The Devil in Jerusalem

by Naomi Ragen

  He shrugged helplessly. “But what can I do? If it is ordained…?”

  She looked into her husband’s frightened eyes, but they refused to meet hers. He was going to be no help at all in this, she realized, disgusted. He was going to go along with all of it, unless he became convinced his mentor was a charlatan. She felt helpless. “Shlomie, you have to investigate. You have to find someone to tell us what we must do!”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I will.” His voice trembled.

  They lived in a state of suspended animation, not really living even as outwardly they made an effort for the sake of the children to seem as if they were going on with their normal lives, while all the time this horror hung over them. It was like that Edgar Allan Poe story, Daniella thought,“The Pit and the Pendulum.” They were flattened against the bottom of a hole as a sharp blade swung over them, getting lower and lower as they crouched in the darkness, wondering how to stop it, how to escape.

  Both of them understood it wasn’t from Reb Amos they needed to run. If what he was saying was truly ordained, then there was no escape. Their fate would follow them, no matter what. The only question was whether or not he had truly gotten this information from God—if God, or the angels, had spoken to him, and if the remedy he offered was truly the only way out for them.

  Shlomie spent his days feverishly discussing this with everyone he knew that was a student or master of the hidden wisdom. And one name came up again and again and again. Reb Menachem Shem Tov. People whispered it with a kind of adoration mixed with awe and fear that bordered on worship. He was young, but everyone had heard the stories about him. He was a genuine, undisputed Master of the Good Name, with particular expertise in practical kabbalah. Stories of his wondrous deeds flowed in abundance from the astonished lips of those who whispered into Shlomie Goodman’s ears.

  But he was hard to approach, they warned him. He chose you, not the other way around. You couldn’t just walk into one of his classes. And he deliberately kept his Hassidim to a minimum. Unlike other masters, he refused to have a court of hundreds. He had perhaps ten followers at any given time, even less.

  “But I’m desperate. Isn’t there a way?” he pleaded with those same friends.

  “He goes to pray with his Hassidim at the Tomb of Samuel the Prophet at midnight every Thursday. You must be there. See if you can talk to one of his Hassidim. They might be able to arrange a meeting.” Shlomie thanked them profusely.

  He didn’t tell Daniella, only hinting that they might have an answer soon. The worry and tension were bringing them both close to the breaking point. They couldn’t go on much longer like this, they realized, frightened. Without telling his wife anything, the following Thursday, Shlomie drove out to Ramot in northern Jerusalem, turning off the highway to where an unpaved road led to the Tomb of Samuel the Prophet. A former mosque, it was still the highest spot in the entire area, considered a landmark for nineteenth-century wayfarers, a place where they might view the Holy City of Jerusalem in its entirety.

  The time was close to midnight. It was pitch-black, with only a ribbon of faint light coming from the headlights of random cars moving down the faraway Jerusalem–Tel Aviv highway and the single lightbulb illuminating the tomb itself.

  Shlomie kept walking. While he saw no one, he had the strange sense that he was being followed. He kept looking over his shoulder, listening to the rustle of the branches swaying in the wind. He felt surrounded by spirits, both good and evil. Finally, a shaft of moonlight escaped from a thick cloud, revealing a group of black-garbed Hassidim in the forest. As he drew closer, he heard them howling in prayer at the moon, shaking their bodies in ecstasy. Noticing him, one of them detached himself from the group, walking toward him.

  “Who are you and what do you want, brother?” he asked belligerently.

  Shlomie took a step back. “I’m seeking godly advice and solace from Rebbe Shem Tov. I have heard wondrous things about him, brother.”

  The stranger nodded. “Come.”

  Shlomie blended into the group, taking out his prayer book and silently reciting psalms. But he could not concentrate. He had never in his life heard people pray this way. It was as if they were liquefying their hearts and stomachs and pouring them out in words. Their cries shattered the indifferent face of the night. He felt pure elation, as if the silent mystery of heaven had been slashed wide open, allowing him to enter. His eyes closed as he began to shout the words, letting all his fear, pain, and frustration drain like pus from his soul. He thought: They will think I’m a madman. But when finally he opened his eyes, he saw everyone smiling at him, nodding in approval.

  “Reb Menachem has heard your prayer, brother. He asks you to approach.”

  Shlomie was thrilled.

  The rebbe was a short, dark man with long payot and black glasses. “Rebbe—”

  But the man motioned for him to stop speaking. “I already know your question,” he said. “And the answer is yes.”

  “Yes?” Shlomie felt as if his heart had been pummeled with a hammer by someone intent on killing him. What did that mean? Yes to a marriage between Reb Amos and his little daughter or his wife? Yes, Reb Amos was telling the truth as he had heard it from God?

  Reb Menachem seemed to understand this. “Yes, I will help you.”

  Relief as swift and wide as a river sent its healing solace through Shlomie’s soul. He felt his breath once more move the tiny hairs in his nostrils, filling his lungs.

  Menachem Shem Tov stared at him, pleased. Even in the darkness, cold moonlight gleamed from his eyes.

  Part Two

  20

  Shlomie said nothing to Daniella about Menachem Shem Tov. First, he had to arrange a meeting between Shem Tov and Amos. Only then—or better yet, when he had Shem Tov’s opinion of the matter—did he think it would be wise to reveal what he had done to his distraught wife. He did this out of kindness, the desire to spare Daniella the terrible tension and suffering he, himself, was experiencing preceding this potentially life altering encounter.

  He tried not to think what would happen if Shem Tov confirmed that Reb Amos’s demands were indeed the will of heaven. The mere possibility weighed on him with nightmarish intensity. If it did prove to be the will of God, he knew they could not stand against it. Like Abraham with Isaac, they would need to bind their child and bring her to the altar. Or send Daniella in her place.

  Through one of Shem Tov’s Hassidim, Shlomie invited the rav to meet Amos during his regular weekly lecture at the Goodman home. Shlomie had no idea if Shem Tov would actually show up. As usual, their living and dining rooms were packed with Reb Amos’s Hassidim. There was no sign of Shem Tov. But just as Reb Amos stood up to speak, there was a knock at the door. Daniella opened it. A group of unknown Hassidim stood in her doorway, led by a short, stocky man with very black hair and extravagant payot that fell past his shoulders. He wore a large black hat and a black satin Hassidic waistcoat. There was something patchy about his beard, Daniella noticed, betraying a youth inappropriate to the stature his arrogant stance seemed to claim. His obsidian eyes met hers boldly, a look that did not befit a Torah scholar facing a strange woman, she thought. That, and something about the eerily tenebrous quality of the light in his eyes made her stumble as she bent her head. But there was no time to process her feelings as Shlomie soon appeared by her side, ushering her out of the way.

  “Kavod Harav, welcome to our home,” Shlomie said, his entire body bent obsequiously, his voice deepening with awe and respect. “Please, come in.”

  Shem Tov nodded briefly in acknowledgment, striding into the large, elegant living room, his calculating eyes taking in the massive china closet with its ornate silver candelabra, wine cups, and other ritual objects; the expensive custom-made drapes and matching upholstery; the fine rugs and original works of art. Behind his eyeglasses, under lowered lashes, he studied Daniella Goodman’s youthful figure, her large breasts and tiny waist.

  Shlomie approached Amos, whispering in
his ear. Amos’s head shot up, staring in the direction of Shem Tov. For a moment, the two men’s eyes locked, each taking the other’s measure as if they were prizefighters just about to climb into the ring. Amos stood up respectfully. “This is an honor, Reb Shem Tov,” he said, nodding with a pleasant smile. “I have heard many wonderful stories about you.”

  “And I have never heard of you at all,” replied Shem Tov brazenly.

  Everyone froze.

  “Please, Reb Amos,” Shlomie said, almost physically shrinking before both these titans, “Reb Shem Tov asks to speak with you privately before we begin.”

  “With pleasure,” said a now unsmiling Amos through gritted teeth.

  Shlomie gestured humbly to both men to follow him, leading them into a study just off the living room and closing the door behind him.

  “What is going on?” Daniella whispered hotly when he returned, confused and more than a little frightened.

  “I did what you asked. I found the greatest Master of the Good Name in the Holy City. He will now tell us whether or not Reb Amos’s words have come from behind the curtain.”

  For a split second, it occurred to her that she and Shlomie were now preparing to relinquish sovereignty over their fate and that of their children to strangers, allowing them to decide. But before she was able to comprehend fully the enormity of such a monstrous idea in all its abhorrent gravity, she found it had already slipped past her like wind, muffled by another voice, another idea that hugged her with fatherly comfort, erasing her fears. She was doing no such thing, the voice comforted. No, it was not these men deciding her fate, but God. The men had no power other than to reveal His will. She trembled, the small hairs on her arms standing on end, magnetized and electric as she waited to hear the judgment of heaven.

  21

  It didn’t take long. The door opened and Shem Tov came out, his face blank, his dark eyes inscrutable. Amos soon followed. Without saying a word to anyone, he went straight to the front door, unlocking it and exiting. His shocked Hassidim abruptly pushed back their chairs, hurrying after him.

  “I have looked behind the curtain,” Shem Tov announced to a room of startled faces, including Shlomie’s and Daniella’s. “The person who calls himself Reb Amos is a fake! A charlatan! One who preys on the innocent and naïve. There is no holiness in him. He is not a rav or even a scholar. Nothing he has told you is true. All of it is lies.”

  Daniella felt her knees buckle beneath her. Shlomie caught her, carrying her to the sofa, where he laid her down, adjusting her dress modestly over her legs. Menachem Shem Tov took it all in: the guileless husband and the slim, young woman who lay prone on the expensive American sofa. He memorized every nuance, every detail, storing whatever could be of use to him.

  * * *

  The Goodmans’ relief and gratitude to Menachem Shem Tov knew no bounds. Shlomie quickly switched allegiances and was welcomed warmly into the small inner circle of Shem Tov’s Hassidim. He was enormously flattered, feeling a real sense of accomplishment, convinced that his acceptance by the great Master was a sign of his own spiritual growth.

  Daniella felt the opposite, her self-worth and confidence all but destroyed. How had she allowed herself to trust such an obvious fake? How had she not been wise enough to see through his trickery, his flaws, his monstrous character, to the extent that she had even given thought to the idea of sacrificing her pure, lovely Amalya to his perversions? Or herself? Her trust in her own ability to make intelligent, reasonable decisions was shattered.

  In some ways, this breakdown made her even more dependent on God than ever. I will be more devout, more observant, she thought in gratitude, feeling doubly obligated to please Him.

  Thus, instead of being wary of the wonder worker who had showed up to take Amos’s place, she instead blessed God that just at this moment of darkness in her life, He had sent them a true light, a mentor, a real tzaddik, an anchor to holiness and truth who would guide them through the dangerous waters of life.

  Both Shlomie’s studies and activities and her own devout observance took on a new intensity. He spent almost all his time studying with Reb Shem Tov and his Hassidim in the small, run-down building near the shuk they called their beit midrash, and she studied late into the night every book on kabbalah she could get her hands on.

  One year into their studies, out of the blue, Shlomie suggested that they move to the Old City. “The spiritual life is stronger there, better for our children. We are so fortunate that we live in an age when it is possible for Jews to live right near the Kotel.”

  It was easy to sell Daniella, pregnant with number six, on the idea. The secular, snobbish, moneyed people of Rechavia—most of them senior citizens—among whom they now lived treated them like pariahs, constantly complaining about the noise the children made, the candy wrappers on the staircase, the bikes and carriages in the hallway. They needed a more congenial, child-oriented neighborhood in which to raise their children, Daniella thought. The Jewish Quarter of the Old City, with its large religious families and hordes of riotous children at play, fit the bill perfectly. It was also a place where she could join other women growing in religious devotion through the plethora of women’s study programs offered day and night.

  They went shopping with a real estate agent. The homes ranged from tiny, cramped hovels to enormous multimillion-dollar mansions that overlooked the Western Wall from every window. They didn’t want either. Finally, they came across a five-bedroom cottage with a roof garden from which, if you craned your head, it was possible to see the golden Dome of the Rock.

  “This is perfect,” said Shlomie, rubbing his hands as he walked through the generous living/dining room, imagining the long table with Reb Shem Tov at its head as he held classes there. He thought it best not to mention this to Daniella, the way he hadn’t mentioned that Shem Tov’s beit midrash was now closing down, him having been summarily evicted by the devout owner of the small building, a man who looked with horror at the group’s continued efforts to master the forbidden knowledge of the mystical texts of practical kabbalah, especially the Book of Creation.

  Throughout the ages, conventional religious leadership had always looked askance at efforts to learn the secrets of creation ex nihilo. That was not to say they refuted such knowledge was real and such power attainable. Was it not written in the Babylonian Talmud that “on the eve of every Sabbath, Judah haNasi’s pupils, Reb Hanina and Reb Hoshaiah, masters of cosmology, used to create a delicious calf by means of The Book of Creation to eat on the Sabbath”? And had not many a great rabbi asserted that Abraham himself had used the same method to prepare a meal for his three angelic visitors who came bearing the miraculous news of aged Sarah’s coming pregnancy? Some even asserted that it was none other than Abraham who had written the book, while still others contended that Adam had written it in the Garden of Eden.

  Even skeptics agreed it was ancient, dating from the second century B.C.E. In a copy in the British Museum, called The Laws of Creation, its preface warns those who would venture to read it that its wisdom would be inaccessible to anyone but the truly pious.

  Modern readers—whatever their level of piety—found it no less obscure.

  It was not the kabbalah of populist preachers in Los Angeles but an older, deeper version involving techniques aimed at altering nature. It was the original abracadabra: “Twenty-two [Hebrew] letters: God drew them, hewed them, combined them, weighed them, interchanged them, and through them produced the whole creation and everything that is destined to come into being.”

  This sacred knowledge was only to be used for good, the book asserted. The legendary Jewish Frankenstein, called a “golem,” supposedly created by the Maharal of Prague using formulas from the Book of Creation, was supposed to protect the Jews from their enemies. But when the golem ran amok, the Maharal removed the letters placed on his tongue, turning him back into clay.

  To this day, Jewish tradition views the saga of the golem as a cautionary tale: however learned
and holy the practitioner of kabbalah, rabbinic wisdom has always held that the use of such knowledge is dangerous, if not absolutely forbidden, akin to idolatry and witchcraft. Calling on angels who do not wish to be ordered about can easily turn against the conjurer at any moment, demons arriving instead, not as servants but as masters, exacting revenge by bending the conjurer to their will, body and soul.

  People like Shem Tov ignored these warnings, promising their eager students that practical kabbalah was a way for man to connect more closely with God. But even he had a caveat: One’s faith must be so absolute and unquestioning that hearing something must be the same as having seen it with one’s own eyes. And thus Shlomie came to believe, with a perfect all-consuming faith, that he had not just heard about the great miracles Shem Tov had supposedly performed but had actually witnessed them with his own eyes.

  But soon it wasn’t enough just for him to believe. His wife, his children, must also believe. And so Shlomie thought longingly of the day when he could invite Shem Tov to use the Goodman home so that several times a month his family might benefit from the truths as taught only and exclusively by Rav Shem Tov, whom his devoted followers had taken to calling secretly among themselves the Messiah.

  22

  His mother always said, “When Menachem was born, a light filled the room.”

  She was a small woman who wore hats and scarves over her dark, stiff wig. The Shem Tovs were Ultra Orthodox Sephardim, the kind whose customs and beliefs from the old country had been belittled and denigrated out of them by the snobbish, elite Lithuanian school of Judaism, Ashkenazi extremists who arrogantly claimed to be the only faithful adherents to the most authentic and rigorous version of the religion of Moses. Quite the opposite, of course, was true. The Ashkenazi elites were the people radically rewriting the Torah and Jewish customs at a lightning rate, creating an ugly new religion that had more in common with Islam and the Mormons than the ancient Hebrews.