The Jerusalem Inception

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.”

“Oy vey!” Benjamin looked around to see if anyone heard Lemmy. “What’s wrong with you? One minute you’re falling asleep, the next you’re saying crazy things.”

Lemmy leaned forward, his elbows on the book of Talmud. “I’ve been reading stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Benjamin leaned closer, as if someone could hear him over the surrounding noise. “You’re not reading Kabbalah, are you?”

His friend’s conclusion was logical. Kabbalah, the secret world of Jewish mysticism, was forbidden to anyone but the most pious rabbis, whose strength of faith qualified them to study it. There was a rumor in Meah Shearim that Rabbi Gerster was one of the few scholars allowed to explore the secrets of Kabbalah.

Benjamin grabbed Lemmy’s arm and shook it. “Tell me!”

He could not tell Benjamin the truth. If the burden was so heavy on him, how terrible would it be for Benjamin? “I read at night.”

“What do you read?”

The Talmud page began to blur, the print no longer discernible. “The smoke is killing me,” Lemmy said, though he wasn’t sure it was the smoke that brought up his tears.

At noon, everybody went out to the foyer and formed a line before a table loaded with sliced bread, jars of jam, and a tall samovar of hot tea. Lemmy and Benjamin took their lunch outside to the sunny forecourt, where the air was crisp and fresh.

After lunch, the men returned to the synagogue for Rabbi Gerster’s lecture. He mounted the front dais and stood before the wooden ark of the Torah, his back to the men. A blue velvet curtain, embroidered with Torah verses in gold threads, covered the ark. Rabbi Gerster kissed the curtain and turned to the podium. He was wearing his prayer shawl over the black coat, his wide-brimmed black hat contrasting with the blond-gray payos and beard.

Lemmy glanced at Benjamin, whose face was filled with anticipation. Everyone else was similarly entranced, holding their breath for the surprise opening Rabbi Gerster was certain to deliver.

The rabbi caressed his beard and rocked slowly over the lectern. “We’re all smart,” he roared, his voice filling the sanctuary. “We’re all wise. We all know Talmud. So why would two scholars yank on a tallis in opposite directions like silly boys fighting over a toy?”

The synagogue filled with laughter.

“Master of the Universe! Who would fight over such an object of small value and great spiritual significance? Imagine that I walk home with Cantor Toiterlich, and we find a prayer shawl—”

“You can have it,” Cantor Toiterlich boomed.

“No way,” Rabbi Gerster said. “You take it! In good health!”

Another burst of laughter came from the men, and Rabbi Gerster, whose own tallis was draped around his shoulders, held up one corner, looking at it with feigned astonishment. “Fighting over this? For what? To wear it later, when they repent for fighting a fellow Jew?”

Nachum Ha’Levi, an elderly man in the first row, raised his hand. “The commentators explain that property lost by its lawful owner becomes the property of the first person to notice and pick it up in a manner which manifests ownership.”

The rabbi held his arms wide open. “Therefore?”

“Therefore,” Ha’Levi continued, “if they just stood there and chatted politely, they would acquire nothing. That’s why the example must include them grabbing it at the same time. Without the physical aspect, there’s no claim for ownership.”

“True,” Rabbi Gerster said, “but the physical confrontation serves another purpose. It shows that an angry dispute must resolve in peace.” He pointed up. “God’s emissary was the learned rabbi, who brought about reconciliation. He’s not explicitly mentioned, but a real scholar reads between the lines!”

Many in the crowd nodded and made notations with pencils on the margins of the Talmud page. Lemmy wrote on his: Which rabbi? Why wasn’t he mentioned?

Benjamin read it over his shoulder and whispered, “What do you mean?”

Rabbi Gerster clapped his big hands. “Any questions?” His blue eyes surveyed the hall, searching for a raised hand or a doubtful expression. There was none. He closed the Talmud volume. “Let us take a break from studying to bring a Jewish baby boy into God’s covenant.”

In the rear, the doors opened. The foyer was full of women in headdresses. One of them handed a bundle to Redhead Dan, who carried it to the dais.

Shortly after 4:00 pm, Elie Weiss arrived at the central police compound at the Russian Yard. He found Major Buskilah at his office in the rear of the building.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Buskilah was an Iraqi Jew, gray-haired with a weathered face and muscular arms. “My superiors ordered me to obey you, but I won’t risk disaster with those black hats. Like all other hoodlums, they will interpret leniency as a weakness.”

Elie sat down and lit a cigarette. He drew on it several times until the small room filled with smoke. “I sympathize with your frustration.”

“We should have arrested them all. It was a stupid order!”

“My orders are always part of an established strategy.”

“Next time my radio might be inoperative.”

“You want to face a court-martial?”

“Better I face a court-martial than the wife and kids of a policeman lost under my command.”

“There’s going to be a demonstration on Saturday.” Elie handed him a black-and-white photo, showing the face of a man with a beard and payos. “This is the ringleader. Red hair, burly fellow.”

“I remember him. He threw the first rock.”

“Beat him up and throw him in solitary confinement for a couple of days. I’ll join him in the cell once he’s softened up.”

Major Buskilah pocketed the photo. “There’s another one. The rabbi’s son. I’m going to bust his balls.”

“Little Jerusalem?” Elie was amused by the major’s sudden anger. “What’s he done to you?”

“That prick kicked me in the nuts!”

Lemmy joined his father on the dais. He set up the instruments on a small folding table, together with a bottle of sweet red wine and a silver goblet. Redhead Dan sat on a large, elevated chair, his sleeping baby on his lap. Lemmy tried to ignore the many eyes that watched his every move.

Rabbi Gerster released the safety pin on the cloth diaper. He pulled up the tiny feet, removed the diaper, and chanted, “Every male among you shall be circumcised. Thus shall the covenant remain as an everlasting mark in your flesh.”

The hall erupted in a loud, “Amen!”

Lemmy handed him the pressure gauze.

The baby suddenly opened his eyes and saw Rabbi Gerster’s bearded face. The toothless gums opened wide, and he screamed.

The rabbi tied the strip of gauze around the base of the baby’s tiny penis. The fiddling must have stimulated it, because a stream of urine emerged, passing over Rabbi Gerster’s left shoulder. Redhead Dan chuckled nervously, and Lemmy held the blade forward. His father took it and brought it to the baby’s loins.

Redhead Dan cleared his throat. “Blessed you be, Master of the Universe, for the sacred mitzvah of bringing my son, Shimon ben Dan, into the covenant.”

Lemmy held the baby’s legs apart, Rabbi Gerster sliced off the foreskin with the blade, and blood gushed out of the cut.

Redhead Dan said, “Oy!”

The baby shrieked.

Lemmy let go of one of the baby’s legs and received the blade from his father. The rabbi picked up the wine goblet and recited: “Bless you be, Master of the Universe, creator of the fruit of wine.” He sipped wine and bent down, bringing his lips to the fresh, bleeding wound. Lemmy reached for a fresh bandage.

The rabbi sucked on the open cut, turned his head, and spat a mouthful of wine and blood on the floor. Lemmy quickly pressed a bandage to the wound while his father swished a mouthful of red wine from the goblet and spat again. He wiped his lips and beard with his handkerchief. Meanwhile Lemmy fixed a clean diaper on the baby, dipped a piece of cotton in wine, and held it to the baby’s lips. The screaming stopped.

The men chanted, “Mazal Tov and Siman Tov—Good Fortune and Good Omen.”

Rabbi Gerster gulped from the wine, this time swallowing it, and joined the men’s singing. Lemmy cleaned the knife and collected the bloody bandages and the foreskin. Later he would bury it behind the synagogue.

The men helped the shaken Redhead Dan down from the bimah, and a circle formed around him, dancing and singing, as he carried his son to the foyer, where a cluster of women was waiting with the tearful young mother.

Lemmy felt his father’s arm on his shoulder. “I think you’re ready,” the rabbi said. “Next time, you’ll conduct the ceremony.”