The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 19





On Wednesday morning, as the men had their tea and bread in the forecourt of the synagogue, Lemmy saw Redhead Dan limping up the alley from the gate. Many of the younger men hurried to welcome him, singing, “Connive and scheme—it shall not work! Conspire and curse—it shall not stand! For God is with us! God is with us!”

They accompanied him into the synagogue and over to his seat next to Yoram. The forced smile on Redhead Dan’s face contrasted with the bruises and the black eye. After a few moments, everyone returned to their open Talmud volumes, puffing on cigarettes.

At the conclusion of a morning of study, they recited the noon prayers and went outside to eat lunch and discuss the coming vote in the Knesset. Later that day, the proposed abortion law was scheduled to be presented to the assembly for a second call which, if passed, would allow the committee to submit it for a third and final call, when a majority vote would turn the proposal into law.

The religious parties in the Knesset had announced that they would abstain. Opposition leader Menachem Begin had yet to tell his caucus how to vote, but Prime Minister Levi Eshkol announced that the Labor party and its coalition partners would vote in favor of the proposed law. However, some in Neturay Karta speculated that many Knesset members would defy their party leaders and refuse to support the legalization of infanticide.

Lemmy stood with Benjamin, chewing on a piece of bread and listening to the discussions, which quieted down when Rabbi Gerster came out of the synagogue. He searched the crowd, saw Lemmy, and summoned him with a curled finger.

A half hour later, they arrived at the police compound at the Russian Yard on Jaffa Street. A policeman showed them into Major Buskilah’s office.

“I want to know,” Rabbi Gerster demanded, “why did you beat my disciple?”

“For the same reason I let your son go.” The major pointed at his belt, which rested on the desk with the holstered gun and truncheon. “Violence will be met with violence, peaceful protest will be met with peaceful measures.” He gestured at two metal chairs. “Please.”

Rabbi Gerster sat down, but Lemmy remained standing.

“I hope the lesson was clear enough for the other Talmudic scholars.”

“That violence must be met with violence?” The rabbi pointed at the truncheon. “This type of reasoning could go both ways, back and forth, worse and worse, until we lose control and spill blood.”

“There won’t be any violence on our side if your guys stop throwing rocks at people every time you disagree with something. We’re not Neanderthals any longer, you know?”

Lemmy stepped forward, but his father raised a hand, stopping him, and said, “Hurtling insults is a common prelude to hurtling rocks. I’m here to make sure we don’t have either.”

Major Buskilah nodded. “I’m listening.”

“If a Knesset majority supports the proposed abortion law, Neturay Karta will have to march in protest, bring out the word of God. But we will remain peaceful and hurt no one as long as we are not attacked by others.”

“I will communicate the request to those who make such decisions.”

“We seek Shalom,” the rabbi said, using the Hebrew word for peace, “but Torah requires us to denounce sinners. We’ll need safe passage and an opportunity to be heard without harassment.” He stood and turned to leave, but when his eyes met Lemmy’s, something in his expression communicated an implied license to act.

Without haste, Lemmy pulled the major’s truncheon out of its holster, grasped it with both hands, lifted it high, and with all his strength landed it across the back of the metal chair. The wooden truncheon broke in half.

Lemmy put the handle on the desk, picked up the other part, and placed it next to the handle. “Good day,” he said and followed his father.

They left the police compound and went through the market on Jaffa Street, with its clutter of shoppers and vendors under a whirl of dust. The noise jarred Lemmy’s ears, and the dense air burned his tired eyes. He followed his father’s wide back through the chaos.

The narrow passageway welcomed them with the familiar foul smell. The beggar in a hooded cloak was sitting by the door on crossed legs, his back to the wall, reciting from Psalms. Rabbi Gerster placed the sacred book in the beggar’s lap and went inside. Lemmy followed.

They washed their hands, stepped outside, and recited the appropriate prayer. Rabbi Gerster took the book from the beggar’s lap and dropped a coin in his cup. The beggar did not look up.

During the evening, news filtered into the synagogue that the abortion vote was delayed, as the Knesset was engaged in a heated debate over military issues. Earlier in the day, the Syrian defense minister, Hafez al-Assad, had accused Israel of planning an attack on Syria on behalf of the United States in order to topple the Syrian Ba’ath regime. He declared: “The Syrian army would destroy the Jews!” Egyptian president Nasser followed with a promise to “Recover the stolen Arab land and throw the Jews into the sea.” Meanwhile, retired general Moshe Dayan opined from the Knesset podium that the government’s sheepish response to Arab threats amounted to an invitation for attack: “The current leadership is putting our collective neck on the executioner’s block,” Dayan said.

The debate in the Knesset continued into the night, and many Neturay Karta men remained in the synagogue, praying and studying.

Shortly after four on Thursday morning, the Voice of Israel reported on the radio that, after a brief presentation and without much debate, a majority of the Knesset approved the proposed abortion law, which was sent back to the committee for fine-tuning before its submission for a final vote.

From the time the news came until sunrise, the synagogue bustled with anger over the new Zionist atrocity. A large group clustered around Redhead Dan, who explained that this law was not another instance of the Zionists committing personal sins, such as driving on Sabbath or digging up sacred graves. Rather, the Zionists had reached a new low, combining two of the greatest sins: Shedding the blood of another Jew and defiance of God’s first mitzvah to procreate and fill the land with their seed.

After morning prayers, the men lined up before Rabbi Gerster to receive the white envelopes containing bundles of Israeli liras, which they took outside and handed to their wives to shop for the Sabbath. Rabbi Gerster did not come out to bless the families of Neturay Karta, but told the men to go home and change into their best clothes.

On hearing the news of the abortion vote, Elie Weiss drove to the Knesset building. The note inside Abraham’s book yesterday had made it clear that a showdown was only a matter of time:



If the legislation passes second call in the Knesset, I’ll have to lead the protests. Neturay Karta will be joined by many others. Buskilah must control his policemen. No shooting—we don’t need martyrs.



p.s. Did you reach Tanya?



At the service entrance in the rear of the Knesset building, Elie was directed into the underground garage, through a second security checkpoint, to a long, gray Chevrolet, which was guarded by two men in short-sleeve shirts.

Prime Minister Levi Eshkol was in the back seat, reviewing a pile of documents. He glanced up when Elie got in and returned to his papers, penning brief notations on each document. When he finished, the prime minister lowered the window and handed the document to one of the guards. “So, Weiss,” he said, “what bad news do you have for me today?”

“Religious riots against the abortion law.”

“My enemies should have my luck.” Eshkol sighed. “Abortions! My fellow Yids think we’re in Holland. Next thing they’ll be planting tulips. Can you believe it? Not a generation since the Nazis killed two million Jewish children, and we talk about abortions. We need babies, not abortions!”

“I think it’s more about women, not babies.”

“And why now? What’s the urgency? The Arabs are gathering again to kill us, and I have to waste my time on abortions? I wish I had time to create such a problem for a pretty woman!”

Elie smiled. The clerical-looking prime minister’s only known vice was his young and attractive wife—his third, who had formerly been the Knesset librarian.

“Speaking of pretty, how did you do with Tanya Galinski?”

“It came to nothing,” Elie lied. “Now, about the abortion law, can you suspend the legislative process?”

“They won’t listen.” The prime minister sighed. “I’m under siege. Liberals on my left, Menachem Begin on my right, Dayan behind my back, the religious parties going through my pockets, and Ben Gurion’s errand boy, Shimon Peres, crapping on my head without lowering his pants!”

Elie chuckled.

“It’s not funny! The Soviets have delivered enough MiG jets to Nasser that he can line them up and skip from wing to wing all the way from Cairo to Tel Aviv without getting sand between his toes. And the newspapers say I’m unqualified to defend Israel! Why? Did I lose the Old City in ’forty-eight? Did I withdraw from Sinai in ’fifty-six in reliance on the incompetent UN? They think Dayan is better because he looks like a pirate!”

“I can make you popular again.”

“Ha! I’m chewing pebbles and passing rocks. Popularity is far from my mind.”

“I have a plan that will make everyone coalesce around your leadership.”

“Man plans and God laughs,” Eshkol said.

“It’s a fail-safe plan.”

“And what will it cost me?”

“Appoint me chief of Mossad.”

“A summer-night’s dream.” Eshkol made a dismissive gesture.

“You already have a job—keep those religious hotheads in the box. Or send in the police. They’ll beat down those troublesome Talmudic scholars in ten minutes.”

“The Gestapo was also capable.”

The prime minister’s face paled. Like most Israelis, he had lost most of his family in the Holocaust. Even two decades later, the trauma of the Final Solution remained the most dominant force in Israeli politics, a calamity that served as a yardstick against all other dangers. Many believed the Arabs were preparing to finish what the Germans had started and that the Goyim—the Western world—was content to again cluck its collective tongue and watch the Jews die. With the United States bogged down in Vietnam, and France smarting from an Algerian humiliation, Israel’s only allies had declined to help. Prime Minister Eshkol’s futile pleas to Washington and Paris were viewed by the Israeli public as groveling, further decimating his image.

Elie took out a cigarette, but didn’t light it. “I’ve worked with my guy for nearly twenty years to draw to Neturay Karta the most extreme men from every Orthodox community, so that we can watch them in one place. It costs me a lot of money, but it works. Abortion, however, could potentially create an anti-Zionist consensus in the ultra-Orthodox community, not just in Jerusalem, but all over Israel. Neturay Karta will lead, but their protests will draw huge crowds.”

“Then put a siege on them for a couple of weeks, until things calm down.”

“That’s the surest way to disaster.”

“Why?”

“Imagine the media photos—policemen with guns and helmets, rolls of barbed wire, and bearded Jews in black hats. Shall we feed them rotten potato skins to complete the picture?”

“A Jewish ghetto.”

“In Jerusalem, no less.” Elie waited for the image to sink in. “The Jewish world would be outraged. However, if they are caught using weapons against the government, the balance of sympathy would reverse.”

A guard put his head in. “They’re calling for you upstairs.”

“My plan,” Elie said, “is to stage an event soon—a pretext—to justify harsh measures. The basic idea is to catch a couple of black hats in the act.”

“What act?”

“An armed attack on you.”

Eshkol removed his glasses. “Attack? On me?”

“Two birds with one shot. Not only would it give us a pretext to clamp down on the ultra-Orthodox, but you’ll come out a hero. Assassination attempts are proven to give a shot of popularity even to the most downtrodden politician.”

“Especially if they succeed!”

Elie smiled. “There won’t be any real risk to your personal safety.”

The prime minister gave Elie a long, searching look. “Talk about risk, does your guy on the inside realize what they’ll do to him if he’s exposed as a mole?”

“My guy,” Elie said, “is not an easy man to kill.”

Lemmy watched the men return to the synagogue in widebrimmed hats, brushed-up black coats, and pressed white shirts. His father was sitting near the ark, his eyes buried in a book, rocking back and forth. The men sat on the wooden benches, watching him. When everyone was seated, the rabbi got up, kissed the blue curtain over the ark, and faced the silent throng.

“This is a test,” he said. “Our God decided to test us!”

The men murmured their agreement.

“The Zionists want to kill innocent Jewish babies,” he continued, his voice rising. “Zionist doctors will take pregnant daughters of Israel into clinics with white walls, lay them on white sheets, and slaughter their unborn babies!”

Men cried out and hit the tables with open hands. Lemmy looked around, astounded at how his father’s few words impacted them.

Up on the dais, Rabbi Gerster stood hunched over the lectern, his beard coming down his chest, his white, striped prayer shawl draped around his shoulders. When the cries dwindled, his blue eyes turned upward, his hands clenched, pressed to his chest.

The men watched him.

“The Zionists think they know everything.” He spoke very quietly. “They claim that unborn babies feel no pain, that they are nothing but senseless patchworks of flesh and bones. The Zionists claim that, until birth, a baby has no soul with which to rejoice or suffer, with which to serve God even in prematurity by being the very image of God, by demonstrating the miracle of God’s creation and His wondrous powers.”

A few men yelled, “Amen! Amen!”

“The Zionists think nothing of Torah, of God’s words: I shall make man in my image. They think the unborn is disposable, like a skin-mole to be cut off and thrown away.” Rabbi Gerster shook his head. “Not worthy of life.” He took a deep breath and cried, “Pure, innocent Jewish souls, butchered inside their mothers’ wombs!”

The men wailed.

“A carnage sanctioned by the Zionist state!”

Another wail, louder.

Rabbi Gerster paced across the dais, back and forth. “They say it’s a matter of natural law, that the unborn fetus is completely dependent on his mother, a useless organ, which the pregnant mother may cut away.” The rabbi stretched his right hand in front of him, raised the left hand, and dropped it on his right elbow like a guillotine, chopping off his own hand. “Slice it off!”

The men shivered with horror.

“The Zionists,” he went on, “reject God for laws created by Goyim like Aristotle, Cicero, and hypocrites like Saint Thomas Aquinas. They ponder the works of so-called philosophers like Baruch Spinoza, who was rightly excommunicated by the rabbis of Amsterdam.” Rabbi Gerster hit the lectern with an open hand. “The Zionists argue that dependency makes the fetus expendable. But a one-year-old child is also dependent upon his mother, right?”

His right hand gently caressed the head of an imaginary boy standing next to him.

“If the baby is still inside her, she may go to a doctor, who will insert a sharp steel rod between her thighs.” He pierced the air in front of him with his hand. “And stab the baby, stab it and stab it and stab it until it becomes a perforated piece of dead, bloodied flesh!”

The crowd responded with a fearful groan.

“And what if the baby is born?” His right hand returned to caressing the imaginary boy’s head. “A handsome boy, three or four years old, but still dependent on his mother for his survival. By the same logic, she may choose to care for her little boy, or bind him hand and foot and lay him on a table.” The rabbi pretended to do so. “And shove her knitting needle through his brain!” He grabbed the imaginary boy and twisted, shouting, “Or break his little neck!”

A terrible howl tore through the air, and many of the men buried their faces in their hands, crying. Lemmy watched them cry to God through burning throats, beg for His mercy. Even Benjamin was crying, his fists pressed to his eyes.

A memory came to Lemmy’s mind, his mother, lying on her bed. He drove the image from his mind, groaned to silence the persistent voice that told him he was the cause for his mother’s childlessness. For a brief second he saw her again, trying desperately to pin herself onto his father, only to be shoved away with the same hand, with the same rage with which his father had just twisted the imaginary boy’s neck. It was his fault, Lemmy knew. Somehow he had repulsed his father to the point of refusing to have more children, of preferring to live a lie, of depriving Temimah of what she so desperately longed for.

He looked at Benjamin, but his friend was too overwhelmed by the pantomimed killing of the little boy.

After a long time, the men of Neturay Karta fell back onto the wooden benches, exhausted. Only an occasional whimper sounded.

Rabbi Gerster wiped his face with a white handkerchief. “We’ll now go to the streets of Jerusalem to proclaim the word of God: You shall not kill! We’ll warn the Zionists not to pursue their abortion law, lest God’s hand comes down to punish them. But we’ll do it peacefully and pray for our misguided brothers, because a sinner who repents is more righteous than one who has never sinned.”

He kissed the velvet curtain on the ark, his hands on the embroidered golden letters. He descended from the dais and walked through the synagogue, each row draining behind him into the center aisle. He led the column of men through the foyer to the forecourt and down to the gate. Cantor Toiterlich chanted verses from Psalms, which they repeated after him. As the long snake of black hats wriggled its tail against the rusted bars of the gate, Lemmy slipped away.

He entered the quiet apartment and shut the door, leaning against it, panting. On the opposite wall, above the door to his father’s study, a square of exposed bricks contrasted with the white walls. Every house in Meah Shearim had a similar unfinished patch to symbolize the dwellers’ constant mourning for the destruction of the Temple on Mount Moriah, which had stood in ruins for two thousand years. Roman hands had thrown the torches and catapulted the rocks that had demolished it, but Talmud said that the Temple was destroyed due to hatred among Jews. As he looked up at the naked bricks, Lemmy thought of his father, leading his disciples through the streets of Jerusalem to a certain confrontation with other Jews.

He entered his father’s study. The desk was covered with books and papers. The chair had a tall back and padded armrests that ended with carved lion heads. Hundreds of books were lined on wooden shelves all the way to the ceiling.

Lemmy sat in the armchair and clenched the lion heads. He remembered sitting in his father’s lap, embraced by the big hands, his own little hands tapping on the desk, the back of his neck tickled by his father’s beard.

On the desk was the brown book his father always carried into town, a pencil resting in the crease. When Lemmy opened the book, the pencil fell out, together with a stack of Israeli liras. He turned the book to look at the cover. The title had faded with time. Lemmy traced the letters with his finger. THE ZOHAR.

His hands reflexively threw the book back on the desk. It was the book of Kabbalah!

He wanted to put the pencil and money back in the book, but could not bring himself to touch it again. He stumbled out of the study, ran to his room, and closed the door.

“Jerusalem? Is that you?”

He had assumed his mother was out. Had she seen him enter his father’s study? He wished she would just go away.

Temimah entered his bedroom. “Why didn’t you go to the demonstration?”

He avoided her eyes, afraid of remembering the way she had looked at the height of passion. “I’m not feeling well.”

“What’s wrong?” She reached the back of her head and tightened the knot on her plain headdress. Her fingers felt around it, ensuring it covered her head. The motion was mechanical, reassuring.

“I’m tired.”

“You read too much.” Her eyes lingered on the bookshelf, lined with volumes of Talmud.

Suddenly he realized it wasn’t Talmud she was referring to. He jumped from the bed and stood between her and the bookshelf.

“I clean your room every day. You think I would miss those books?”

“Don’t tell him!”

“Your father has enough to worry about. God knows what would happen here without him.” Anxiety tightened her voice. “You must stop.”

“No!”

“But these books are bad for you.”

“That’s a lie!”

Temimah seemed startled by his anger.

“I can’t go back. I can’t ignore what I know. I’m not a damn horse.” He placed his hands by the sides of his face like horse blinders.

“Am I a damn horse?”

Her pain tied a knot in his throat. It was his father he was angry at, not her. “I didn’t say that.”

“You think I don’t know what I’m missing? But I also know what I have—a husband, a son, a home, and a God, who has prescribed this life for me.” She approached the bookshelf, inserted her hand behind the set of Talmud volumes, and pulled out The Painted Bird. The small book was wrapped in transparent plastic for protection. The cover illustration showed a bird with a human expression, its feathers red, yellow, and green, its beak crooked, its malicious eyes staring at the reader. A straw basket was strapped to its wings, and in it sat a boy with sad eyes.

“Please,” Lemmy said, “put it back.”

She opened the book. “Who is Tanya?”

He snatched The Painted Bird from her, shoved it behind the Talmud volumes, and headed to the door.

“Jerusalem!” His mother grabbed his forearm. “She gives you those books, doesn’t she?”

He nodded.

“Who is she?”

“Ask your husband!” Lemmy shook off her hand and left the room.

She followed him to the hallway. “I’ve asked him.”

Lemmy paused and turned.

“Your father used to have nightmares.” Her face was ashen, the wrinkles of untimely aging growing deeper. “He cried her name in his sleep. Tanya! Tanya!”

“What did he say when you asked him?”

“Nothing.” Temimah went to her room, pausing at the door. “He wouldn’t answer.”

“So you sent him to sleep in the study?”

His mother’s voice cracked when she answered, “That was his decision.”

“What a nice surprise!” Tanya embraced Lemmy. He had never visited her on a weekday, only on the Sabbath. And she had never embraced him, only touched him briefly, as if unintentionally. Now she was holding him to her, pressing her limbs against him. Without thinking, he kissed the top of her head. She must have just gotten out of the shower, her hair still wet, its scent fresh like flowers.

She took his hand and led him inside. A beige sweater hung loosely from her straight shoulders, her breasts erect under it. He forced his eyes away, dropped off his hat, and put on a black yarmulke.

Tanya walked to her desk and collected the documents that were scattered on it.

He came closer and looked over her shoulder. He saw documents in English, German, and French, hand-written notations in Hebrew. Everything was stamped in red: Top Secret

“Is this your work?”

“Watch it.” She pinched his nose. “You only have one.”

“I can keep a secret.”

She steered him toward the old couch. “When you love Israel like I do, you do your best to defend it. I’m best in languages, so that’s what I do.” Her teeth sparkled, and he noticed that her face was flushed, as if she had spent time in the sun. “Talk about defending Israel, why aren’t you studying Talmud today?”

“Nobody’s studying today. My father is leading a demonstration against the abortion law.”

Tanya turned on the radio—a wooden box with large, black plastic knobs for volume and tuning, and a round see-through frequency scale. Static sounds emanated from a square cloth over the speaker while the radio warmed up. Finally, the newscaster’s voice came: “Thousands of ultra-Orthodox men gathered to protest the abortion legislation, which passed another legislative hurdle this morning in the Knesset. I’m looking at the intersection of Jaffa Street and King George Street, where all the stores have shut down, and the road is a river of black hats. Police officers have taken positions—”

The reporter paused as a roar came from the demonstrators.

“There he is! The leader of Neturay Karta, the famous Rabbi Abraham Gerster.” The reporter was practically shouting now. “This rabbi vowed never to set foot outside Jerusalem as long as the Temple Mount is occupied by the Jordanians. He stands on a makeshift platform and recites from Psalms into a loudspeaker. We can only guess what King David would think if he heard his beautiful verses recited by a fanatic rabbi in a black coat as a battle cry against fellow Jews!”

Another roar came from the crowd.

“Something is happening near the platform! I can see men fighting—Orthodox and seculars beating each other! Policemen are rushing in, wielding clubs. My God! The platform is knocked over! Rabbi Gerster is down! It’s a huge scuffle! I just saw some rocks flying overhead! More policemen are running over!”

Shouts of panic came from the radio. Lemmy leaned closer. Tanya put a hand on his knee, pressing it lightly.

The reporter’s voice could hardly be heard over the background noise. “They are all rushing in that direction now. Teargas! At least ten canisters just flew over the crowd! Police snipers are shooting teargas from the roofs. It’s real war!” He paused again and cried: “Rabbi Gerster is hurt!” After a moment of pure noise, he yelled, “They’re picking him up! His face is bloody! They’re running back to Meah Shearim!”

Tanya turned off the radio.

“I’d better get back home.” Lemmy could barely breathe.

“Your father is fine, don’t worry.”

“He was bleeding!”

“How timely.”

He looked at her, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“His injury happened at the right time. It stopped the fighting just as it was getting out of hand, don’t you think?”

“Thank God!”

She laughed, leaning toward him, her long hair against his cheek. Again, the smell of flowers sent a warm tide through his guts. He felt an urge to bury his face in the thick mass of her hair. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, weakened.

Tanya put her arm around him. His muscles tensed, and he felt hot. “Please don’t.” He could barely speak. “It’s not allowed.”

She touched his neck, her hand cool against his burning skin. “But I’m not a married woman.”

“Still.”

“Because I haven’t dipped in the ritual mikvah?”

He was surprised how easily she read his mind. Every woman was sullied by her monthly menstrual discharge and therefore forbidden to touch a man until her impurity was cleansed by immersing in the mikvah, the community ritual bath of collected rainwater.

“But I’m pure,” Tanya said. “I dipped in the sea last week. That’s as good as a mikvah, right?”

Lemmy could tell by her tone that she was smiling. He wanted to say that, while the sea was indeed the best form of purifying a woman, the exacting rules prescribed by the rabbis required that she immerse while naked, to ensure that the cleansing water had unhindered access to her impure skin. But the thought of Tanya swimming in the nude paralyzed his tongue, and he bowed his head forward, submitting to her touch. His muscles softened under her firm fingers, which crept up from his nape, to the back of his head. His hair passed between her fingers. The world around him shrunk, nothing existed—no sound, no smell, no taste, no sight—nothing but the light touch of Tanya’s hand.

His black yarmulke fell to the floor.

Her hand backtracked down to his lower nape, under his ears, brushed against his spiraling payos. He turned to face her.