The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 23





At sunrise, the marksmen took their positions on the roofs near the prime minister’s residence and in discreet locations along the street. Major Buskilah had direct command. Elie went up to the third-story roof, which was set up for the press briefing with folding chairs, hot coffee, and maps of Jerusalem pinned onto plywood.

General Yitzhak Rabin leaned on the railing. “Got a cigarette, Weiss?”

Elie held out a pack of Lucky Strike for the chief of staff.

Rabin pulled a few cigarettes, put one between his lips, and pocketed the rest. “My wife wants me to quit,” he said with a lopsided grin. He drew deeply, holding the smoke for a long while before releasing it into the air in a long, straight thread. “Rumor has it that your Nekamah campaign has killed more Nazi officers than the Allied forces managed to kill.”

“An exaggeration. Many of them continue to live with impunity.” Elie lit a cigarette. The burns on his neck itched as hell, and he struggled to keep from scratching.

“They say that you caught an SS officer raping a Jewish girl, cut off his genitalia, and shoved it down his throat.”

“Not his throat.”

General Rabin chuckled. “An inspiring story nevertheless.”

“I like working with blades,” Elie said. “I find it nostalgic.”

Rabin’s cigarette stopped midway to his lips. “Nostalgic?”

“My father, rest in peace, was a kosher butcher.”

The young general laughed. But when he realized Elie had not been joking, he tried to control himself, his face turning red. “Sorry, Weiss, it just sounded funny.”

“I understand.” Elie hid his anger, thinking how this ignorant sabra knew nothing of Jewish life in old Europe. A shoykhet was the only person trained in the ritual slaughter of livestock. Without him, the community would have no kosher meat and starve through the harsh winters, losing children to simple infections. A shoykhet should have been more important than a rabbi, yet the Jews of his childhood had revered Abraham’s father, Rabbi Yakov Gerster, while Elie’s father, Nahman Weiss, was treated like the carpenter, the shoemaker, or the blacksmith. How the tables had turned!

“Jerusalem!” It was his father’s voice. “Wake up!” Lemmy got out of bed and opened the door. Rabbi Gerster was dressed and ready. “We must go now.”

On Saturdays, morning prayers were held later, giving the men of Neturay Karta an opportunity to observe the command: And on the Sabbath you and your livestock shall rest from all the work that you have done. But for some reason his father was up early.

When they left the house, Rabbi Gerster turned in the opposite direction from the synagogue. Lemmy followed, still not completely awake. They entered an apartment building at the edge of Meah Shearim and went down a damp staircase. The rabbi knocked on a door.

Redhead Dan was still in his pajamas. He held the door open, and they entered a small room packed with a table, a sofa, and a bookcase. A baby started crying in the next room.

“Good Sabbath, Dan,” Rabbi Gerster said. “I believe you have in your possession something that a God-fearing Jew should not possess.”

Redhead Dan’s mouth opened for an instinctive denial, but he thought better of it.

They waited as he disappeared into the other room. The baby cried harder, and a woman’s voice comforted him. A moment later Redhead Dan returned with the box, which he placed on the table. “God had ordained this,” he said. “A righteous man was jailed with me and we just knew that God—”

“You were tricked by the Zionists.” Rabbi Gerster opened the box. “These things could have killed you and your family.” He took out each of the grenades and checked the fuses. “And the neighbors too.”

Redhead Dan sat down, his face buried in his hands.

The rabbi closed the box. “Tonight, when the Sabbath is over, you’ll pack a suitcase and take the bus to Safed, where Rabbi Shimon Elchai will take you into his yeshiva on probation. Your wife and son will remain here, and the community will take care of them. One year from now, not a day earlier, you may return. If I find your repentance sincere, you’ll be allowed to return to this holy community and reunite with your family.”

Lemmy carried the box up the stairs. He shuddered at the sound of Redhead Dan crying and realized that his father had taken him along to witness the banishment of a Neturay Karta member and to hear his sobs.

It was a lesson.

A warning.

The alleys of Meah Shearim were still deserted. At the gate, Rabbi Gerster turned east toward the border. They heard soldiers chattering in Hebrew and an occasional laughter from the concrete bunker facing the rolls of barbed wire and the Jordanians across. The entrance to the bunker was surrounded by sandbags. Two soldiers sat outside, their backs against the sandbags, smoking.

Rabbi Gerster said, “Shalom!”

The soldiers were startled.

“We found this box.” He motioned for Lemmy to put it on the ground. “Please be careful.”

One of the soldiers opened the box. “Hey! Look at these puppies!”

“Have a good Sabbath.” The rabbi walked away.

“Wait! What’s your name?”

He kept walking, his pace fast but not rushed. Lemmy kept up. They turned a street corner, the soldiers’ excited voices fading behind.

An aid came up to the roof to summon General Rabin and Elie Weiss downstairs. Prime Minister Eshkol was sitting alone at the kitchen table, sifting through a pile of newspapers. A black-and-white television set was tuned to the BBC without sound.

“Look at this!” The prime minister threw a copy of the daily Ha’aretz across the conference table.

Elie read the front-page headline: New Delhi Summit: Tito, Nasser, and Mrs. Gandhi Express Support for the Legitimate Rights of the Palestinian Arabs.

“Look at the rest,” Eshkol said impatiently, “look!”

Elie scanned the front page.

Anti-American riots in Manila.

Washington to cease bombing N. Vietnam if political solution is found.

Syrian deputy prime minister accuses Israel of preparing to attack Egypt and Syria.

British spy George Blake escaped London prison via ladder of knitting needles.

“Look here!” The prime minister flipped the pages. “Only here, in the corner of page three, they finally mention it: Eshkol Appoints Galilee as Information Minister. A charade, that’s what it is!”

Rabin and Elie read the piece, which quoted Prime Minister Levi Eshkol’s speech before the Knesset assembly: The new Information Ministry will direct the provision of information to the public. While information is not a substitute for policy, the government must communicate clearly its sound policy to the Israeli citizenry.

“Can you believe this?” Eshkol shook the newspaper. “A knitting English spy belongs on the first page, but the prime minister of Israel is dumped in the corner of the third page, next to wedding announcements.”

“After this morning’s operation,” Elie said, “every word you utter will make the front page, and you’ll have public support to make difficult decisions.”

“That would help.” The chief of staff shifted uncomfortably. “The army needs permission to call up the reserves. At least forty thousand troops.”

“Not so simple,” the prime minister said. “It could signal aggressiveness, make us look bad. Our best defense is an American guarantee. And a UN declaration.”

“Those won’t protect us from a joint Arab attack, which would be deadly without our reserves stationed along the borders. In fact,” Rabin said, “it would be deadly even if our troops are fully engaged, but we’ll have a better chance of survival.”

“That’s my point! We can’t win!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I won’t authorize anything that would give the Americans an excuse not to help us.” Prime Minister Eshkol gestured at the window. “Weiss, I feel like a sitting duck here.”

“We have men on the roofs,” Elie said, “and along Ben Maimon Avenue. As soon as the attackers throw the grenades, we’ll finish them off.”

“The operation,” Rabin said in his slow, contemplative tone, “required a few adjustments. When they approach, an officer will shout a warning. If they don’t lie down and surrender, they’ll be shot in the leg.”

“That’s not the plan,” Elie protested. “Where’s the deterrence if you don’t kill them?”

“We don’t kill Jews.”

“They’re criminals. Assassins. And where’s this sudden righteousness coming from? You shot Menachem Begin’s ship in ’forty-eight. Jews died on the Altalena.”

General Rabin’s face turned red. “That was a tragedy I won’t repeat. There will be no killing unless it’s unavoidable.”

Prime Minister Levi Eshkol stood up, signaling the meeting was over. “Good luck. I’ll see you when it’s all over.”

Elie was seething. The two Neturay Karta men had seen him, and even with the fake beard, they might be able to recognize him later. They had to die! He touched the bulge on his hip, where the long blade was sheathed.

In the large foyer of the residence, Elie stood aside as the newsmen arrived. He knew them from the extensive files SOD maintained. All the major news outlets were represented, including the evening papers, Yediot and Ma’ariv, the laborite daily Al-Ha’mishmar, the English-language Jerusalem Post, and the national radio Kol Israel, as well as a cameraman from the nascent Israeli Television. Yaakov Even-Khen, a poet and the Jerusalem reporter for the National Religious Party’s daily Hatzofeh, entered the foyer breathlessly, having walked from his home in observance of the Sabbath. The bureau chiefs for Time, Newsweek, and the Associated Press arrived together from Tel Aviv, followed by a woman who wrote for Le Monde. Eshkol’s press secretary accompanied them up to the rooftop for refreshments, followed by Rabin’s presentation and Eshkol’s Q&A session.

Elie went to his car, put on the black coat, and stuck on the fake beard. The wide-brimmed black hat completed the picture. It was time to rendezvous with the two Neturay Karta men.

The synagogue was full. Cantor Toiterlich led the Sabbath prayers. Lemmy thought of Redhead Dan and his impending exile. Would the sect’s firebrand have cried so badly if his wife and child were allowed to join him? And would he, Lemmy, also cry if exiled from his parents and Benjamin? He glanced at his study-companion, whose melodic voice pronounced the verses.

Suddenly a hand came between them and tapped Benjamin’s shoulder.

Lemmy looked up. It was Nachum Learner, a frail scholar whose thin beard had started to turn gray. He rarely left his seat in the first row, praying and studying from dawn to midnight every day. His wife and seven children lived on the weekly allowance from Rabbi Gerster. “Benjamin Mashash,” he said, “the rabbi wishes to see you.”

Lemmy watched Benjamin follow Nachum Learner down the center aisle. Rabbi Gerster huddled with them for a moment.

When Benjamin returned to their bench, Lemmy asked, “What does he want from you?”

Benjamin collected his books from the table.

“What are you doing?”

He piled his books one on top of the other. “I’ll be sitting next to Nachum.”

“What?”

The men around them raised their eyes from the prayer books.

Lemmy grabbed Benjamin’s forearm. “You can’t sit with Nachum! You study with me!”

“Not anymore.” Benjamin finished collecting all his books and hugged them to his chest. “Your father decided that I’ll be studying with Nachum from now on.”

“But—”

“Someone saw you with a Zionist woman in uniform.” The tears welled up in Benjamin’s dark eyes. He tried to say more, but couldn’t. He turned and walked away from the bench they had shared since they were young boys, where they had studied daily for twelve, fourteen, even fifteen hours, arguing complex Talmudic theories, pounding each other with words and sometimes fists.

His father was standing at the front, near the ark, and their eyes met. They stared at each other over the rows of men, who swayed and chanted the prayers, oblivious to what had just happened. Rabbi Gerster put a finger to his lips.

The prayer book was still in Lemmy’s hand. He dumped it on the bench, grabbed his black hat, and made his way to the exit in the rear of the hall. Tears blurred his vision as he ran through the foyer to the forecourt. A cold breeze slapped his burning face.

Elie Weiss waited at the intersection of King George and Ramban streets. He watched the bend in the road where the two Neturay Karta men would appear. They were late, and he began to worry that the media briefing would end before the attack.

“Weiss!” Major Buskilah beckoned him from the street corner.

Elie walked over.

“We received a call,” the major said. “Two black hats dropped off a box with hand grenades at a bunker near Meah Shearim.”

“When?”

“An hour or two ago. The description fits Rabbi Gerster and his son.”

“And how did this particular bit of information find its way to you so quickly?”

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Major Buskilah grinned. “General Rabin issued an all-units order last night to report immediately any unusual incident involving black hats.”

“I see.” Elie realized he had underestimated the young chief of staff.

Rabin was waiting outside the prime minister’s residence. He conferred with Major Buskilah about relieving most of the Special Forces. “Keep two on the roof across the street, two in a car, and two on patrol.” He looked at the house and shrugged.

“I’ll tell the prime minister it’s a no-show.”

Elie headed for his car. Had Abraham’s son told him about the grenades? That boy had spirit, which could be harnessed for useful purposes. A plan began to form in Elie’s mind.

“Weiss!” Rabin caught up with him.

“I didn’t take you for a backstabber.”

The chief of staff smiled. “These things happen.”

“Not to me.” Elie realized he should have lined up a backup team of attackers to ensure redundancy.

Rabin tilted his head toward the residence. “Eshkol is a good prime minister. He’s a capable mediator between the coalition parties. But he must give up the defense ministry. We need a decisive man to order a draft and authorize a preemptive strike against the Arabs before they hit us.”

“You support Dayan?”

“He’s popular. He knows the IDF. And he’s got balls.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I’m a soldier. But you could pull a few levers behind the curtain.”

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Elie said.

“Excuse me?”

“What do you read to your kids at bedtime? Carl von Clausewitz?”

Lemmy ran home. He wanted to get into his room, shut the door, and bury his face in his pillow. How could he live without Benjamin? For the first time, he understood the phrase he had read in one of Tanya’s books: A broken heart.

“Jerusalem?” His mother appeared from the kitchen, “What’s wrong?”

The way to his room blocked, Lemmy turned to the wall. He was still panting from the run home. He hid his face in the crook of his arm and burst out crying.

When he calmed down, his mother took him into the kitchen and made him sit down. She sat next to him and held his hand. Her hand was cold and moist, and an odor of dish-washing soap came from it. He looked away and saw the adjoining dining room, the Sabbath table ready for lunch, a white cloth, shining silverware, braided challah bread, and a bottle of sweet red wine. He thought about Redhead Dan’s young wife and the baby, waiting at the Sabbath table in the basement apartment, their year-long separation imminent.

“What happened?”

“Father took Benjamin away from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He hates me!”

Temimah sighed. “He doesn’t hate you. He is your father. It’s his duty to raise you to as a faithful, God-fearing Jew.”

“Then he’s doing a lousy job!”

“Oy vey.” Temimah took a deep breath. “Your father is a strict man. I know my husband. But he is also strict with himself. And he means well.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Lemmy pushed her hand away.

“With time, you will understand the reasons—”

“He hates me, and the sooner I accept it the better!” Determined not to cry again in front of his mother, Lemmy rushed to his father’s study.

“Jerusalem!” She hurried after him. “Don’t!”

He shut the door in her face.

“Master of the Universe!” She sighed behind the closed door. “What am I to do?”

Sitting in his father’s chair, he grasped the carved lion heads. He looked for The Zohar, but couldn’t find it on the desk. He opened the first and second drawers, which contained pens, blank papers, and other office supplies. The bottom drawer refused to open. He searched for a key in the other drawers, taking out each bundle of papers and shaking it. Kneeling, he searched underneath the desktop. At the far corner, in the back, on the rail that supported the drawers, he felt the shape of a key. His pinkie edged it out.

It fit into the lock.

There were no papers in the bottom drawer, only a small case made of dark wood, about the size of a book. He took it out, placed it on the desk, and removed the top.

A handgun.

He took it out of the case and examined it closely, moving a finger along the barrel, which was cold and oily. The magazine bay seemed large enough to hold a pack of cigarettes. Between the trigger and the barrel, the model name was etched in the steel: Mauser Bolo 96

He aimed the gun. The tiny bump at the end of the muzzle moved along the shelved books across the room. The handle was warmer than steel, plated with a smooth, off-white material.

Along the steel barrel, tiny letters were engraved: K.v.K. 1943 Deutschland Über Alles

He turned it. Along the other side of the barrel, a rougher carving had been forced into the steel. He rubbed it on his sleeve a few times until the Hebrew letters surfaced: Nekamah. Revenge.

“Jerusalem!” His mother knocked on the door. “Your father is coming!”

Lemmy replaced the box in the drawer and slammed the drawer shut. He knelt and stuck the key under the desktop.

Standing up, he realized he had forgotten to put the handgun back in the box. He shoved it under his belt in the back, the cold steel against his left buttock. He pulled his coat over it and slipped out of the study.

Rabbi Gerster entered the apartment. “Good Sabbath, Jerusalem.”

“Good Sabbath, Father.” Lemmy tried to keep his voice even. He felt the Mauser as big as a tree under his coat. The open window let in the neighbors’ singing of the Sabbath’s Zemiros.

The rabbi tugged at his long beard. “Your mother and I feel that we have done you wrong.” He glanced at Temimah. “When we married, two Holocaust survivors, alone in this world from large families, we didn’t expect much from life. Definitely not a child. You were a miracle—”

“An accident,” Lemmy said, shocked at his own chutzpah.

His father shrugged. “A gift perhaps, for which we were unprepared, but nevertheless grateful to the Master of the Universe.”

His mother’s face broke into a brief smile.

“It appears,” his father continued, “that we failed as Jewish parents by overindulging you.”

After the circuitous introduction, this was more in line with Lemmy’s expectations.

“We gave you everything on a silver platter. Your own room. Your own bed, bookshelves, and desk. Your own little universe of privacy, which you have recently begun to abuse.”

Lemmy opened his mouth to protest.

His father silenced him with an open hand. “All that is in the past. You’re grown now, a learned young man who can serve God. You’re ready to assume responsibility for others.”

“We’re very proud of you,” Temimah said.

“Proud of your capabilities,” his father clarified. “We have never asked anything of you, except what every Jewish parent hopes for: To see his child grow up to study Talmud, marry well, and do good deeds. Is it too much to ask, considering what we’ve given you? Your meals are prepared by your mother. Your clothes are washed. Your sheets and blankets are pressed. Your room is cleaned every day. Have we deprived you of anything?”

Lemmy shook his head.

“Our only expectation is that you continue on the path of our tradition, be studious and righteous as God expects of you, and over time assume the honor of leadership. Is that too much to ask?”

His urge to argue was stifled by his mother’s sad eyes.

“Do you think,” Rabbi Gerster asked, “that we want what’s bad for you?”

Lemmy shook his head.

“Do you think we want you to be unhappy?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you think we want you to have a bad life?”

“No.”

“Very well.” The rabbi put his hand on Lemmy’s shoulder. “It’s settled. Blessed be He, Master of the Universe.”

“Amen,” Temimah said. “Amen!”

“Now,” the rabbi clapped his hands, “I want you to know that I’ve given a great deal of thought to your future. I’ve decided that you need a mature study companion, a man whose wisdom and knowledge can help you navigate those perfectly natural doubts and occasional confusion.”

Lemmy held his breath. Was his father going to become his study companion? It would be hard work to keep up with Rabbi Gerster’s intellectual intensity, but the prospect of such daily closeness—

“Cantor Toiterlich has agreed to take you on as his protégé, so to speak.” Rabbi Gerster glanced at Temimah, who was glowing with joy. “Which makes perfect sense considering that we’ll be family soon!”

“God willing,” Temimah said.

“You see,” the rabbi held his big hands together, fingers interwoven, “Cantor Toiterlich and his wife have given us their final consent to engage Sorkeh to you in marriage immediately. Therefore, tomorrow night, after the evening prayers, we will meet to celebrate your engagement—a wonderful, blessed union!”

His parents took turns hugging and kissing him, congratulating each other, “Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov!”

Lemmy knew he should insist that he didn’t want to become engaged yet, that he wanted time to think, to explore his feelings, to read more about the world and its marvels. But he remained silent, unable to speak up. In his mind, like a broken record, the words replayed: Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov!