The Devil in Jerusalem

by Naomi Ragen

  “But God is merciful. That is why He has seen fit to give us this great blessing of financial security, so that we can return to doing the good we came here to do, so that I can bless our family by studying the holy texts, thereby bringing blessing upon us and our children. I promise, Daniella, this time, I won’t fail.”

  She nodded, handing him the baby and kneading the dough with both hands. She had no time to devote to philosophy. She had five small children to care for. All she wanted was for her husband to drag himself out of bed and help her.

  She wasn’t disappointed. His revelation banished the dark clouds that had kept him immobilized. He baby-sat, read to the children and played with them, giving them their nightly baths and helping them into their pajamas. He even helped out with the shopping, going to the shuk twice a week to bring back fresh fruits and vegetables.

  But his main job—and that to which he devoted the majority of his time and energy—was seeking out exactly the right framework within which he could devote himself full-time to learning Torah. There were no shortages of such places in the Holy City of Jerusalem. As part of his exploration, he went to lectures of various kinds at a diverse range of institutions and with private study groups. Some took place in modern buildings and were given by beardless, Orthodox teachers who wore knitted skullcaps—places where students came in the evening after working full-time at well-paid jobs or studying for higher degrees in the university. Others, in contrast, were informal study groups that met in run-down synagogue buildings near the shuk or in the cramped living rooms of private homes, everyone crowded around dining room tables with hardly space to move. Those attending were an eclectic group of born-again Jews in various states of Hassidic dress, people who had part-time, low-paying jobs or no jobs at all.

  He quickly decided that the formal, collegiate settings in Modern Orthodox institutions were not for him. “I feel it’s too dry, too rote. There is nothing there that touches my soul,” he explained to Daniella. In truth, he found his educational background totally inadequate to meet the high levels of scholarship demanded at such places, and his fellow students intimidatingly clever and successful.

  And so he narrowed his searches to the private study groups. Eventually, he found himself wandering the mysterious, winding alleyways of the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, whose crowded homes were always bathed in shadows. There, behind the ancient Old City walls, he found a plethora of groups that met behind closed doors to study everything from the Talmud to esoteric, sometimes forbidden books of Jewish mysticism.

  At first, he studied Talmud. But before long, he was lured by his new friends and acquaintances to less intellectually rigorous and demanding pursuits. It was the kabbalah that entranced him most, with its promise of personal communion with God through mystical formulas.

  “Most people live their lives like ants, pushed along by their bodily urges, their lusts. The holy kabbalah seeks to raise us up, to put us in control, so that we can be like Him. It’s amazing, isn’t it, that we, little ants, pieces of dust, who live on this earth for such a short time, running after food and sex and good times, who wither and die, can approach the everlasting, all-powerful God of Creation?”

  The words, spoken by Reb Amos, a shaggy-haired blond guru with the large, white knitted cap of Breslov Hassidim, fascinated him. Amos was treated like a king by his followers, who stood up in awe of him when he entered and waited for his permission to sit back down. Yes, Shlomie thought, drinking in the words deeply. This is the truth I have been seeking!

  Not all the students felt as Shlomie did. “What does it matter what we do then?” a student boldly challenged. “Why should we try to be like God if we are ants? Why can’t we just enjoy being what God made us?”

  Shlomie was shocked at the insolence. But Reb Amos was patient. “Because those who reach godliness never die. Their souls are eternal. Think of that! We have the potential for eternal life! Everyone, if they are honest, knows this is true, feels this is true.”

  “I’ve never felt it,” challenged the same young man.

  “Where is your will? Have you ever felt your will?” Reb Amos asked with a gentle smile.

  The young man’s arrogance faded. He looked confused.

  “Call it God or nature, all Creation wants to give, and we want to receive. ‘Kabbalah’ means to receive. If you don’t feel that inside yourself, it’s because that part of you is dormant. The purpose of our existence is to awaken that knowledge, to begin our journey back to the light that created us. Everyone and everything is part of God. And so when you eat, if you remember to bless God for your food before and after, if you remember that the food is simply there to nourish you as a servant of God, even the food you put into your mouth becomes elevated: the wheat that is ground into flour, the truck driver who brings the bags to the grocery store, the person who puts it on the shelves—all of them are elevated.”

  “How do I know any of this is true?” another young man asked.

  “I suspect you already know it’s true—you feel it, don’t you?”

  The young man sat down. He said nothing.

  Shlomie stared at Reb Amos. Yes, his heart was telling him: This is the truth! His mind didn’t yet understand it, but his heart was one with this amazing revelation.

  He became a regular, abandoning all his other studies. He’d found what he was looking for.

  “Your life is a mission. If you follow your heart, you will be directed to the divine sparks that belong uniquely to your soul, and for which your soul has returned to the world again and again to gather.”

  Shlomie was entranced by the poetry of the words, by the intent, by the glorious purpose that was the stated ideal. He tried, clumsily, to transfer this enthusiasm to his wife.

  “It’s a way to reach God, face-to-face, like Moses!” he told her. “To be pure and good!”

  “Yes, but what does it mean, really, Shlomie? What are you supposed to do? How are you supposed to live?”

  “I haven’t figured that part out yet,” he said honestly. “I’m trying to understand. The ideas are very deep. It will take time.”

  More and more he attached himself to the learning group, so that he was gone almost every evening.

  “You’re never home,” she finally complained to him. “I never see you anymore.”

  “Why don’t you come, too, Daniella? They have classes for women. You’re so smart. You’ll understand it quicker than me.”

  “I can’t get out in the evening—you know that.”

  “I was thinking of maybe inviting Reb Amos to give his lectures at our house.”

  She hesitated. At least she would see her husband more often. More than that, she could stay abreast of the kinds of things he was learning. Now she felt left out.

  “It’s fine with me, Shlomie. Would he really come?”

  “Why not?”

  It turned out that Reb Amos was not only willing but eager to come, especially when he heard the address, which was in the most expensive area of the city, Rechavia. Soon enough, he and his students began to visit regularly, eating the elaborate buffet Daniella prepared for them, which she and Amalya served.

  Sitting in the kitchen folding laundry, Daniella listened, trying to unravel the meaning of the esoteric phrases that peppered Reb Amos’s lectures. Almost against her will, the constant instruction began to seep inside her consciousness. She felt herself less skeptical and more accepting. She told herself that her rational, scientific mind was growing, expanding beyond its narrow confines, just as Amos said it would, the new ideas dwarfing what she had believed before. Slowly, it took over her reality. She hardly noticed.

  17

  “Goodman, you have a visitor.”

  Daniella looked up, surprised. So far, not a single person had come to see her in jail. Perhaps … was it? Could it be Him?

  She jumped up, adjusting her head covering and smoothing down her skirt as she followed the prison guard to the visiting room.

  He was sitting th
ere at the table, his eyes cast down.

  “Joel.”

  He looked up, their eyes a reflection of each other’s, eyes awash in misery. “Daniella.”

  She took a step backward, turning to the guard. “Do I have to?”

  “Daniella, please. I’ve come all the way from America. Please sit down,” Joel pleaded.

  She hesitated. “Was it Mom? Did she send you?”

  For a moment, he considered taking the first cab back to the airport.

  “Of course not! What’s wrong with you?”

  She looked down, ashamed. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “I’m here because your children are suffering. I’m here because they’re my nieces and nephews, and I love them. I’m here because you’re my sister, and whatever has happened to you or whatever you’ve done, I love you.”

  The resistance holding her body stiff and upright seemed to vanish. She stumbled to the chair, sitting down heavily opposite her brother.

  “I’m in terrible trouble, Joel.”

  “I know that. The police called me and told me everything.”

  “They called you in America?”

  He nodded. “I can’t tell you the horrible shock of this on the whole family. Dad is ill, really ill. And Mom, well, she’s almost catatonic over it. Refuses to attend any social gatherings. Won’t even go into the store.”

  Daniella twisted her lips into an ironic grin.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I think Mom finally got what she deserved after all her attempts to produce the perfect daughter.”

  He leaned back, away from her. “I don’t think you have the slightest idea what you’ve done. You need help, a good psychiatrist. But before that, you need a lawyer, the best one around. I have some colleagues who recommended a few here in Jerusalem. I’ve been to see them. Not all of them are willing to take your case—”

  “A lawyer turning down a fat fee? What?”

  “I’m a lawyer, Daniella. And I can tell you that no amount of money in the world would induce me to defend a child abuser.”

  “I didn’t hurt my children! It’s all lies!”

  “Then why is Menchie in a coma? Why is Eli going into his fifth skin graft operation? Why are the rest of your kids hysterical?” he said in his best prosecuting-attorney voice. He could see that each question landed like a blow on her head. He paused. “Look, I’m not leaving, even if you throw me out. If you don’t care anymore about your kids, I do. And Mom and Dad do. I’m coming to Israel with my family. I’m going to take in the kids and care for them. I’m going to get you a lawyer, the best one available. We are going to get through this as a family, with or without your permission, Daniella. I’m not expecting any thanks.”

  “Thanks? You want me to thank you for barging into my life when you’re not wanted? I have all the help I need. I have God. I have angels. You’ll never understand.”

  He shrugged. “All you have, Daniella, is a screw loose. I don’t know how it happened, and frankly, at this point, I don’t give a damn. While you’re in la-la land, I’m going to be there for the kids, since you and your ex obviously aren’t.”

  “You can’t take my children from me without my permission.”

  “Where do you think your kids are now, Daniella? Who do you imagine is caring for them while you are sitting in jail with whores and drug dealers, and Shlomie has been forbidden to go near them?”

  For the very first time, she thought about that, realizing she had no idea. She had somehow magically assumed Shem Tov, Ruth, or the tzaddikim would be caring for them.

  “Social workers have divided them up among foster homes. Strangers are caring for them, or trying to. It isn’t easy. They are all on the verge of nervous breakdowns. Your wonderful kids…”

  She put her hands over her ears, his words unwelcome, confusing, rattling her surety and confidence, in the same way as her cellmates’ abuse and name-calling.

  He got up to go.

  Suddenly, she leaned forward, grabbing a handful of the material of his jacket and clutching it. “Joel,” she said.

  He waited, staring at her the way he would a stranger.

  “I’m … sorry.”

  “Tell that to your kids, Daniella. Tell that to your kids.”

  18

  Bina Tzedek raced through the city streets of Ashdod, speeding down the highway back to Jerusalem. At the entrance to the city, her phone rang again.

  “I’m almost there, Morris.”

  “Don’t come to headquarters. Meet me in Rechavia.” He gave her the address. “Don’t ask any questions.”

  When she arrived, the door to the building was locked. She pressed the buzzer.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Detective Tzedek.”

  Morris buzzed her in. He grabbed her by both shoulders. “Finally!”

  She was startled. She’d never seen him like this before. “What’s up?”

  “The White Witch’s brother, Joel, has come in from the States with his family. He’s rented an apartment and taken in Eli. The child has told him things—”

  “What kind of things?”

  He shrugged. “Child Protective Services has sent their senior child interviewer, Johnny Mann. I’ve worked with him before. He’s amazing.”

  “So what am I doing here?”

  “You’re a mom, right? I want your take.”

  “How is the child?”

  “The hospital released him a few days ago. He needs to rest before undergoing another skin graft. Social services thought it would be good for him to be with the uncle.”

  “What’s your take on him?” He was, after all, Daniella Goodman’s brother. Didn’t pathologies run in families?

  “Honestly, from my first impression, he seems like a good guy: deeply concerned and anxious to do all he can to help his sister’s children, even though they haven’t been in touch for years. Yesterday, he called Johnny. Said the kid is starting to open up and talk. He wanted Johnny to record it. He wants whoever did this behind bars as much as we do.”

  “What has the child been saying until now?”

  “Not much. Some story about a blanket catching fire and his mother and the tzaddikim saving him. You can tell he’s been spoon-fed every single word.”

  “Will he talk if we’re there?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  Joel was sitting on the couch with Eli in his lap. Johnny Mann was sitting next to them, joking with the child, who was laughing. Joel got up and extended his hand to Bina and Morris. He wore a T-shirt with the words THE PURE AND SIMPLE TRUTH IS RARELY PURE AND NEVER SIMPLE over washed-out jeans that looked like the real thing. On his head he wore a backward Yankees baseball cap, a head covering that gave nothing away about his religious affiliation or lack of it.

  “Hi, Eli. What’s up?” Bina said, smiling as she crouched down so that her face was level with his.

  To her surprise, he smiled back, his sweet young face alive and curious, so different from the half-dead robot she’d seen in the hospital video. “I’m good,” he said, nodding, “with my uncle Joel.” The man’s hands tightened around him, pulling him closer. He kissed the child on the top of the head. “He’s watching me now.”

  “Who was watching you before?”

  His little face suddenly clouded over. “The tzaddikim and the Moshiach.”

  Bina felt a chill. The saints and the Messiah.

  “You know, Eli, this is the first time Bina has met you. Can you tell her about yourself?” Johnny asked the child in Hebrew with a slight American accent.

  The child nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Tell her your name.”

  “Eliahu Goodman, but they call me Eli. He went to heaven in a carriage with horses.”

  Morris and Johnny looked at him, puzzled.

  “You mean Eliahu the prophet, right?” Bina asked, smiling.

  The child nodded, delighted.

  Johnny gave her an I-owe-you-one smile.
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  “And how old are you?” Johnny continued.

  “Four years old and almost a half.”

  “I see you’re wearing blue pajamas today. What would you say to someone who said you were wearing red pajamas?” Johnny continued.

  The little boy giggled. “They’re stupid!”

  Johnny smiled, touching him lightly. “Yes, that’s true. And what would you say about a boy who broke his sister’s doll and said his sister did it?”

  “He’s making up stories!”

  “Very good! You’re such a smart boy. And what if I said there’s an elephant sitting on my lap?”

  The child laughed louder. “You’re telling funny stories!”

  “Right! It wouldn’t be the truth, would it?”

  He shook his head.

  “You know the difference between the truth and a lie?”

  He nodded, his face suddenly serious.

  “Eli, we heard that something happened to you. Can you tell us about it?”

  He snuggled closer to his uncle. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know or you don’t want to talk about it? It’s fine if you don’t. No one here will be upset if you don’t. Did you like it, what happened to you?”

  He shook his head violently.

  “Eli, how did you get those burns on your legs?”

  “It was Menchie. Menchie pushed me into the heater … no … we were playing, running, I fell into it, by accident.…”

  “And that boo-boo on your forehead? How did you get that?”

  “Menchie put a nail on my head and hit it with a hammer.”

  “Eli, you are such a good little boy; everybody knows that.”

  The child looked up, as if surprised to hear this.

  “But this story you are telling me, honey, it’s a funny story, right?” Johnny smiled at him. “And it’s okay to tell funny stories. Stories are fun to make up, I know, like the story about the elephant on my lap. But we really need to know the truth about what happened. Can you try to remember?”

  The child’s chin met his shoulder. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “Eli, has anyone ever asked you to keep this a secret?”