The Seventh Gate

by Richard Zimler

  He rises up on the balls of his feet as the marchers file past us, waving to an occasional friend, radiating optimism. So young and eager Papa was—only thirty-four. “It’s a wonderful thing to see so many Germans coming together for better working conditions,” he tells me.

  Rini looks at Papa skeptically and says, “But the march ought to be divided in two.”

  “Just this once it can’t do any harm,” Papa remarks, and he goes on to quote Marx on proper tactics for change, which may—under certain circumstances—even involve strategic deals with the enemy.

  Or the devil, I can see Rini thinking. The way she makes my father defend himself—and reveal the bloody fangs hiding behind all his lovely Marxist theory—embarrasses me. Can’t she stop being a Jew for even a minute, I think. Another small slide …

  Papa bumps into acquaintances from high school and university whenever we’re in a crowd and today is no exception. At such times, Berlin gives the impression of being the world’s largest village. The second old friend he greets that afternoon makes my father so excited that he jiggles his hands as though he needs to pee.

  “Sophie, this is Alfred Weidt!” he says gleefully. To my uncomprehending stare at the corpulent little man’s bespectacled face, he adds, “Our star gymnast!”

  “Of course!” I exclaim, but I learn that my love for my father has not prevented me from forgetting Alfred.

  Rini and I shake the former star’s hand. His mountainous belly is padded with all the bratwurst and potatoes he’s eaten since graduation and he’s wearing a swastika armband. Rini and I look at each other out of the corner of our eyes.

  “Alfred was the only one of us who could do an Iron Cross on the rings,” Papa informs us, his voice deepened by pride.

  I’d like to see him try now! I think nastily, but Rini gushes, “How wonderful!”

  No matter how she overdramatizes, she always remains believable. A natural gift.

  “What are you doing with yourself these days?” Papa asks Mr Weidt.

  “I took over my father’s construction firm. And I’m organizing for the Nazi Party.”

  One piece of information too many, but Papa vaults over it expertly. “Are you married?” he asks.

  “Yes, with two boys, Otto and Ludwig. Would you like to see their photographs?”

  Without waiting for Papa’s reply, which would be positive in any case, Mr Weidt reaches into his coat pocket for his wallet. It’s black leather and monogrammed with his initials in gold Gothic lettering. Otto and Ludwig are handsome, of course, and Papa says so. Does he see a sumptuous dinner with his old friend in the palm court of the Adlon Hotel in his future? Maybe he hears my mother saying, Pass the caviar, Freddi. And give me a little more French champagne …

  Rini says the two brats look decidedly intelligent, too. “Like little Einsteins,” she adds, to irritate Mr Weidt, since our most famous scientist is Jewish.

  The former standout gymnast does some vaulting of his own, smiling sweetly at Rini, and then engages Papa in talk of old classmates.

  Whispering in my ear, Rini says, “Soficka, if I ever show you my kids’ photos, promise me you’ll take scissors to them.”

  Many times in years since, I’ve remembered the feel of my best friend leaning against me, her hand squeezing my shoulder. It’s as if she were trying to tell me—in between her words—to not give up on her no matter what, because we are soul mates.

  Before rushing off to what he calls “pressing matters,” Mr Weidt offers us swastika armbands from his leather case.

  “Go ahead!” Papa says, as if I’m being rude for hesitating.

  Rini and I take our gifts, and we thank Mr Weidt. Once he’s gone, I ask my father what we should do with the armbands, and he replies, “We’ll throw them out on the way home.”

  “I’m burning mine and dumping the ashes in the Spree,” Rini tells us, dangling hers in the air as if it’s a big insect.

  “Why did we accept them?” I ask Papa.

  “Alfred is an important man. His father’s firm is huge. And besides, he’s a good friend.”

  When I spot Rini’s disappointment for Papa calling him a good friend, I feel a tingle in my gut that means the Semitic wall between us has now added several more rows of bricks.

  That night, I draw Hansi while Papa reads to him in bed, and as I’m shading my brother’s mouth, I see how constricted it is with silence. It’s been sealed in some higher world, I think, but by whom—and how—I haven’t a clue. Papa leaves the light on after he kisses us goodnight so that I can continue to draw my brother. The boy doesn’t mind. He just shuts his eyes and slips silently into his dreams, which are never very far away.

  Sometime later, I place my sketchbook under my pillow and ease down on his bed behind him, and I watch the rise and fall of his breathing as if it’s symbolic of time passing between us, of all we have experienced together, and he seems so much a part of me that I know I’ll never be able to live without him. When I comb my brother’s short blond hair he doesn’t stir. He knows I’m watching over him. A big sister as a tender-eyed sun, high in the sky over the Hansi Universe. That must be why he puts up with me when I’m so mean.

  And then a revelation: maybe wanting to help my little brother to speak freely about his inner world is the reason I first picked up a pencil and started to make sketches all those years ago. Perhaps it was my way of creating an intimacy between us that would convince him to trust me.

  The next morning, I tell Mr Zarco about the distance coming between Rini and me.

  “First, you’re supposed to call me Isaac,” he reminds me, his finger wagging. “Second, now that the Jews are under threat, she is going to test you from time to time, and you’re going to have to be patient with her. And fierce as a dragon in her defense!”

  “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” I ask.

  “Because you are alive, meine Liebe.”

  What a stupid reply! I think, and I must give away my feelings, because he says, “Sip your coffee, and if you stop thinking I’m a Dummkopf, I might tell you about the Seven Gates …” Sitting up straight, he clasps his hands together. “Have you ever wondered where you were before you were born? According to Jewish tradition, you were far away, in the most distant of the Seven Heavens. This world is called Araboth in Hebrew, and it is where our souls reside before our birth and after death.”

  “What’s it like there?” I ask, intrigued.

  “I’ve never managed to sneak inside. Two powerful archons guard the gate and have always blocked my way.”

  “Who are the archons?”

  “Angelic gatekeepers. Professional nudniks, nuisances, and not at all friendly to tailors from Berlin.” He raises a fist over his head as if he’s the hero in a Schiller play. “They will fight to the death to prevent any of us from entering their territory. To convince them to allow us inside, we have to speak a magic formula of sorts. And each of the Seven Heavens requires a different one.”

  “How do you get to Araboth in the first place?”

  He leans across and presses his index finger to the center of my forehead. “You fly there inside your prayers.” Sitting back, he adds, “The other day, when you came over, I’d been praying all night. And I managed to get through the first six gates, but the archons stopped me at the Seventh Gate because I didn’t have the right formula. It’s a good thing you came, because they might have subdued me. You stirred me from my prayers just in time.” He gives me an admiring look. “You have good timing, Sophele, and that’s a real gift.”

  “But why did you want to pass through the gate if it’s so dangerous?”

  “Araboth is also the heaven of prophecy. Anyone who ascends into it may see the future and even ask for a wish from the Lord. And He will grant it.” Understanding my unspoken request, he grins. “So, you want to know my wish? I’ll let you know it if you never reveal it to anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  He moves his chair around the table so that we�
��re close together and whispers into my ear, “I’d like the Lord to repair what has been broken here in our world—especially in Germany.” Leaning back and speaking in his natural voice, he adds, “Imagine a stained-glass window that grows larger and more beautiful with each passing year. And that the window has living figures in it—us! Everything alive is inside in the glass, including you and me, and all the animals and trees. And everything glows ruby-red, blue, and green with the light that creates life and keeps us from death—God’s light. But the window has recently become damaged. I can see many cracks. They need to be repaired before it starts to shatter.”

  “So where will you find the magic formula to get into Araboth?”

  “Excellent question, Sophele. I’ve been looking in mystical books written by an ancestor of mine named Berekiah Zarco. I pray very hard and I read, and I look for the right incantation.”

  I recite for him the poem that K-H had sent me with his photographs from the Carnival Party: Slumb’ring deep in everything, Dreams a song as yet unheard, And the world begins to sing, If you find the magic word.

  “Where did you learn that?” Mr Zarco asks, surprised and pleased.

  “Karl-Heinz the photographer sent it to me.”

  “Good for him! And anyone can see you’ve already begun to hear a different sort of music—one that isn’t for children.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re becoming a woman, which means your body is listening to a very powerful song. Sophele, even in Araboth, there is a music of a sort that you may someday be able to hear if you are quiet enough—and when you are a bit older.”

  “How much older?”

  “Why be in such a rush? A lifetime of good things awaits you!”

  “If you don’t make it to Araboth in your prayers, is there any other way you can have your wish granted by God?”

  “Yes, there may be one other way.”

  “By … by dying, and having your soul ask after you’re dead?” I question, chilled by the image.

  “Sophele, this is not about dybbuks or lezim.”

  “What are they?”

  “Ghosts and poltergeists.”

  “But you said Araboth is the place of the dead.”

  “It’s the place for our souls, which do not die!”

  He shuffles off to his sitting room, comes back with an old leather-bound book, and pages through it until he finds what he wants. The writing is Hebrew. I stand up to get a better look. Pointing to the top of the page, he reads, “‘We consecrated the gate in Paris on the fifteenth day of the month of Shevat, just before the eating of the fruit.’”

  “What’s it mean?” I ask.

  “A powerful kabbalist named Simon of Troyes consecrated a gate in Paris in 1342, during the holiday of Tu Bishvat, when Jews celebrate the Tree of Life. Down here,” he says, pointing to the bottom of the page, “it’s written that the gate in question is the left entrance to Notre Dame, where Adam and Eve are sculpted. The creation of the first man and woman is appropriate for the First Gate, after all. Now, if a righteous person walks through this entranceway during Tu Bishvat, with his or her heart and mind focused on the Lord, that individual will ascend immediately to the First Heaven. He need not speak any magic formula to the archons. Though he must be prepared with study for many weeks.” Isaac closes his book and looks up at me cagily.

  “But does it work?” I enquire.

  “Absolutely!” he declares.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve walked through the gate.”

  “The one in Notre Dame in Paris?”

  “Oui, ma chérie,” he says, overdoing a French accent for the comic effect.

  “Quand?”

  “Sophele, it’s getting late, and I think we’ve just used up all our French.” He stands up and stretches his arms over his head. “I’ll tell you about my travels some other time.”

  “But I want to hear about them now! You can’t just stop in the middle.”

  “I think God will forgive me—just this once—for disappointing you. Now, before you go, tell me if you’ve been able to find out anything about how our faces might look in a higher world.”

  I describe my feelings while sketching Hansi the night before. He reaches for his pipe, plainly intrigued. While inspecting the bowl he asks, “So you think his mouth may have been sealed?”

  “Why else would he have so much trouble talking to us?”

  Fetching a pipe cleaner from a drawer, he asks, “And you think that your sketching his portrait on occasion may be helping … helping to free him?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Now that’s something I need to think about. Alone,” he adds, holding up his hand.

  At the door, fear quickens my pulse. “Be very careful next time you reach the Seventh Gate,” I say. “After all, my timing may not always be so good.”

  He agrees, obviously gratified by my concern.

  I speak as if it’s a real place. Maybe I’m losing my mind, too.

  THE SECOND GATE

  Two is the seer and the seen, the speaker and the listener, the troubadour and the song.

  The second gate is selfhood and the instant of separation. Beyond its threshold lies Rakia, the Second Heaven, the temple of the stars, sun, and moon.

  Two are good and evil, inside and outside, grief and joy, Mordechai and Esther. Two is the story spoken and heard.

  But if they are not convinced even by these two signs and will not accept what you say, then fetch some water from the Nile and pour it upon the dry land; and the water that you take from the river shall turn to blood —Exodus 4.

  Berekiah Zarco, The Book of Selfhood

  Chapter Six

  Over the next weeks, I learn about Jewish tradition and lore during my early morning talks with Isaac. He speaks to me of fire-hurling archons, angelic scribes, and disembodied souls wandering the earth in misery—beings who seem to have been slumbering inside my imagination for years, ready for someone to nudge them awake.

  When I tell him that, he says, “All the myths ever written are inside you—Adam and Eve, Noah and his Ark … If they weren’t, then all those ancient tales would simply shed their meaning, dry up and turn to dust.”

  On a day when I’m overwhelmed by all his crazy notions, he tells me that when I get confused I should remember that all important lessons are written on glass. Especially those in the Torah. “You have to look below the surface for the deeper meanings that are inscribed on a lower level, sometimes in the faintest ink.”

  “But why doesn’t the Torah make the deeper meanings easier to read?”

  “Would you want to give up your secrets easily? No, you’d give them up only to people you trusted.”

  “So who does the Torah trust?”

  “Those who want to understand, Sophele, and who work at it—those who look in a mirror and who want to understand the mystery reflected back at them.” Munching on some leftover challah bread, he adds, “And another secret I’ll tell you is that the whole world around us is just like the Torah. We interpret everything we do and see. It’s how we make sense of the world. And the greater your experience and more sensitive your mind, the more truthful and wondrous your interpretations will be.”

  Isaac and I always talk at his kitchen table, accompanied by the hissing of his old ivory-colored porcelain stove and its well-appreciated heat. One morning, after he’s given me my first lessons in the Hebrew alphabet, he takes away our coffee cups to prevent spills and puts down an old leather case in front of me.

  “Open it,” he says.

  I find vellum manuscripts bound together with fraying string, the topmost illustrated with a proud peacock whose magnificent blue and green tail is falling luxuriously over a Hebrew title scripted in brilliant gold.

  Undoing the bow, he hands it to me with a generous smile. The manuscript feels as though it’s pulsing with life, probably because I’m so nervous. And its gold letters are so large and polished that I can see mysel
f in them.

  “The author wanted each reader to see himself in this book,” Isaac explains. “To be a part of it, in a way.”

  “Is it a book of magic?”

  “No, it’s the story of a young man and his family. His name was Berekiah Zarco. He was an ancestor of mine and he wrote this in the sixteenth century. He was a kabbalist from Lisbon. The last one, as it turned out.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He moved to Istanbul after surviving a pogrom in Lisbon in 1506.”

  “So your ancestors are from Portugal and Turkey?”

  “On my father’s side. On my mother’s, they’re Germans.”

  “Can you speak Portuguese?”

  “Claro, mas falo melhor uma forma medieval ue se chama judeo-português ou ladino.” It’s the first time I hear the gnashing of Portuguese. “What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “I said, ‘Of course, but I speak a medieval form called Judeo-Portuguese or Ladino better.’ In exile, the Portuguese my ancestors spoke got mixed with medieval Spanish of other Jews. It became a tsimmis, a big jumble.”

  “Say something I’ll always remember … written below the surface of the glass.”

  He touches his pipe stem to his cheek, pensive, then sits up straight and closes his eyes. Isaac is a sorcerer posing as a tailor, I think, and not for the last time.

  “Abençoados sejam os que são um auto-retrato de Deus,” he replies.

  “So what’s that mean?” I ask.

  “It’s the very last line in the manuscript you’re holding. ‘Blessed are all of God’s self-portraits.’”

  “God painted Himself?”

  He laughs contentedly. “In a way of speaking, though the Torah says it differently. It says we were all created in God’s image—all self-portraits. And the animals and plants, too. The same laws of creation that determine how you walk and talk also determine the color of a pelargonium blossom, even the spiral arms of the Milky Way. And I’ll tell you something only a few people know …” he whispers. “The only way we can get any idea of what the Lord is like is by looking at ourselves and all the things around us. By listening, touching … by experiencing the world. You know what my papa used to tell me? ‘The only eyes and ears God has are our own!’”