by Dan Sofer
Moshe’s head spun with resurrections, messiahs, and Worlds-to-Come. His credulity choked on the cocktail of conflicting beliefs. The rabbis really needed to get their act together. None of it made any sense, and none of it was helping him get his life back.
The volcano of bile erupted again in his gut. He hated Avi. He hated ancient prophecies and the valley of dry bones. And he sure as hell hated the Resurrection.
He jumped to his feet and threw his hands in the air. “I don’t get it,” he said, louder than he had intended. He stomped around the room again. “I’ve lost everything. God could have saved my life if He had wanted to. Why bring me back now—just to satisfy some stupid old prophecy?”
Rabbi Yosef stared at the floor and said nothing.
Red-hot lava bubbled in Moshe’s belly. “No, sir,” he said, to Rabbi Yosef or God, he couldn’t say. “I’ll have none of this.”
He leaned against the wall and sucked in long drafts of air.
“Rabbi,” he said, when his voice had calmed. “May I use your phone?”
CHAPTER 6
Moshe dialed his home phone number by heart and paced the rabbi’s living room as he waited for the call to connect.
Galit had quit her receptionist job to stay home with the baby. When Talya started kindergarten, they had forgone the meager second salary. On a Tuesday morning, Galit should be at home.
The phone rang twice. Galit answered. “Alo?”
He fought the urge to talk to her, to beg her to kick Avi out and take him back. Instead, he hung up. She was home, that was all he needed to know. On the phone, she could easily cut short the conversation; he stood the best chance of tugging at her heartstrings face-to-face. He would need all the help he could get. He’d be asking a lot of her—he’d be asking her to turn back time.
The rabbi’s living room lacked mirrors, so Moshe patted the hair of his reflection in the tin Blessing for the Home hung on the wall beside the framed pictures of bearded rabbis. Still wearing the velvet slippers, he made for the door.
“Shall I come with?” said Rabbi Yosef.
Moshe considered the earnest rabbi. A familiar religious figure at his side might help convince Galit that he was not a ghost.
“Yes. Thank you, Rabbi.”
The trees along Shimshon Street murmured in the breeze and made the morning sunbeams dance over the cracks in the sidewalk. The cars that usually choked the street had moved to the parking garages of office buildings across the city. An alley cat sunbathed on the green lid of a municipal garbage bin and watched them pass.
Every human being is a network of desires and fears. This was a truth that Moshe knew well, and he had plugged into those wants and needs to clinch deals with new customers. To independent cabbies—hard-working men with mortgages and mouths to feed—he sold a steady stream of patrons; to the managers of taxi fleets he peddled the freedom to focus on growing their business. Nothing beat the rush of a handshake at the end of a long negotiation. This was how Karlin & Son had conquered Jerusalem and this was how Moshe would reclaim his old life.
A white Kia Sportage lazed at the curb outside number five. “That’s her car,” Moshe told the rabbi. “Bought it for her last year—no, make that three years ago.”
The venetian blinds blocked his view, but he knew every detail of what lay beyond the windows. He and Galit had selected everything together at factory outlets in the Talpiot industrial zone, deliberating over floor tiles and faucets, and taking turns to run after Talya when she climbed into a bathtub or danced on a plate of Italian marble tiling.
He remembered the day that Talya had burst into the world. At 3 AM, he had sped down Herzog Boulevard to rush Galit to the labor ward at the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. That experience, like the night they had first met—now there was a story!—bound Moshe and Galit forever. Even death could not part them, he felt it deep inside.
Moshe and the rabbi climbed the three steps to the front door of the house. Moshe’s house. Their house.
He’d break the ice with two choice words, the very first words he had spoken to her.
If romantic nostalgia didn’t melt her defenses, he’d drop the gloves and use guilt. Every little girl needed her father—her real father. Galit could not deny Talya that.
With a plan and a backup, Moshe rubbed his palms together and pressed the buzzer with a trembling finger. He needed this too much. He had to gain some mental distance. He was just a salesman; his product—a family healed after being torn by tragedy. He only hoped that she had calmed down since the morning. Hell hath no fury like Galit in a sour mood. Worst case scenario, he could take cover behind the rabbi.
He listened for her footfalls. He waited for the light in the peephole to darken.
He envisioned success. Galit would rush into his arms. She’d welcome him back into her home and her life. In fact, he convinced himself, it was her overpowering love for Moshe that had driven her to marry his best friend—that even made sense! But loyal consumers always prefer the original brand to cheap imitations.
Still no movement in the house.
Until today, Moshe had encountered religion mostly at major life-cycle events: circumcision; bar mitzvah; marriage; death. He visited the neighborhood synagogue once a year, on the Day of Atonement. He had never given much thought to God’s existence. If he had harbored doubts before, now he had none. God alone was responsible for Moshe’s new lease on life. He worked in mysterious ways—even the rabbis had no clue—but He was no figment of the imagination. And now, for the first time in both his lives, Moshe mouthed a silent prayer.
Oh, God. Please help me. Make things the way they were before.
He made a mental list of the good deeds he would do in return. He’d join the rabbi at synagogue every morning and strap on phylacteries. He’d write fat checks to the city’s soup kitchens. And, for Heaven’s sake, he’d see a cardiologist.
Moshe had learned his lesson. He had internalized the moral of the story. God had given him a second chance and this time he would do better.
If You can resurrect the dead, surely You can do this?
He pressed the buzzer again.
Come on, Galit. Give me a break.
The handle rattled.
Thank you, God!
The door opened but a security chain held fast. Through the crack, a little girl peered up at him, her dark eyes framed by thick black glasses.
It took him a moment to make the connection. “Talya?”
His precious four-year-old with the bushy crown of black curls had transformed into a young lady with satin locks that fell over her shoulders. He wanted to kneel on the floor and hug her.
Her solemn expression and tight mouth told him not to dare. “Ima says she’s not home.”
Moshe beamed at the adorable little girl. His girl.
“Talya, it’s me. Your aba.” Did she remember him? Galit had taken her to kindergarten each morning, and she was usually asleep by the time he got home from work.
Talya bit her lip. “Aba’s at work,” she said.
The thought of Avi as her father winded him. She doesn’t know me. My little Talya doesn’t know me.
Her eyes flitted to the rabbi and her mouth twitched. “I have to go now.”
Moshe put his foot forward and the closing door bit through the slipper and into his foot. “Ow!”
Talya’s eyes widened and her hands shot to her mouth. Great. Now you’ve frightened her. “It’s OK,” he said. Stay calm. Don’t panic. “I know Ima is home,” he whispered. “I really need to speak to her. Please. It’s super important.”
Talya’s lips squirmed while she mulled it over. She glanced over her shoulder. “Ima doesn’t want to speak to you,” she whispered. “You have to go away.”
He removed his bruised foot from the door as a gesture of good will. They were on the same side now.
“You can open the door. It’s OK. Please. I’ll give you candy.”
Her eyes sparkled.
Bingo! He ha
d said the magic word.
“What candy?”
Galit’s voice carried from upstairs. “Talya, close the door and come here.”
He was close. So close. Choose the right words and he’d mend his broken world.
“What candy do you like?”
The sparkle in her eye vanished. Her real aba would have known the answer.
“I have to go now,” his daughter said, as she shut the door. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
CHAPTER 7
Moshe woke in the dark with a start. In his nightmare, he had died and lost everything he held dear. Just a dream, a horrible, unbearable dream. What a relief. Anxiety drained away from his chest and he breathed at ease.
He sat up and banged his forehead. Something very hard had impeded his movement and forced him down onto the stiff pillow. He caressed the fresh bruise on his head. His eyes adjusted to the dark. He lay on the lower level of a bunk bed. Wooden boards pressed against his back through the thin mattress. His legs stretched beyond the bed frame and his bare feet hovered in the air. The bed smelled of grimy feet and pee. On the pillow case, Superman punched a fist in the air.
Oh, no.
He lingered in limbo, unable to move after his nap. This was no dream. He had nothing, was nothing. God had not answered his prayers. Why on Earth had Galit shut him out? They had been a team. Together they were going to conquer the world. Didn’t she at least want to see him again?
The door creaked open and sent a shard of yellow light into the room. The silhouette of a little boy peered around the door. A large skullcap sat on a thick tangle of hair.
“Hey,” Moshe said and raised a forearm. The feat spent his energy.
“Are you dead?” the boy asked.
Moshe wished he were. He said, “What do you think?”
The boy mulled the question over. “Do dead people talk?”
“Probably not.”
That seemed to satisfy the boy, and he walked off. “Aba,” he said, from the corridor, “the dead man woke up.”
Rabbi Yosef appeared at the door. “Sorry about that. You OK?”
Moshe pondered the question. Was he OK? He was lucky to be alive, but he felt anything but lucky.
“Hungry?” the rabbi said. “Dinner is served.”
Moshe said nothing. He had lived the modern suburban dream: the ideal family; the ideal career; the ideal home. That perfect life floated in his mind. Magical. Complete. Unobtainable.
He stared at the beams of the upper bunk bed. Dark swirls in the grain of the wood eyed him in the gloom, unseeing. The rings testified to long years of sun and wind. Good years, as a living tree. Now, only hardened struts remained. Dead wood.
“You can stay with us as long as you want.”
The offer touched the tiny corner of Moshe’s heart that could still feel anything. The rabbi had a small house and many mouths to feed without Moshe’s dead weight. But he could not muster the strength to accept. He did not belong in the rabbi’s home. He didn’t belong anywhere. In the cosmic game of musical chairs, Moshe remained without a seat.
“I’m better off dead.”
Rabbi Yosef sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “Don’t say that.”
“My parents are gone. I’m an only child. My daughter thinks I’m a stranger. My wife won’t even talk to me.”
“People react differently to death,” the rabbi said. “And to life. She might be angry at you.”
“Angry? I didn’t choose to die.”
“Emotions don’t always make sense. You left her and that hurt. She had to move on, and now the sight of you brings it all back.”
Moshe had not looked at his death that way. He could see Galit getting angry at that. She owned the quickest temper in the Middle East. And she had moved on. Avi was the man in her life now, and Talya’s new father. The eternal bachelor had finally settled down—into Moshe’s shoes. There was no room left for him.
“Besides,” the rabbi continued, “the sight of you must have scared her half to death. I almost had a heart attack when I bumped into you.”
The rabbi had finally succeeded in making him laugh.
“Give her time,” he said. “Where there is life, there is hope.”
“Rabbi, I’m beyond hope.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said. “I know something that can help. We’ll do that tomorrow morning. But tonight,” he added, “you must eat.”
CHAPTER 8
The Prophet heaved two bulging plastic bags onto the marble countertop in his kitchen that afternoon. He untied one bag, widened the opening, and a mound of glistening green olives stared back at him. His order of five kilos of Nabali had elicited a double take from the stall owner at the Machaneh Yehuda market, but he had shoveled the choice fruit from a large vat all the same.
The Prophet sat on a designer stool beside the kitchen island, and dropped a well-formed and unblemished specimen into the funnel of the specialized stainless steel press he had rigged to the countertop. He turned the long arm of the crank, and a single drop of buttery liquid dripped into a glass beaker. He released the crank, extracted the bruised olive, and repeated the process with the next.
By the time daylight faded through the large windows, an inch of golden-green virgin oil had settled at the bottom of the beaker.
Why do I bother? A bottle of extra-virgin from the corner mini-market would suit his purposes too. But tradition was tradition, and the rich, bitter juice of the local species reminded him of the sacred oils of his youth.
Battered olives littered the island countertop. The sight would have appalled his interior decorator, who had decked the kitchen in dark panels of wenge, chrome, and the best marble money could buy. He had settled into the penthouse only a few months ago. Soon he’d have to leave it all behind.
He extracted the beaker from the press and poured the contents into a small glass vial, which he sealed with a cork, wrapped in a thick cloth, and slipped into his shoulder bag alongside the hollowed-out ram’s horn that he had set aside for the occasion.
He dismantled the press, cleared the discarded olives into a large garbage bag, and wiped the counter. His work done, he retired to the adjacent living room with a tall glass of Shiraz.
He stood at the large French windows and sipped the fruity wine. The setting sun painted the Jerusalem skyline orange. Below, cars and buses crawled along Jaffa Road like scarab beetles, their engines and horns a soft murmur. The city appeared calm, blissfully unaware that tomorrow the world it knew would end.
If everything went according to plan. In his experience, nothing to do with humanity ever did. In all likelihood, the oil would remain in the vial, the shofar would never touch his lips, and his toil would be in vain. Again.
For all their industry and technology, humankind remained a horde of shortsighted brutes. They erred; they paid the price. Every time. Without fail.
But the Boss was a romantic, and He called the shots.
Darkness settled over the city. “Here’s to tomorrow,” he said, and drained the glass. Tomorrow, humanity would get another chance.
CHAPTER 9
The rabbi’s old Subaru had seen kinder days. The door creaked when Moshe, wearing the same ill-fitting jeans and T-shirt as the day before, yanked it open Wednesday morning. Springs in the passenger seat groaned under his weight. The interior smelled of dust. He fastened the seat belt and fed the strap back into the retractor hole. The mouth of a cassette player gaped on the dashboard. Moshe had not seen one of those in decades. The jalopy was an accident waiting to happen.
His palms left wet patches on the armrest. He prayed that the car would fail to start. An earthquake or tidal wave would do nicely too. Anything to force the rabbi to cancel the excursion. Their destination was the one place on the planet Moshe wanted to avoid at all costs.
Rabbi Yosef turned to him and held out a thin roll of bank notes.
“I can’t.”
“Ple
ase,” the rabbi said, and dropped the money on Moshe’s lap. “You’ll need some money to get back on your feet.”
The rabbi was right. Moshe examined the worn bills. Two hundred shekels: a lot of money for the rabbi. He had probably not consulted with the rabbanit before parting with their grocery money.
Back on your feet. The smiling rabbi made it sound possible.
“I’ll pay you back,” he said.
Rabbi Yosef turned the key. The engine turned over, coughed twice, and started. God had sided with the rabbi.
The cassette player kicked into action as they pulled off. To Moshe’s surprise, he recognized the song. He had expected the wail of violin and clarinet—the traditional klezmer music of Eastern European Jewry—or the festive Chasidic wedding ditties he stumbled upon when scanning through radio frequencies. Instead, the air filled with synthesizers and an ’80s dance beat that shouted teenage rebellion. A girl sang.
“‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’?” Moshe said. “You listen to Cyndi Lauper?”
The rabbi’s cheeks turned pink. “Cyndi is the best,” he said. “A great soul.”
There was more to Rabbi Yosef than Moshe had imagined.
The rabbi seemed to feel obliged to explain. “I wasn’t always religious,” he said.
Moshe found it hard to imagine the bearded rabbi with the constant smile and unbeatable optimism as a secular Israeli, but he didn’t press him for details. He didn’t have to.
“I spent a year in India after the army. I suppose I was searching even then. At university, I lost my way. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Girls. You name it.” The rabbi’s cheeks went from pink to tomato red. “One day, the campus rabbi invited me to a Shabbat meal at his home, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
The sun climbed in the sky. The morning traffic choked the back roads of Baka but eased up as they turned onto Hebron Road toward the Old City. Throughout the country, millions of people rushed about their daily lives and worried about their everyday concerns. Moshe envied them.
