B’otot u’bmoftim, as she’d said. With signs and with wonders. It’s as if she were an angel sent to find Shuli at his lowest, to help draw out the truth from inside his lie. Daphna Weider dispatched as God’s emissary to help steady Shuli on his shaky feet.
Shuli pulls out his envelope of money. He fans the bills, calculating how much he must already owe the hotel, and how close he edged to putting the family in debt.
* * *
—
The yeshiva is never locked. And Shuli waits in his seat at dawn the next day. He’s brought his tallis and tefillin along with him, so that he might join the minyan at the study hall. It’s a Thursday, a Torah reading day, and this he wants to hear.
When the others arrive, Shuli stands happily beside Gilad for Shacharit. Keeping Gilad in his thoughts, he prays for his study partner, such a wise young man. He prays for his family, for their good health and safety and comfort. He prays for Miri’s continued support, and for her to, even a little bit, understand the choices he’d made.
While meditating on his beautiful children, he says a prayer for poor Gavriel. Let the boy be happy, let the boy feel loved. What he hopes, in an unformed, wordless way, is for the child not to end up like him—an existence half wasted on nothingness, and now spent trying to put that nothingness right. Shuli goes on to pray for the rest of the students flanking him. These myopic, zestful, tadpole scholars, among whom he relishes every second.
Shuli adds a prayer for his sister, Dina, in Memphis, and for his mother and her idiot husband in California, and for his father up above. He prays for the hardworking woman who prepares food in the alley, who Shuli pictures as forever wiping at her brow. And, of course, he prays for Chemi, wishing that he would, somehow, soon be found.
And, as happens, when the image of that pornographic woman flashes before his eyes, Shuli, guilty, prays too that she might be well.
The parochet in front of the ark is pulled aside, and the doors opened. The whole room stands at attention. Inside, the Torah is wrapped in its familiar red cover, silver bells crowning the finials and a silver breastplate hanging in its center.
One of the boys whispers in Shuli’s ear, asking his father’s name. Shuli would be called to the Torah to say one of the blessings. It’s an honor offered to guests. But he likes to think they also acknowledge the fervency he’d brought to his learning and the new air of honesty he’d carried in with him that day.
At the last aliyah, they call Reb Shuli up.
He recites the blessings before and after the reading and then stands off to the side as the open scroll is held aloft for all to see. After it’s rolled closed and its sash tied, the vestments are draped over the Torah’s permanently raised, stiff, wooden arms—how much it was like his dream!
As its velvet coat is smoothed in place, and before the silver breastplate is again hung over the front, Reb Shuli sees the dedication embroidered into the fabric. The Torah had been donated by the family of David Yerachmiel Leibovitch.
At first he thinks nothing of it. Then he looks at that middle name.
What if this generous Leibovitch had wanted to mask his identity? What if, in service to a certain website, this person had not gone by his last name or first, not by Duvid or Duvele, Yerachmiel or Yuri, but instead used the second part of his second name? What if he’d long ago started signing his letters Chemi, staying connected to his true self, while putting a little distance between?
It’s a stretch, Shuli admits. But how far a stretch was it when he believes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the kaddish.com computer is right there?
The more he considers it, the more it makes sense. It’s a testament to the true power of faith! How many short minutes had elapsed since he’d prayed for Chemi to appear?
Shuli wonders if, even an hour before, the name on that Torah was the same as the one he’d just read. Maybe through yearning and supplication, the very letters had been picked up and rearranged by the holy hand of an outstretched arm. A shiver runs through him, just to think it.
XXII
Shuli is useless at learning all morning, delirious over his theory and the possible progress it portends. At lunchtime he invites Gilad to eat with him at one of the restaurants in Machane Yehuda—Shuli’s treat.
Gilad leads the way, twisting and turning through the alleys with Shuli on his heels. As they cross Agripas, Shuli sidles up and asks if Gilad knows the woman who’s always preparing food in the alley by the yeshiva, does he know which stall is hers, and if her cooking is kosher enough for them to eat.
Gilad does, and it is.
The woman greets Shuli amiably. “The seeds were good, then!” she says.
“They were,” Shuli says. And, peering over at all she has on display, he and Gilad order malawach to go, rolled up and stuffed with matbucha and eggplant, and a number of fillings for which they didn’t ask.
Shuli pays, and they eat while they roam. They drink ice-cold sodas and then stop off at Marzipan, the best bakery in the market. Shuli wants to buy a few kilo of rugelach to bring back for the others, a good sport.
As the pastries are boxed up, Shuli, trying for maximum nonchalance and desperate to grill Gilad, says, “The dedication on that Torah, I noticed it’s from a Mar Leibovitch?”
“You know Dudu?”
“Dudu?” Shuli says, and already his confidence dwindles.
“He gets mad if you call him Mister or Rebbe. He’s not a formal guy. He didn’t even want his name sewn onto the cover. We bought it ourselves. Everyone chipped in—Rav Katz too. A person should be thanked for giving something so big.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Shuli says. “And does Dudu give you other stuff too?”
“He’s our main donor. After what we get from the government, Dudu pays for pretty much everything else. Rav Katz always says that without him we’d be studying in the dark.”
“These days, even to be an ascetic is expensive.”
“And it’s not just the big stuff, the Torah and new books when we need. He also does like you when he visits.”
“Like me?”
“He brings sweets. And always caters a big meal. Then he learns with us, and tells us how proud he is.”
“And he really doesn’t ask for anything in return? Not for you to maybe say a meshabeirach for a sick cousin, or to dedicate your studies to someone’s memory, maybe to say certain prayers?”
“What prayers would we say?” Gilad says.
“Like the Kaddish. Does he ask you, ever, to say the Kaddish?”
“But no one’s dead.”
“Of course,” Shuli says, his heart sinking. “I just thought, even selfless, that he might ask that something get said.”
“Nope. He always makes clear that he doesn’t want anything in return. Except for the pictures for his wife and kids, he doesn’t intrude at all.”
The pictures! That’s how quickly things turn. Shuli thinks he might weep.
“He photographs you?”
“While we study. They’re not for him, though. He just likes to show his family what their money provides.”
“What a do-gooder! What an altruist!” Shuli says, thanking the heavens, thinking Baruch Hashem and joy of joys. He grabs the boxes of rugelach and practically skips back to the yeshiva, going over this puzzle with great pleasure. A man who comes to take photos for his family in exchange for some cash stuffed in the tzedakah box might also be a man gathering fresh images for a website that advertises his numinous wares.
Still, this doesn’t solve for Shuli the bigger mystery. Where are the students who actually say the Kaddish? Where was the prayer mill where the boys commemorate their allocated dead?
As they climb down the stairs to the yeshiva, Shuli asks when this Mr. Leibovitch comes to visit.
“Sometimes once a month. Sometimes every other. It varies.”
“Once every other month?” Shuli feels sick.
Gilad, always trying to please, reads Shuli’s obvious despair.
“Sometimes it’s more frequent. It can be twice in the same month, even more.”
Shuli makes a face.
“It’s true!” Gilad says. “The visits come in waves. At least that’s how it’s been since I’ve been studying here.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t keep track. Two weeks. Three, or four. I couldn’t say.”
* * *
—
It’s after midnight when Shuli calls home trying to catch his family all together. The kids sound happy. Nava wants to know if he’s still using her backpack, and Hayim wants to know if he’s on the plane already, and his sister, in a sisterly way, tells him he’s dumb for thinking their father is calling from the air.
Then Miri takes the phone. And Miri listens to the update. And what does Shuli expect she’ll say to the news that he’s staying on for a week, or two weeks, or two months to wait for Leibovitch to turn up?
Shuli reminds her that the dome could be the same dome from the picture he carries, and that the patch of light that falls on the table could be the same light. He tells her that computers run on math and don’t make mistakes, and it’s from this kind of exactitude that Gavriel’s map was drawn.
Miri says, “You’re supposed to teach on Monday.”
“What sense would that make?” he says. “No one should be teaching children when they’re broken inside. What good would it do to come back like this?”
“Are these real questions, Shuli? The good it would do is you not getting fired. And your children having a father at home, and your wife having a husband in bed.”
“All of those only make sense if I come home full and not empty. What use is a husk of a husband if there’s nothing inside?”
“You want sense? Tell me, do they charge the same rates at that hotel for empty people and full? Who’s going to pay for all this?”
“I’ll figure that part out too. I won’t bankrupt us. And I won’t let my family down.”
“You don’t get to decide that, Shuli. We do.”
And he knows, on that point, Miri’s right.
“You do understand what this means to me,” he says, “to finish my t’shuvah, to finally mend what I’ve torn?”
“And you understand I’m entitled to be furious, while also still supporting my husband.”
“I do,” Shuli says.
“Then remember what I told you before you left. If you fail, then you fail. Still, in this life—”
And Shuli, always a good student, finishes it for her: “It’s permissible to forgive oneself too.”
* * *
—
If he needs to stretch his cash for who knows how much longer, the hotel is something Shuli can’t afford. He packs up after he gets off the phone and considers his options for the coming Shabbat. He could go to the Kotel to beg someone to take him in. He could track down the Weiders, or open up to Rav Katz or Gilad and stay with one of them. But among God’s devoted, in God’s chosen city, it was too painful to acknowledge the dereliction that had landed him here. This, Shuli couldn’t bear.
At dawn he heads down, his knapsack stretched to the seams, and checks out. He keeps the bag between his feet as he counts out the bills. To his other sins, Shuli adds theft. Not knowing how long he might be sleeping rough, he’d taken the towels from the bathroom along with the soaps.
He told himself he’d return the towels before he flew home. He planned on full restitution when he either found Chemi or conceded defeat.
While he waits for Rav Katz and the others to show up at the yeshiva, Shuli studies the statutes relating to ownership and property.
He then learns Gemara with Gilad all morning. When they finish what they need to get done for the week, the boy wishes him a good Shabbos and goes off. Shuli immediately returns to the laws around larceny, exploring the severity of his misdeed.
He keeps his nose to the grindstone as the last of the students peel off, until it’s just him and Rav Katz, who now smokes inside the study hall.
The rabbi practically stands over Shuli, who pretends not to notice. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, Katz runs his fingers through his beard, separating it into two parts, twisting the ends—and hovering. Finally, Shuli gives up and says, “Do you want me to braid it for you, Rebbe?”
“That would be nice. I could use a new look.”
Shuli now engages, raising an eyebrow and giving Katz his full attention.
“You have where to go for Shabbat?” is what Rav Katz wants to know.
“That’s what this is about?” Shuli says. “I’m fine. A lovely hotel. I was going to stay here until the last minute, and then run and shop. There’s just so much to get through.” And Shuli gestures toward the books spread out on his table.
“Well, the shuk will close in not too long. The Shabbat siren sneaks up on you if you don’t pay attention.”
“Can I go shop and then come back after? I really do want to finish what I’m working on.”
“Come and go as you please,” Rav Katz says. “I hope I’ve made clear that you’re always welcome.” Then, staring with obviousness at Shuli’s fat knapsack, he adds, “You’re not staying with friends?”
“A lovely hotel,” Shuli says, standing up. “But I’ll take your advice and go get my challot now.”
Reb Shuli heads to the market and buys sweet challot and a bag of rolls. He buys candles and a bottle of wine. He buys hummus and a huge bag of cucumbers. A feast!
He then stays at his table until that Shabbat siren goes off, catching him by surprise, as Katz threatened it would. Shuli lights candles right there using two glass teacups to hold them. He says his prayers and makes the blessings over the wine, aching for home all the while. Shuli says Motzi and eats a whole loaf of bread for dinner. Then, for no good reason, he dips into his stash of cucumbers, sitting there until the candles burn down, afraid of an accident on his watch.
Shuli then takes his knapsack and heads out to the alley and up the close stairs. At the top, he glides out into the middle of the road, walking the emptiness of what was a usually busy street. Shuli follows it down the hill into the park that borders the neighborhood.
He finds a bench set back, away from the street, and takes out a towel to use as a blanket. Reb Shuli lies down, with the bag under his head for a pillow, better off than Jacob and his stones.
Oh, how used to staring up at ceilings Shuli had become. Here, camping out in the lovely chill of a Jerusalem night, Shuli looks up and muses his nocturnal musings with nothing to impede them. Without a roof above, his gaze bears on and on into a star-backed sky.
XXIII
Shuli doesn’t miss the irony as the days tick by. Had he sat with such dedication at his sister’s house way back when, had he devoted himself to his father’s shivah with the intensity with which he kept vigil for Chemi, he wouldn’t be in the bind he’s in now.
How hard Shuli works to stay there, at what cost to his family? He sleeps in the park. He washes himself in the bathroom the yeshiva boys use, which is attached to the little house out front. He eats lunch with the boys and dispenses with the other meals of the day. It is, for Shuli, a trial.
When sleeping rough begins to wear, Shuli moves to the floor of the study hall, figuring he’s not only been welcomed but is now embraced. If they so happily share their days, how much of a sin could it be for him to use the space at night?
He borrows Gilad’s cell phone to make quick calls to Miri, spending most of the conversation telling her that he’s sure Chemi will surface anytime. Miri’s support doesn’t wane so much as morph into increased concern for his mental health. She worries over Shuli and over their collective familial well-being. H
is daughter is a different story. Nava gives him the cold shoulder when he asks to talk, at most bidding Miri to say hello on her behalf. Hayim is the only one who sounds happy to hear from him. He tells his father stories about his adventures, never once asking how Shuli is. Shuli listens with tears in his eyes and, looking at his watch, inevitably cuts the boy off, for Gilad won’t take any money in return.
Another Shabbat passes this way, with Reb Shuli making sure that nothing about his behavior seems amiss. Aside from shifting his belt to the next notch in, he presents as upstanding as ever.
He answers cheerfully whenever Rav Katz asks about his accommodations or how his family is doing in New York. “Baruch Hashem,” Shuli says, or “Technology today, it’s like having them next door.”
Thinking himself successful in both attitude and demeanor, Shuli is surprised when Rav Katz arrives extra early one morning lugging a worn army duffel. He drops it on the table and steps out the side door.
From the placement of the bag in an otherwise empty room, Shuli takes it to mean he’s meant to peek inside.
Unzipping it, Shuli actually gasps from the size of the bounty. Inside are fresh white shirts, and fresh white socks, and clean underwear. For cooler nights there is a sweater. There’s a pillow and blanket. A tube of toothpaste. A bar of soap.
Shuli repacks everything and moves the duffel to the floor at his feet.
* * *
—
How thankful Shuli is for a change of clothes. At sunup, he feels so much better pulling on fresh socks and, he’s embarrassed to think it, the clean underwear that Rav Katz himself must have previously worn.
He even sleeps well, cozy in the sweater, his new pillow a mechayah.
Buttoning up a stiff laundered shirt, he does his best to tuck all the excess around back. Katz’s clothes hang blousy on his frame.
Once he puts on his jacket, Shuli feels like a million bucks. A little rest, a little renewal, and his spirits are at their most formidable. Shuli is feeling as grateful for Rav Katz as can be.
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