
‘Justice, justice shall you pursue,’ TC murmured.
‘The English translation the books give is, “Follow justice and justice alone, so that you may live and possess the land the Lord your God is giving you”. But it was that word, tzedek, that caught Yosef Yitzhok’s attention. To use it so often, and always in the same context. It was as if the Rebbe was reminding us of something.’
‘He wanted you to remember the tzaddikim. The righteous men.’
‘That’s what Yosef Yitzhok thought. So he went back through the texts, examining them intensely. And that’s how he saw something else, something even more intriguing.’
Will leaned forward, his eyes boring into the rabbi’s.
In close proximity to the quotation — tzedek, tzedek tirdof — he would offer another quotation. Not the same one every time, but from the same two sources. Either he would cite the Book of Proverbs—’
‘Chapter ten?’
‘Yes, Mr Monroe. Chapter ten. That’s right. You knew all this already?’
‘Think of it as an informed guess. Don’t let me interrupt you; please, continue.’
‘Well, as you say, the Rebbe would either quote a verse from Proverbs, Chapter 10, or he would quote from the prophets. Specifically
, Isaiah, Chapter 30. Now that got Yosef Yitzhok very excited. Because kabbalists know one important thing about Isaiah, Chapter 30, Verse 18. It ends with the word lo, the Hebrew for “for him”. The full phrase is “blessed are all they who wait for Him”. But the real significance of the word—’
‘—is the way it is spelled.’
‘Tova Chaya has beaten me to it. The word lo is made up of two characters, Mr Monroe. Lamad and vav. It spells thirty six. Now the Rebbe was a careful speaker. He did not say things by accident. He did not pull quotations out of the air. Yosef Yitzhok was convinced there was a deliberate intent.’
‘So he went through every transcript. And, sure enough, the Rebbe spoke of tzedek, followed immediately by a verse from one of those two chapters, thirty-five times. By that method, he left us with thirty-five different verses.’
‘But—’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Monroe, and you are right. There are thirty-six righteous men. We’ll come to that. For the moment, Yosef Yitzhok has thirty-five verses, staring at him from the page. He wonders what they could mean. And then he remembers the stories that children like him and like you, Tova Chaya, were raised on. Stories of the founder of Hassidism, the Baal Shem Tov; stories of Rabbi Leib Sorres.’
Then of such greatness, they were privileged to know the whereabouts of the righteous men.’ Will looked at Tova Chaya as she spoke: she had, he was sure, worked it all out.
‘Exactly. Few men knew the mind of the Rebbe as intimately as Yosef Yitzhok, and he also knew the Rebbe’s worth. He knew that he was one of the great men of Hassidic history. Some of the very greatest had been let in on this divine secret. It was not absurd to imagine the Rebbe would be one of them.’
‘So Yosef Yitzhok reckoned the Rebbe knew who the thirty six were. And he goes further: he thinks these thirty-five verses he quoted are clues to their identity?’
