The Jerusalem inception

by Avraham Azrieli

  “I don’t need money.” She loosened her hair and retied it in a bun. “But there’s something else I need.”

  Was she offering a trade? A dip in the road caused the car to sway from side to side. Elie struggled to control it.

  “Abraham’s son deserves a chance for a normal life.”

  Even though her words were uttered without intonation or dramatic gesticulations, Elie knew Tanya had just allowed him a peek into her innermost passion. “Why would he want a normal life? He’s a black hat, lives the good life in Neturay Karta, studies with his friends all day, not a worry in the world. He doesn’t know any better.”

  “He does now.”

  “So?”

  “Tell Abraham to let him go.”

  Elie considered this unexpected development. “It won’t be easy. He’s counting on the boy to get married, become a great Talmudic scholar, a leader in the sect.”

  “Abraham will obey you.”

  The incline slowed down the Deux Chevaux. Elie downshifted to maintain momentum. “What will you do with-what’s his name?”

  “Jerusalem. I want him free of their insular religious extremism.”

  “He was born into it.”

  “And you were born in a kosher butcher shop in a shtetl on the eastern border of Germany. I don’t see you pursuing your birthright.”

  “Abraham won’t like it.”

  “I want the boy to leave the sect, enlist in the army like any young Israeli, and go on to study in the university. He’ll be a doctor, a scientist, a businessman. He has a good mind.”

  “The IDF might decline to draft a religious fanatic.”

  “You could pull some strings.”

  “I could.” Elie threw the cigarette out the window.

  “The day he starts boot camp, I’ll give you Klaus’s ledger.”

  Elie downshifted to second gear. The engine struggled uphill, the noise an effective masquerade for the joy in his voice. “How do I know you won’t cross me?”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Would you prove your good intentions by telling me the name of the bank?”

  “The Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich. Armande Hoffgeitz signed the ledger as the bank’s president. He and Klaus-”

  “Attended boarding school together at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “Information is my business.” Since that night near the Swiss border, Elie had investigated General Klaus von Koenig’s personal history in detail. As a teenager, Klaus had been sent by his parents from Munich to the most prestigious Swiss boarding school in the Alps. Elie had traced each of his classmates, finding twenty-nine who in 1945 had served in senior banking positions. Armande Hoffgeitz was on Elie’s list of possible bankers in possession of the Nazi general’s loot.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Elie offered his hand. “I’ll do my part, but what if Abraham refuses?”

  “First day of boot camp. Or nothing.”

  They shook hands, and when she let go of his hand, Elie gripped the steering wheel to conceal a tremor.

  Chapter 13

  After morning prayers, all the married men lined up in front of Rabbi Gerster to receive their gelt — a weekly allowance that sustained the scholars and their families. He handed each man a sealed white envelope containing a sum based on each family’s needs. Only the rabbi knew the source of the tsedaka, the charity funds that sustained the sect.

  Lemmy went outside to the courtyard, filled with chatty wives who waited for their husbands to come out. The rain had stopped, and a blue window opened in the clouds. His mother was surrounded by bags of children’s clothes. A cluster of mothers picked little shirts and pants, which they measured against their toddlers. Temimah sorted through the bags to help them find the best sizes and colors. When the selection process ended, she collected the remaining clothes into a large sack and handed it to Lemmy. Meanwhile the men emerged from the synagogue and gave their wives the white envelopes.

  As always, the women did not leave until the last man came out, followed by Rabbi Gerster. They lined up, and the rabbi blessed each family as they passed before him.

  After all the women and children left, and the men returned inside to take their breakfast in the foyer, Rabbi Gerster beckoned Lemmy, who followed him with the sack of used clothes, wondering why his father was going into town.

  They left Meah Shearim through the gate on Shivtay Israel Street and walked down to Jaffa Street. The rabbi held a hardbound book, his long black coat buttoned up, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. Most pedestrians were secular Israelis, and occasionally someone pointed at him and whispered to another.

  “Your mother told me you’re nervous about the marriage.”

  The comment caught Lemmy off guard.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’d like a little more time, Father.”

  “You want to delay fulfilling the most important mitzvah?” Rabbi Gerster was speaking of the first divine order in Genesis: Procreate and multiply, and fill the land.

  “Just for another year. Maybe two.”

  “What’s next?” Rabbi Gerster stopped and turned to his son. “Recite the midday prayers at night? Put off the fast of Yom Kippur until Passover?”

  Lemmy looked down, thankful for a noisy bus that allowed him a moment to think. He couldn’t tell his father the truth, that Tanya’s books had confused him, that he dreamt of falling in love with a beautiful woman and sharing a passionate attraction of body and soul that would last forever.

  “You must remember,” Rabbi Gerster said, “what King Solomon wrote: Each want has its time, and there is a time for each desire. The time for marriage is at eighteen.”

  There was a lull in traffic, creating quietness that made Lemmy’s silence even louder. He forced the words out of his mouth. “I’m not sure about Sorkeh.”

  “The cantor’s daughter isn’t good enough?”

  “She’s very good, but-”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Cantor Toiterlich is a righteous man who raises his children with Torah and faith in the Master of the Universe. Do you agree?”

  Lemmy didn’t answer.

  Rabbi Gerster put his finger under Lemmy’s chin and made him look up. “Our creator said in the Torah: And a man shall adhere to his wife, and they shall become one flesh. You are not the first young man to find this mitzvah a tad daunting. That’s why parents choose a good match for their son or daughter. Do you understand?”

  What could he say? That he feared watching Sorkeh become as wrinkled and lusterless as his mother? Lemmy picked up the sack of clothes. “Yes, Father.”

  The rest of the way they did not speak.

  Shmattas ran her clothing exchange from an enclosed passage between two buildings, fitted with a tin roof. Rabbi Gerster waited outside while Lemmy entered.

  The space was cluttered with open boxes of used pants and shirts. Wood hangers carried coats, jackets, suits, and dresses. There were black clothes for the ultra-Orthodox residents of the neighborhoods to the north and east, and colorful clothes for modern Zionists in the secular neighborhoods to the south and west. Lemmy found himself gazing into a box of colored ladies’ underwear.

  Shmattas emerged from the dark end of the store. She was an old hunchback, shorter than a ten-year-old child, who smelled of dust and mold and sweat. She plucked the sack from his hand and gave him another sack. “God bless Rabbitzen Gerster.”

  “Amen,” he said.

  Outside, his father closed the book and headed down King George Street. Lemmy followed him into a small market of wooden stalls piled with shining oranges, grapefruit and lemons, dried Lebanese figs, apricots, carob, prunes, and dates. Glass-fronted counters held blocks of sesame halvah, chocolate dotted with nuts, and peanuts in dried honey. Flies swarmed the stalls while vendors lauded their goods. He followed his father along the open sacks of herbs and spic
es and ground exotic roots. The sights and sweet aroma made him salivate.

  Beyond the market, they passed through a narrow walkway into an enclosed courtyard that stunk of urine. A beggar in a hooded cloak sat by a swinging door, his legs interwoven, his eyes behind sunshades. He swayed slowly, murmuring Psalms from memory. Lemmy wondered if the beggar was blind.

  Rabbi Gerster put the brown book in the beggar’s lap and entered into the public restroom, beckoning Lemmy to follow. The narrow, rectangular room was poorly lit and damp. A dozen or so urinals lined the wall.

  When Lemmy stepped outside, the beggar was in the same position. Rabbi Gerster dropped a coin in his cup, picked up the book, and kissed it as one did with sacred books.

  E lie Weiss continued reciting Psalms long enough for Abraham and his son to be halfway back to Meah Shearim. The swinging door let out bursts of stench, and he tried to breathe through his mouth. He stood up, the cloak loose on his gaunt body. It was heavy and itchy, and he longed to lower the hood. The cup was filled with coins. He emptied it into the pocket of his cloak and walked through the passageway to King George Street.

  The gray Citroen Deux Chevaux was parked in a side street of four-story apartment buildings. A group of kids stopped playing ball when they saw him. He slumped behind the steering wheel, pulled back the hood, and scratched his bald head until the itching eased. He took off the sunglasses and lit a Lucky Strike, holding the smoke inside for as long as he could, and read the note that Abraham had hidden inside the book:

  1. A demonstration will take place Saturday PM. I can’t hold them back without raising suspicion. Tell Major Buskilah to look for a redhead named Dan. No broken bones, but make him bloody and keep him locked up for a few days.

  2. Abortion is a black-and-white issue under Jewish law. I have to voice the loudest protest or they’ll notice a discrepancy and question my judgment. If the law passes Second Call in the Knesset, expect intense protests.

  3. Money is running short. Increase is essential to maintain dependency.

  4. About Tanya: Her appearance was a shock. I’m happy she’s alive, but ache to be with her. I made up my mind that, once my son marries, I’ll start transitioning to him. He’ll be able to assume the leadership within 2–3 years. Then I want out. Tell Tanya to wait for me!

  Elie placed the note on the passenger seat. The situation presented a delicate challenge. If Tanya knew that Abraham decided to join her, yet his freedom depended on his son’s staying in-and leading! — Neturay Karta, she would call off the deal. But Abraham was fooling himself. That boy was already lost to fundamentalism. In a contest between 3,000 years of glorious Jewish heritage and the beauty of Tanya Galinski, there was no question who would win Jerusalem Gerster’s soul.

  He turned on the ignition, and the car shuddered before it coughed out a blue cloud and rumbled up the narrow street. The kids in the rearview mirror watched as he made a left turn onto King George Street and headed to Rehavia.

  Chapter 14

  It took them an hour to walk back to Meah Shearim. Lemmy carried the sack of clothes on his shoulder, keeping pace with his father. They spoke of the Talmud page Lemmy was studying with Benjamin, involving a dispute between two men who found a prayer shawl in the street. “What’s the logic,” Rabbi Gerster asked, “of giving them both equal ownership shares? They can’t split the tallis in half, right?”

  “Maybe it’s a metaphor.”

  “For what?”

  “A person?”

  “What kind of a person?”

  “A child?”

  Rabbi Gerster nodded. “Explain.”

  “A baby is like a sacred thing, a gift from God to two people. But as with a prayer shawl, a child cannot be divided in two. The parents must enjoy the child in partnership.”

  “Or have more children?”

  “Right.” He glanced at his father.

  “Are you worried about your mother?”

  Lemmy nodded.

  “You shouldn’t worry. These things are in God’s hand.”

  “She’s very sad.”

  Rabbi Gerster was quiet for a moment. “My Temimah is a righteous woman. The Master of the Universe is not giving her more children, and we accept His judgment. We shall continue to pray that He grants her renewed fertility and more children.”

  “Amen.”

  “Or grandchildren.”

  Lemmy didn’t say Amen to that. Fortunately, they had arrived back at the synagogue, which welcomed them with the noise of Talmudic arguments and the sting of cigarette smoke. Rabbi Gerster walked down the aisle to his elevated seat up front, and Lemmy headed to the rear. He threw the sack on the floor by the bench.

  Benjamin asked, “Anything for sale?”

  “Your mother’s underwear.”

  “ Shush!” Benjamin laughed. “You’re disgusting!”

  “Let’s study.”

  They began reading the Talmud page. All around, men argued with each other. Some sat, some stood, swaying back and forth in a meditative motion. A few still wore their tefillin, and those who were married also had their prayer shawls draped around their shoulders, fringes darting about.

  The crystal chandelier hung above the bimah, the center dais, like a giant cluster of glassy stars. It was the only item of splendor in Meah Shearim, a community sewn together with threads of frugality and modesty. Lemmy had heard the story many times, how his father had appeared one day with a horse-drawn cart. It took seven men to unload, and when Rabbi Gerster pried open the crate, each of the tiny crystal leaves was individually wrapped in vinegar-soaked cotton. Nothing like that had ever been seen in Neturay Karta, and a debate erupted on whether such extravagance should be allowed. But Rabbi Gerster explained that the chandelier had once hung in his father’s synagogue in the eastern reaches of Germany. The elders of Neturay Karta decided that the chandelier was a Holocaust survivor from an extinct Jewish congregation, just like Abraham Gerster himself, and therefore should be accepted. And so, as it had once lit the faithful faces of Jews in Germany, it was shining again in Jerusalem-but only on Sabbath and holidays. On regular days, its tiny leaves merely glittered in the natural rays of the sun or the long fluorescent lamps that lined the ceiling.

  The men prepared for Rabbi Gerster’s lecture by analyzing the designated page of Talmud, debating each point with their study companion. Lemmy’s Talmud volume was open before him on the slanted shelf attached to the back of the next bench.

  Benjamin stood, embracing a Talmud volume to his chest, his face creased in concentration. “Two men hold a prayer shawl,” he recited. “David says, I found it, it’s mine. Jonathan says, I found it, it’s mine. Each will swear that he owns at least half, and they will share it.”

  Lemmy threw his hands up. “One of them must be lying, which makes the solution unjust! The truthful owner is losing half of his property.”

  “But they’re both honest!” Benjamin raised his voice over the noise of the surrounding scholars. “They’re two pedestrians who simultaneously noticed a tallis lost in the street. They grabbed it at the same time, and each of them honestly believes he was the first to reach it. Partition is fair!”

  “Fair, but impractical. How do you share a prayer shawl? Alternate days?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s too simplistic,” Lemmy said. “Talmud must have another layer of meaning here.” He leaned over the page. His fingers followed the lines of text. The aging, wrinkled page felt coarse. This was only one out of thousands of pages in many volumes of Talmud, written down by the sages in the Babylonian exile more than a thousand years ago. The main text appeared in the center of each page, discussing sins and good deeds, prayers, holidays, repentance, business rules and ethical theories, and even astronomy and geography, governance of the kingdom, and trade with the Gentiles. Printed in the margins were notations of later scholars.

  Lemmy sat back and gazed at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand until tears surfaced.

  Benjamin
rapped the bench with his hand. “Wake up!”

  “It’s the damn smoke.” Lemmy waved at the full synagogue. “Bunch of hypocrites!”

  “Are you crazy?”

  He tugged on his earlobe. “Why is it forbidden to pierce your ear?”

  “The sanctity of our body.” Benjamin scratched his head through the large black yarmulke. “We’re created in God’s image, as written in the-”

  “Aren’t lungs part of the sacred body too?” Lemmy pointed in a circle. “Look at them, hundreds of supposedly God-fearing Talmudists, destroying the lungs God gave them.”

  “ Shush!” Benjamin pulled him down.

  “They should hear!” Looking around, he saw they were all too involved in Talmudic discussions to notice his outburst. He punched Benjamin’s shoulder. “Even you don’t hear me!”

  “I do. The answer is simple. Smoking is allowed because it keeps the mind sharp and alert, so that you can study Talmud all day, which is the most important mitzvah of all.”

  “Another Talmudic hoop.”

  “Right.” Benjamin’s white teeth flashed. “Now, do you agree with my explanation, that because each of them honestly believes he was the first to reach it, they share it?”

  “What would you do with half of a prayer shawl? Drape it around one shoulder?”

  Benjamin threaded his finger through his cylindrical side lock, pulling and releasing it like a spring. “Maybe sell it and split the money?”

  “That makes sense. But Talmud still avoids the real issue. What if each of them claims to be the original owner, who had lost it and came back to pick it up? What do we do when it’s clear that one of them is a liar?”

  “In such case,” Benjamin chanted in the argumentative tune of Talmudic scholars, “Rabbi Sumchus says that the tallis should be kept in a safe place until the Messiah comes and the liar is exposed. But Rabbi Yossi says it should be sold and the proceeds split so that the true owner at least gets half of his property now.”

  “I think the owner should grab it,” Lemmy argued, “go to the police station downtown, and get the bastard arrested. Who cares about Rabbi Sumchus and Rabbi Yossi? They’ve been dead and buried for a long time.”