The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 22





Tanya left a message for Elie Weiss with the SOD desk at the prime minister’s office to meet her at a small café on Ben Yehuda Street. He pulled two of his agents from a surveillance assignment nearby and placed them at a table near the door, where they played backgammon. He sat at a corner table with his back to the wall.

When Tanya entered, he took off his wool cap and stood. It was Friday afternoon, and only a dozen other customers were in the café. He watched her cross the room and his breath quickened. What she radiated went beyond beauty. Perhaps it was the contrast between her black hair and the white skin, or between her physical smallness and the fierce posture. Or maybe the feline fluidity of her body’s movements.

She sat down and removed the oversized sunglasses, revealing her turquoise-green eyes.

Elie swallowed with difficulty. “You make an unlikely spy,” he said. “No one in this room will ever forget you.”

“You’ll be surprised.”

“I’m serious. How do you survive in this line of work?”

“Ill-fitting clothes, out-of-fashion hats, and never meeting their eyes.” Tanya shrugged. “I don’t bother with it in Israel, but in Europe no one gives me a second look.”

“I find it hard to believe.” Elie flagged down the waitress. “Bring us tea with lemon.”

“I have terrible news.” She kept her voice low. “Abraham’s son saw a box delivered to the most extreme guy in the sect, someone called Redhead Dan. The description fits hand grenades. Abraham hit the boy before he could tell him what he’d seen. Hit him! I don’t understand it—why would Abraham hit his son?”

Elie was more concerned with why Redhead Dan had shown him the grenades. “Hand grenades in Neturay Karta?”

“Yes!”

“Impossible. The kid is confused.”

“His description fits perfectly. And there’s talk of violence. An eye for an eye. You must contact Abraham immediately. Only he can prevent disaster.”

“Well, better safe than sorry.” Elie rubbed his scalp with his hand. “I’ll inform Abraham right away. Did his son tell you anything else?”

“No.”

Elie was relieved, but he had to make sure. “Did he hear of any plans to actually use the grenades?”

“No.”

“Does he know where they’re hidden? Anything?”

“It was a coincidence. He ran into them—”

“Lucky for us, but what was he doing out there in the middle of the night?”

Tanya blushed and looked away.

“I see.” Elie lit a cigarette. “He’s a bit young for you, isn’t he?”

“He’s almost eighteen.” She parted her hair with both hands, throwing it over her shoulders. “You have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary. How else would you suck information from him?”

“You disgust me.” She glared at him, the blushing skin of her face as smooth as that of the seventeen-year-old girl he remembered.

“You are fortunate, Tanya. Few women get to go back in time, so to speak, do it over, save a lover from the wrong path.”

She leaned on the table, her face close to his. “Abraham was on the wrong path because you manipulated him to keep hunting down Germans, and I was too naïve—”

“I manipulated Abraham?” Elie sneered. “He was obsessed with revenge after he saw the Nazis butcher our families. He wanted to keep killing Nazis, terminate them in the most painful way, every one of them, including Nazis like your sweetheart, Obergruppenführer Klaus von Koenig.”

“Klaus was an accountant. He didn’t butcher anyone.”

“Himmler’s deputy, the protégée who facilitated SS operations with his financial genius, was just an accountant?”

“He didn’t kill Jews.”

“Your dear Klaus was no less a mass murderer than the rest of the Nazi high command!”

“I thought we were talking about Abraham.”

“Right. That’s what drove him—avenge the Holocaust and prevent the next one. It still drives him today. Drives us!”

Tanya smiled bitterly. “How could I compete with that?”

Elie didn’t answer. What could he say? The truth? That Abraham had changed his mind and wanted to quit his secret work to be with her? No. Telling her the truth would ruin everything.

“I don’t have to atone for failing to save Abraham or for losing him,” she said. “Abraham lost me then, and he lost me again a few months ago. He’d rather stay with those misguided Talmudic souls than live with me in happiness. But Lemmy is a different story. Him I can save!”

Elie clapped. “Bravo!”

For a moment he thought Tanya would hit him, but she turned and left. His agents put down the dice and started to rise, but Elie shook his head, and they sat back and watched her leave.

He took his seat and slurped cautiously from his tea. The waitress brought the check, and he dropped a few bills on the table. He had no intention of informing Abraham. The risk was small that Lemmy would approach his father again about the grenades before tomorrow morning. The boy was still smarting from a good fatherly beating.

Tanya left the café on the verge of tears, determined not to give Elie the satisfaction. She walked down the street, shielding her face from the wind. He was doing it again, the same as twenty years ago, during those few months in the forest with Abraham, when Elie’s dark eyes had cast a constant shadow over their passion, his thin lips lopsided in a humorless grin. Now he was doing the same thing, mocking her relationship with Lemmy. But why was she so upset? Was there a grain of truth in it? Was she a pathetic middle-aged woman trying to relive the lost passion of her distant youth?

She reached a bus stop and huddled in the small canopy with a few other people. Lemmy would be preparing for the Sabbath now, changing into his best clothes. Earlier, when she had seen him stand next to Bira at the door, Tanya could hardly breathe. She had loved their fathers, one a Nazi general, the other a scion of a rabbinical line, two men who could not be more different. Yet Bira and Lemmy looked like siblings, with blue eyes, blond hair, and strong build. Even their different outfits—Lemmy’s ultra-Orthodox black garb and Bira’s IDF uniform—barely camouflaged their resemblance.

The bus approached, and the passengers lined up to board it. She glanced up the street at the café. Elie had not yet left, and his two goons were still bent over their game board. Why wasn’t he rushing off to warn Abraham? Why was he unconcerned with the warning she had delivered with such urgency?

“Young lady?” The bus driver tapped the steering wheel. “I don’t have all day!”

The realization hit her suddenly. She hurried back to the café.

“How did you know?”

Elie put down the tea cup. “Back already?”

“How did you know it was the middle of the night?”

He lit a cigarette. “When else would anyone deliver contraband?”

“It was you!” She pointed a finger in his face. “You delivered the grenades!”

“Nonsense.”

“You’re an evil man!” Her voice rose.

He signaled his agents, who shooed out the few patrons.

She leaned on the table. “Abraham has kept them quiet for eighteen years, sacrificed everything to prevent violence, and now you’ll destroy all his achievements!”

Elie clucked his tongue while stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray. “Even your darling Abraham can’t control them forever. We always knew that one day it would turn bloody. Read the Bible, it’s all there. Better it happens on my terms. My timing. My plan.”

“Have you consulted Abraham about your plan?”

Elie brushed the question aside. “He’s a soldier. Need-to-know basis. He managed to control them over Sabbath violations, their demonstrations at archeological sites, their window smashing at restaurants serving bread on Passover. Maybe he’ll control them over the abortion issue. But it’s getting harder. What I’m doing will eliminate his internal opposition in the sect. They’ll tremble in fear.”

“So why don’t you tell him about it? These are his people. He knows them better than you!”

“I spent a night in a cell with that Redhead Dan character. We bonded, prayed together like kindred spirits, a pair of seditious fanatics determined to teach the Zionists a painful lesson.” Elie chuckled hoarsely. “Physical pain and sleep deprivation are great fodder for brainstorming. He bought right into my act. We worked up a concept for a sensational attack.”

Tanya felt weak. Was he just bragging? “When?”

“Tomorrow morning. I promised to create a diversion, so the two of them can escape back to Meah Shearim. But, as Eshkol likes to say, I didn’t promise to keep my promise.”

“Where?”

“The prime minister’s residence, during a press conference about defending West Jerusalem in the event of a surprise Jordanian attack. Eshkol and Rabin will brief the journalists on the roof, and then—boom! They’ll see it from above in live action, like a movie. As soon as the black-hat terrorists attack, they’ll be cut down.”

Tanya grabbed the table, making the empty tea cups rattle in their saucers. “What do you mean cut down?”

“They attack, the guards respond. Fair game. And the media will have photos of two ultra-Orthodox men, black coats and all.”

“It’s murder!”

“Don’t be naïve. By tomorrow night, the public will rally behind Eshkol. I hired a professor at Tel Aviv University to do a whole analysis. He went back to Roman times, examined all cases since then, all the way through Queen Victoria—four attempts on her life, by the way. The American president, Andrew Jackson, who beat up his assassin with a cane. And Adolf Hitler, an excellent example too, attributing his survival to divine intervention. President De Gaulle, as well. Politicians who survive assassination attempts automatically gain hugely in popularity. Political scientists call it Popularity by Misfire. It’s the twisted psychology of public sentiment.”

“You’re sick!”

“Desperate situations require desperate measures,” Elie said. “The ultra-Orthodox fanatics will make Eshkol a hero to the secular majority.”

Tanya dropped into the chair. “You must call it off! These Neturay Karta men are like children, living in the fairytale world of Talmud. And why give them live grenades? You could have given them smoke grenades!”

“It has to look real. Can you imagine the mocking headlines: Assassins Believe Smoke Enough to Knock Down Eshkol. It would defeat the whole purpose. We need a heroic survival, photos of an unscathed prime minister standing in the rubble, sipping coffee amidst the debris, laughing in the face of danger. Don’t you see the brilliance of this plan?”

“Throwing grenades in a residential neighborhood, based on political science? Do you hear yourself?”

“You’ll see. Eshkol will address the nation with confidence, reassuring the people of his control of the situation. With the war imminent, the army needs a popular prime minister. The silent majority will unite behind him, and the Orthodox will keep their black hats down to the floor for years.”

“It will never work!” She could barely control her fury. “You’ll produce a handful of martyrs, and the next day hundreds of other Orthodox youngsters will start collecting weapons in all the yeshivas. You’ll start the very armed rebellion you’re trying to prevent!”

“I disagree,” Elie said. “The Orthodox will react with fear and self-flogging. And the few bad ones, we’ll pick like blackberries and squash them.”

The waitress showed up with a freshly brewed tea pot.

Elie filled his cup. “Remember what happened to weak Jews? Israel will be destroyed unless we eliminate our enemies.” He slurped his tea, and the rising steam blurred his face for a moment.

“I won’t let you go through with this madness!”

“It’s way over your head.” He warmed his hands over the tea pot. “Don’t interfere.”

“And if I do? You’ll have me cut down as well?”

“Just a short vacation.” Elie put on his wool cap and beckoned the two agents. “In seclusion.”

When she saw the agents approach, Tanya grabbed the steaming tea pot and emptied it in Elie’s face.

Lemmy was reading The Painted Bird when his mother knocked on the door and entered his room. “Benjamin is in the foyer to see you. Would you like some milk and cookies?”

“Thanks.” He stuffed the book under his pillow and went to greet Benjamin. As he reached the foyer, the door to his father’s study opened and Yoram, Redhead Dan’s study companion, came out, quickly leaving the apartment.

Rabbi Gerster emerged from his study. He wore a white shirt and black pants held by suspenders. He looked tired. The bandage was gone from his forehead, the small wound covered by a scab.

“Good day, Rabbi,” Benjamin said. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Seeing you here makes me feel better.” Rabbi Gerster held a book in his hand, bound in rugged brown leather. The Zohar. “You know, boys, what’s the difference between a sin against God and a sin against a fellow Jew?”

“Yes,” Benjamin said. “God won’t forgive the latter unless you sought forgiveness from the one you offended.”

“Jerusalem?” His father waited until their eyes met. “Yoram told me about the box. I now understand what you wanted to tell me that night.”

Lemmy shrugged.

“But I was too upset to listen. It was after midnight, and no one knew where you had gone. Your mother almost went out of her mind with worry. You understand?”

Another shrug.

“It was my duty to discipline you. Talmud says: A father who deprives his son of the whip is like a father who hates his son. Right?”

Lemmy glanced at Benjamin, whose mouth was slightly open, looking from father to son.

“You understand why I had to hit you, yes?”

“Are you asking for my forgiveness?”

The rabbi smiled sadly. “Yes, I am.”

“Perhaps you should first ask Mother for her forgiveness? I mean, what’s a slap on the face compared to what you’re doing to her?”

Rabbi Gerster’s shoulders sagged, and the strong hand that had slapped Lemmy a week ago came up and tugged at the graying beard. He turned and stepped back into his study.

Lemmy grabbed Benjamin’s arm and led him to his room. A plate of warm cookies and two glasses of milk were waiting on his desk.

“Master of the Universe!” Benjamin took off his black hat. “What’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.” Lemmy shut the door. “Here, have some milk.”

“I can’t.” Benjamin looked at his watch. “I ate a late lunch, turkey sandwich, so I’m not allowed dairy for another two hours. Are the cookies dairy?”

“I’m sure they are. My mom uses milk chocolate chips.” He felt angry at the sight of milk and cookies kept from Benjamin’s enjoyment because of the six-hour wait required between eating meat and dairy. “This is all so idiotic!”

“What’s so idiotic?”

“All God said in the Torah was: Do not cook a calf in its mother’s milk. From this symbolic ethical rule we Jews have created a behemoth!”

“The dietary rules make sense,” Benjamin said.

“To avoid the risk of cooking a calf in its mother’s milk, the early sages banned cooking any calves in any cow’s milk. The next generation of rabbis decided not to cook any cattle—young or old—in any milk, including goat, sheep, and camel’s milk. The next generation decided to ban eating any meat simultaneously with any dairy product—just in case! Then Jews bought separate sets of pots and pans and plates and silverware for meat and dairy to make sure there’s no risk of cooking a calf in its mother’s milk!”

Benjamin laughed. “You know the answer. These are fences to guard us from an accidental sin.”

“Accidental incestuous cooking? Is that the reason we treat chicken like beef, lest one day a clever Yid farmer would breed a chicken that gives milk, and his dumb wife might cook a little, soft-feathered chick’aleh in the milk of its mother hen!”

“Could happen!”

“And finally, the rabbis decided that we should wait six hours after eating meat or fowl because, if we ingested dairy, it might lead to cooking!” Lemmy leaned forward and pulled on Benjamin’s side lock, extending the rolled hair until it straightened as long as his arm. “It’s written: Do not shave the side of your beard like the Gentiles.” He let Benjamin’s side lock spring back into place, dangling down to his shoulder. “God didn’t want Israelites imitating the pagan hairstyle of biblical times. But over generations, Don’t shave became Don’t trim, Don’t cut, Don’t touch your payos from birth to death, as if this hair,” he tugged again on Benjamin’s side lock, “these dead cells are somehow sacred. It’s ridiculous!”

“Is God ridiculous? Where do you get these ideas?”

Lemmy pulled out The Painted Bird and handed it to him.

Benjamin examined the front cover, the colorful drawings of a painted bird.

“This story is written so well that you feel like you’re watching a movie.”

It was an odd statement. Neither of them had ever seen a movie. Movies were for the sinful, empty-minded Zionists. Benjamin read a few lines, threw the book on the bed, and rubbed his hands against his pants. “It’s a sin to read books like that!”

“It’s about the life of a kid like us in a different time.” He picked the book up from the bed. “It makes you think about the horrible things people do to each other, and—”

“Shush!” Benjamin’s hand covered Lemmy’s mouth. “A good Jew must devote all his time to studying Talmud!”

“Aren’t we supposed to be a guiding light for the goyim?”

“So?”

“How could we be a guiding light for those about whom we know nothing?” It felt odd to repeat Tanya’s argument to his friend.

“You don’t need to commit sins to understand the sinners.” Benjamin went to the door. “Sabbath starts soon. We should go to the synagogue.”

“Wait!” Lemmy’s impulsive sharing of his secret had placed them on a risky path, and he was determined to make his friend understand. “At least read a page, see how wonderful it is!”

“No! Don’t you realize that Satan is trying to seduce you?”

He opened the book and started turning the pages of fine print. He was running out of time. “This boy’s parents left him with an old woman at the beginning of the war. They were Jews, or Gypsies. A few months later the old woman dies, and the boy hits the road. He encounters all kinds of strange people who abuse him. And after every cruel experience he finds hope in a new method of worship. First he is superstitious, completely obsessed by witchcraft and evil spirits. Next he becomes a devout Catholic, counting each prayer against each indulgence. Finally he decides that, because all his devotion didn’t save him from suffering, God doesn’t exist. So he becomes a communist, constantly reciting party slogans about equality and freedom. At one point, a peasant paints a bird in different colors, and when it’s released to rejoin its flock, they don’t recognize it and attack. The boy sees a rain of feathers—red, blue, yellow, green, and orange—fall to the ground.”

“And the same will happen to you!” Removing a volume of Talmud from a shelf, Benjamin opened it. “Generations of sages created this eternal wisdom for you. Why go to foreign pasture when your own field is already so lush?”

A loud knock sounded, and Rabbi Gerster entered the room. “Shall we go to the synagogue?”

Benjamin’s face lit up. “Bless be He who cures the ill!”

“Amen,” the rabbi said.

Despite his anger at his father, Lemmy was relieved. Eight days had passed since the abortion protest on King George Street. His father’s self-imposed confinement had deepened the division in the sect. Redhead Dan had boasted that Rabbi Gerster would soon order a violent struggle against the Zionist government, whereas Cantor Toiterlich timidly gave voice to Neturay Karta’s long-held principles of seclusion, prayer, and the study of Talmud. The debate in the sect had been brewing all week while the men had waited for their rabbi’s return.

Rabbi Gerster noticed The Painted Bird and picked it up.

Benjamin shifted in place as if his feet stood on red embers.

“Cheap entertainment for the feebleminded.” The rabbi tossed it on the bed. “Has my son become feebleminded?”

“It’s neither cheap nor entertaining,” Lemmy said. “It’s a story about a boy who spends the long years of the war hiding from the Nazis, freezing in the winters, hungry, terrified. Weren’t you once such a boy?”

Rabbi Gerster’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You have a clever mind,” he said. “Why don’t you apply it wholly to God’s books?”

Before Lemmy could answer, Benjamin took a step toward the door. “Shall we go?”

On the way to the synagogue, the rabbi rested his arm on Benjamin’s shoulder. “I hope you concentrate on the teachings of God, not on stories of the Goyim.”

“We study together.” Benjamin walked stiffly under the weight of the rabbi’s arm. “The two of us, every day, all day.”

“Apparently, my son finds time for idleness.” He spoke as if Lemmy was not behind them. “But not you. God blessed you with a pure soul. Our people need leadership and guidance. Continue to study hard, and one day you’ll be a great rabbi.”

The synagogue appeared before them with its tall windows and massive wood doors. The forecourt was filled with men, and they rushed to greet the rabbi.

Redhead Dan pushed through the crowd. “Rabbi! Have you heard the news? On Sunday morning the Knesset will approve the final abortion law! God wants us to fight! The death of babies takes precedence over the observance of the Sabbath!”

Everyone started talking at the same time, but Rabbi Gerster only smiled, lifted his arms into the air, and began singing: “Heighten your heads, gates, exalt yourselves!”

Confused, the men of Neturay Karta stopped arguing.

“Doorways of the universe,” he sang, “the King of Honor, God is coming!”

The men joined, and the rabbi started from the beginning. Quickly the singing intensified, and circles formed around him. Their faces grew more cheerful as they danced around him faster and faster, proceeding into the synagogue. Inside, the men’s singing filled the hall, their hands on each other’s shoulders, dancing with their beloved rabbi around the elevated bimah, under the glistening lights of the crystal chandelier. “The King of Honor, God is coming!”

Lemmy danced, his arms locked with the men, whose faces glowed with sweat and spiritual joy. The dancing grew faster, the singing louder. Someone broke between Lemmy and the man to his right. It was Redhead Dan, his round, freckled face full of excitement. He sang at the top of his voice, and slapped hard on Lemmy’s shoulder. “Heighten your heads, gates! Exalt yourselves!”

As he danced, Lemmy thought of the mysterious box and Redhead Dan’s talk of fighting. What was he up to? Yoram must have told the rabbi, but did anyone realize how crazy Redhead Dan really was? And who would Tanya tell about this, and what would they do?

Rabbi Abraham Gerster danced with his men, his hands bound with theirs, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the glowing chandelier. It went on and on, until the rabbi suddenly pulled free and leaped on top of the nearest wooden bench.

The men stopped dancing and stood still, watching him.

When the synagogue was completely silent, the rabbi filled his lungs and, very slowly, began singing again: “Raise!”

He paused, his hands reaching up. “Your heads!”

His face creased in great devotion. “Gates, exalt yourselves!”

Everyone looked up at him, holding their breath.

Like a conductor leading his orchestra, he suddenly waved his hands, and his forceful baritone bounced from the walls, “Doorways of the universe!”

They joined him with a wonderful, earthshaking roar, “The King of Honor, God is coming!”

The men of Neturay Karta danced in circles, their pace faster, their unbuttoned coats flying around them, their faces red with ecstasy, brilliant with sweat, their legs going up and down with boundless energy, their black shoes drumming the floor in honor of their beloved rabbi, who had returned to lead them.

But Lemmy broke off from the circle and went outside to the forecourt. The breeze was cool on his moist face. The sun had descended below the horizon. Sabbath had arrived.

“Turning your head saved your eyes.” The doctor on call at the Sharay Tzedek Hospital smeared ointment on Elie’s left cheek, neck, and upper chest, where the tea had scalded him. “Eyes are like eggs. Hot water would boil them.” He was young and not too happy about having to work on Friday night.

Elie wasn’t listening. His mind was filled with vengeful images of Tanya suffering all kinds of torture. But those images would have to remain in his mind. Hurting Tanya in any way was outside the realm of possibility. It had been his fault anyway. His infatuation with her had loosened his tongue, and he had bragged like a schoolboy on a pubescent date, receiving his just reward in the form of second-degree burns. Now she was under guard at a safe house on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where she would remain until after tomorrow morning’s operation. The doctor put down the ointment jar and pulled off the gloves. “We’ll keep you overnight with a fluid drip. I can prescribe something to make you comfortable.”

“No.” Elie gave him a look that discouraged any argument. “Pain isn’t a problem. I’ll take this.” He pointed at the jar of ointment.

Ten minutes later, he walked out of the hospital, all the records of his treatment already in the trash. He wore a cotton undershirt, separating the rough khaki shirt from the ointment and his angry-red skin. One of the agents was waiting for him in the car.

“Drive me to the police compound at the Russian Yard,” Elie said. “They’re waiting for me.”

The Special Force combined experienced police officers and veterans of elite IDF units, men who engaged in extreme violence without raising their pulse. The group filled a conference room on the second floor of the building. Pinned to the wall was a street map of the Rehavia neighborhood, marked with green, blue, and black pushpins that represented the troops, the commanders, and the attackers respectively. The prime minister’s residence was circled in red.

Elie listened as Major Buskilah assigned men to positions, discussed the chain of command, the range from each position to the targets, the lines of fire assigned to each team, and the need to avoid civilian casualties.

When Major Buskilah was done, Elie addressed them. “This operation is based on a tip we received from an informant that two members of Neturay Karta plan to attack the prime minister in the morning. We don’t know their identity or appearance,” he lied, “and unfortunately, senior members of the media have already been invited to a press conference tomorrow on the roof of the prime minister’s residence.” He cleared his throat, and the movement shot burning pain across his scalded skin. “We suspect that the conspirators have obtained some kind of explosives. We’re still investigating how and what they have, but time is running out.”

He looked around the room, waiting for his lies to sink in. The faces he browsed showed no doubts. They were eager and attentive, open faces of men accustomed to trusting their commanding officers and adhering to a plan of action.

One of them raised his hand. “Why don’t we raid Meah Shearim tonight and search door to door?”

Elie was ready with an answer. “The political situation, especially with the abortion vote coming up, would make such a search appear to be politically motivated to harass the religious community.”

Another man said, “We can shoot them on approach, before they attack.”

“Israeli forces don’t shoot at unarmed Jews,” Elie said, “especially while a bunch of journalists are watching from the roof. A mishap like that could turn the whole Jewish world against this government. As you know, our desperate armament needs depend on the generosity of the Diaspora, especially American Jews.”

Some of the men nodded.

“You may only—and I emphasize the word only—shoot after you have clearly witnessed one or both of them using deadly weapons. Now, that’s me.” He pointed to a black pushpin at the intersection of King George and Ramban streets. “I’ll be scouting their probable approach path, dressed as an ultra-Orthodox Jew for the occasion, so make sure not to shoot me.”

Several of the soldiers laughed.

“Remember that on Sabbath morning many religious Jews go to their synagogues. Watch carefully, but do not engage anyone until you witness an actual attack. That’s your license to kill. Any more questions?”

Someone asked, “Why don’t we stop and search black hats who approach the area? If they carry nothing, let them walk. Why take the risk?”

It was a good question that Elie had expected. “We can’t stop and search religious Jews randomly. It would be viewed as police harassment of the innocent Orthodox community. And if we’re lucky enough to actually stop these two, they might detonate and kill themselves and the arresting officers. Either way, it’s bad. Better let them go through with whatever they’ve planned and act according to the orders you have received.”

There were no more questions. Major Buskilah dismissed the troops until sunrise.

The tall windows of the synagogue grew darker. Lemmy watched from his bench in the rear as his father mounted the dais and kissed the blue velvet curtain of the Ark. The silence was deep, almost unreal for a hall filled with hundreds of men. The moment of truth had arrived. Their rabbi was about to reveal his decision: How would Neturay Karta combat the Zionists’ most infuriating sin to date.

Rabbi Gerster’s face was white under the black hat. He opened his arms as if he wanted to embrace his followers. “I love you, my sons, as I love my Creator, His name be blessed.” He sighed. “I have sought His guidance. I have prayed and studied the words of the sages.”

A murmur passed through the hall.

“Yes, we all want the Zionists to put aside their heretical law that sanctions the murder of innocent Jewish babies. And, yes, we want them to embrace God’s law, so that one who commits an abortion shall be punished as a murderer.”

Before Rabbi Gerster could continue, Redhead Dan sprang up from his seat and yelled, “Kill Levi Eshkol!” His payos wriggled wildly as he turned left and right and yelled again, “It is written: He who comes to kill a Jew, kill him first!” He earned loud applause, which encouraged him. “Smash the head of the snake! Bring down the defiler of God!”

Lemmy noticed Yoram, who sat next to Redhead Dan, raise his beady eyes to his admired study companion. It was neither a glance of support nor of admiration, but of fear.

“Our learned friend,” Rabbi Gerster said, “wants to kill the Zionist prime minister.”

“It’s God’s will,” Redhead Dan yelled.

The rabbi nodded. “It reminds me of the story about a man who stood in line at the post office with a package.”

The men hushed each other. They loved the rabbi’s stories. Redhead Dan sat down.

“After waiting for three hours to send his package, the line was still long. His feet hurt terribly, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, and he got so angry that he dropped the package and screamed that he was going to kill Prime Minister Eshkol. A woman standing in line behind him promised to keep his spot, and he ran off to kill Eshkol.”

A few men laughed.

Rabbi Gerster took out his white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. “An hour later he returned. The line had moved forward a bit, and the woman who had kept his spot asked, So, did you kill him? The man answered, No, I couldn’t, because the line there is even longer!”

The hall exploded with laughter.

Redhead Dan stood up, ready to speak.

“Some of us,” Rabbi Gerster said, “believe the abortion law is a reason to go to war against the Zionist regime even today, when millions of Arab enemies are gathering to attack this sliver of the Promised Land from all directions. Some of us believe God demands that we raise our hands against our misguided brothers. But I disagree.”

A collective sigh came in response—a sigh of relief or of disappointment, Lemmy couldn’t tell.

“God is our beacon,” the rabbi declared, “the divine luminary that guides us. How could we spill blood because of laws made by foolish, faithless men in the Knesset?”

Redhead Dan’s round face was crimson. “Kill the Rodef to save the babies!”

“The law of Rodef is an extreme exception, narrowly defined.” The rabbi looked up in contemplation. “As Talmud tells the story of Yoav and Asa’el, God permits striking a pursuer in the fifth rib to disable him, but killing is allowed only if nothing else would stop the Rodef from murdering another Jew. Now, even if we assume that the Zionist prime minister is a pursuer who is intent on killing—”

“He is!” Redhead Dan looked around, seeking support. “God expects us to cut him down before—”

“And even if his demise would cause their Knesset to drop the abortion legislation and instead pass a law that banned abortions altogether, it would still be a meaningless law, wouldn’t it?”

The cryptic question ignited a flurry of hushed exchanges as the men consulted their study companions.

The Zionists enacting the opposite law?

The Knesset banning abortions?

Meaningless?

Why?

“No!” Redhead Dan must have felt compelled to respond, as if the question had been directed at him. “It wouldn’t be meaningless! It would be God’s law!”

The rabbi’s voice remained calm. “Do you really think that a law passed by the secular Zionists would stop faithless women from promiscuity? Prevent unwanted pregnancies? Save innocent babies from the abortionist’s blade?” He caressed his beard. “Such a law would only send confused women to back alleys in search of help.”

The crowd muttered in agreement.

“All we can achieve by fighting the Zionist laws is to endanger the lives of mothers on top of the babies. You remember Solomon’s judgment, yes?”

Many of the men nodded.

“Laws inscribed by human hands are meaningless,” Rabbi Gerster said. “Without faith in God, women wouldn’t know any better. It’s a waste of time to fight against Zionist laws, an exercise in futility that won’t help them see the light.”

Redhead Dan yelled, “But they’re blind!”

“By studying Talmud, by setting an example of a righteous life, by praying to God for an end to sins, we can bring out the light of Judaism. I therefore decree that in this community we shall never again mention the laws of the Zionists.” Rabbi Gerster shut his eyes, his face turned up, his hands stretched out in a gesture of begging, and his sad baritone filling the hall: “This world is just a very narrow bridge.”

The men of Neturay Karta joined their rabbi’s singing, “Leading to Heaven; so don’t be afraid, no fear at all.”

Their voices grew stronger, their bodies swayed back and forth, and they joined in a forceful, repeated affirmation of faith, “This world is just a very narrow bridge.”

From the rear of the hall, Lemmy’s lips moved with the words, yet his voice was mute. His body swayed, yet his heart remained indifferent. He looked at Benjamin, whose eyelids were shut tightly, his hands pressed against his chest, his voice trembling, “So don’t be afraid, no fear at all.” Watching his devoutness, Lemmy knew the gap between them had widened. Tears filled his eyes, and for the second time that night, he left the synagogue unnoticed.