Arnold looked at the rabbi, rubbing the back of his neck. “What does this mean?”
“Perhaps this ability of foreseeing the future is an indication that he is rasha. I have heard of such stories,” the rabbi said pointing a finger into the air.
“We need to find out how he does this,” Arnold said.
The rabbi nodded and said, “The tzaddik is our only chance to stop the rasha.”
Chapter 7
Like many Jews, Moshe had always wanted to visit Israel. But he had never ventured beyond New Jersey since he arrived in America with his parents and siblings after their harrowing escape from their home in Krzywcza during World War 1. Now he was about to tell his wife Leah about this absurd idea of traveling to a small city in northern Israel in order to locate an unknown rabbi with the hope of restoring a questionable spiritual connection with Hashem. Most likely she would complain, but Moshe knew after all these years that she would eventually give in and wish him well.
When he first met Leah he was twenty-two years old and running his dad’s cobbler shop. His father Pincus came in occasionally, but Moshe handled the day to day operations. People loved Moshe and his cobbler shop was drawing customers from all areas of the Bronx.
On a warm summer day, near closing time, a woman barged into his shop. She flung the shoes on the counter and said, “You must be Moshe the Cobbler.”
Moshe looked up and saw a young, pretty blue-eyed woman with auburn hair, standing with her hands on her hips, staring at him.
“I am,” he said standing up.
“You know, Moshe, I took two trains to get here. Don’t ask me why my mother can’t use the cobbler right down the street from our apartment. No, she says. I must go see Moshe the Cobbler. So, Moshe, what makes you so special?”
Moshe shook his head nervously and said, “Nothing makes me special.”
Leah looked around the piles of shoes filling up the shelves. “You work alone?”
Moshe nodded. “It’s just me.”
“Fine, here,” she said, handing a pair of women’s shoes to him. “She would like these re-soled.”
Moshe reached out to take the shoes from Leah. His fingers briefly slid along hers in the exchange. This caused a sudden shift in Leah’s belligerent attitude. A calmness washed over her face and she smiled.
When he wrote the ticket for the shoes he asked Leah for her phone number. After he wrote it down he looked up at her and asked, “Is it all right if I give you a call?”
“I would hope so. How else would I know when my shoes are ready?”
Moshe took a breath to gather his nerves and said, “No I mean, call you for a date.”
Leah tilted her head and smiled. “Sure, Moshe the Cobbler, that would be nice.”
Within six months of that first encounter, Moshe had proposed and the following year they married. They had two daughters, Barbara and Elaine. At the age of seven, Barbara contracted Polio. Though he tried many times, Moshe couldn’t ease his daughter’s suffering. He would stay by her bedside for hours. But her symptoms of fatigue, fever and muscle quivers were not relieved by his touch.
Moshe wondered why he was able to ease the suffering of dying soldiers moments before they passed, but not with his own family. He once was able to communicate something divine, but that was now gone.
The plan for when Moshe was away in Israel was that Leah would stay with Elaine and her husband Walter. He had no choice but to close the cobbler shop, and pray that his customers would understand and come back when he returned.
Leah, as predicted, had second thoughts about the trip.
“Moshe, you’re going to have to explain this again. Why are you going to Israel?”
“Leah, I already explained this to you three times.”
She took a deep breath, placed her hands on her hips, exhaled and said, “Tell me again.”
Moshe knew that he had couldn’t avoid telling Leah the real reason for going to Safed. “Apparently, Rabbi Shapira thinks that I’m tzaddik. You’ve heard that before. Maybe when I was young I had something special, but it has faded.”
Leah smiled and nodded.
“They want to take me to Safed and see if my ability can be restored.”
“And why would they want to do that, Moshe? What do they want from you?”
Moshe sighed. “They want me to stop a rasha.”
Leah shook her head. “What in the world is a rasha?”
“It’s the evil counterpart of a tzaddik. This gangster has this ability of seeing into the future, and the rabbi thinks he may be one.”
“Moshe, what business is it of yours to try to help this councilman and rabbi with a fight against some gangster? You’re a cobbler, not a policeman,” she insisted.
“The police are helpless against them. If it is true what they say about Myron and Solomon Blass, I may need to stop them.”
Leah placed her hand on her cheek and said, “Have you lost your mind?”
Moshe looked at Leah and grasped her hand and said, “Leah, I am not just a cobbler. I am also tzaddik.”
“No, Moshe Potasznik, you’re also meshuga.”
Chapter 8
Myron and the rabbi walked into the lobby of the office building at the same time.
“Good morning, Rabbi,” Myron said, as they stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
“Good morning, Myron,” the rabbi said.
“Thanks for coming in. I know this is early for you,” Myron said referring to the six AM meeting he called for.
The rabbi nodded, his bloodshot eyes acknowledging his struggle. When the doors opened to the top floor of the building both men stepped out. Straight ahead stood double doors marked with a brass plaque that read - Blass Enterprises. They stepped inside the well-appointed reception area.
“Good morning, sir,” said the pretty secretary at her desk.
“Good morning, Shirley,” Myron said, handing his hat to her.
Both men entered the office.
“Please close the door and sit, Rabbi. We need to talk,” Myron said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.
The rabbi leaned his briefcase along the front wood panel of Myron’s desk, sat down and waited for Myron.
Myron stared silently at the rabbi, causing him to stir uncomfortably in his chair. Then he finally spoke. “I visited with my father this morning.”
“How is Solomon doing?” he asked.
“He is as strong as ever. I swear that man will outlive me.”
“That’s good to hear,” said the rabbi.
“But something has changed. Since turning ninety he tells me he is dreaming less frequently, but when he does the dreams are more profound, more meaningful.”
The rabbi nodded. “Ninety is the age when we are all become an extension of the Almighty. Those with your father’s abilities, even more so.”
“He had a dream,” Myron said, and paused and looked into the rabbi’s eyes.
“What did he dream?”
“All he said to me was, the tzaddik has returned.”
The rabbi’s jaw slacked open for a moment before he said, “The tzaddik has returned? What does that mean?”
“Why are you asking me? You’re the rabbi,” Myron said as he glanced down at his messages on his desk.
“This is very curious,” the rabbi said.
“Give me a few minutes to go through my messages, and I’ll take you out to see Pops.”
“Sure thing, Myron.”
Chapter 9
This was Moshe’s maiden voyage in an airplane and his bouncing knees were visible proof of his nervousness as they waited to board the El Al flight inbound for Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv.
“Relax, Moshe. I’ve made this trip many times,” Rabbi Shapira said.
Moshe exhaled and said, “I’ll be fine.”
During the long overseas flight to Tel Aviv, Moshe and the rabbi spoke for hours.
“How much do you remember about my father?”
the rabbi asked.
“I have many fond memories. Your father meant a lot to me, and my family,” Moshe said with a gentle smile.
“He said he had never met anyone like you in his life and that’s saying a lot, Moshe, since he lived until ninety-nine years old.”
“I was just a boy when I saw him last.”
“Not just a boy, Moshe, you are also tzaddik.” The rabbi smiled, and then continued, “How did you feel when you found out that you are one of thirty-six tzaddikim on the earth with this special connection to Hashem?”
“It felt back then, and actually still feels today as if you are speaking of someone else, not me.”
The rabbi said softly, “But how do you explain what you did to ease the suffering of those dying soldiers in the synagogue?”
“I cannot explain it. What did your father tell you?”
“He spoke of it briefly, just before he passed. He described that terrible day and how you comforted the wounded men, many of whom were gasping for their last few breaths.”
“I was not the only one caring for them.”
“I know that, but father told me how your touch, moments before death, connected these poor men to Hashem and allowed them to pass in peace.”
Moshe just nodded, not knowing how to respond.
“He also told me the story of Captain Berbecki and his Russian soldiers,” the rabbi said.
“That day is emblazoned in my mind,” Moshe said pointing to his forehead. “The captain was angry that the rabbis of Galicia declared a holy war against the Russians, encouraging the young Jewish men to fight in the war. We became easy targets for retribution. They barged into the synagogue and ordered at gunpoint the wounded Jewish soldiers, who were sprawled out upon the pews and on the floor, to line up outside in the snow against the synagogue wall, where they were executed. Shot dead in cold blood,” Moshe said with a long exhale.
“I’m sorry, Moshe, to bring up such a troubled memory.” With a warm smile, the rabbi added, “But there were also good stories. Like your Bar Mitzvah.”
Waiting for them when they landed at Ben Gurion Airport was a man who Rabbi Shapira greeted warmly. Moshe first noticed how Aaron resembled his cousin. The men looked to be about seventy years old and both sported long salt and pepper beards. But where the rabbi’s eyes were a dark brown, Aaron’s sparkled an emerald green, which seemed to complement his upbeat personality.
“Moshe, this is my cousin Aaron. My mother and his mother were sisters.”
They shook hands and Aaron said, “It is an honor to meet you, Moshe. My mother spoke of you often.”
Aaron led them to his car in the airport’s parking lot.
“Here we are,” Aaron said, pointing to his Israeli made, 1960 Sussita.
With the luggage in the truck, Moshe climbed into the back seat.
Aaron twisted to look at Moshe and said, “It’s an honor to have you in our country, Moshe. Just relax, I’m a very good driver. I’ll have you in Safed in about three hours.”
As Aaron navigated the traffic in Tel Aviv and eventually beyond the city limits, they headed northbound along the coast. Moshe gazed out of the window onto the turquoise Mediterranean Sea dotted with palm trees and smiled, thinking of the blackish waters of Orchard Beach in the Bronx, where he and Leah swam in the summer.
“Moshe, wake up. We’re almost there,” the rabbi said.
Moshe stirred from his sleep in the back of the Sussita as it chugged its way up a steep incline leading into Safed. Moshe turned to look out the back window and said, “Safed is up in the mountains, I didn’t realize.”
“It’s the tallest point in all of Israel,” said Aaron. “Did you know that there are four holy cities in Israel, each embodying an element of nature. Jerusalem is earth, Tiberias is water, Hebron is fire, and Safed is, of course, air.”
“Makes sense,” Moshe said as they continued to climb and snake through narrow roads barely wide enough for their car.
“I hope you won’t mind being my guest, Moshe. My apartment is not very big, but it’s on a quiet street and you’ll have your own room,” Aaron said.
“Oh, of course. I am grateful. Thank you.”
“But we should stop for something to eat. You must be starving after such a long journey,” Aaron said.
“That would be great,” the rabbi said.
Aaron pointed a finger in the air and said, “I know the perfect place.”
Chapter 10
Myron and Henryk found Solomon waiting for them on his boat dock.
“It’s about time. Sit down,” Solomon said pointing to two decrepit folding lawn chairs.
“What is it?” the rabbi asked.
With both men seated, Solomon leaned forward, looked back and forth at his son and the rabbi and said, “I’ve dreamt about the tzaddik again.”
“Tell us about it, Pops.”
“He wasn’t young, like in my first dream,” Solomon said shaking his head. “Maybe he was in his sixties.”
He pressed his hands onto his knees to help himself to stand up and looked out onto the waves barely lapping upon the rocky shore and said, “My dream was about three men, two of whom were traveling to Israel. The third man, who remained behind, was someone I recognized,” he said, wagging a finger at Myron. “It was that guy who used to run the sports book with you. You know who I mean. He owns the Paradise Theater and is now a councilman.”
“You’re talking about Arnold Lieberman?” Myron said.
“That’s him. The other one was called Moshe.”
“Who’s Moshe?” Myron asked.
“Moshe was the tzaddik,” Solomon said.
Henryk flipped a hand in the air and said, “And what were they doing?”
“Moshe and this third man boarded a flight to Israel,” Solomon said.
“And why would they be going to Israel?” said Myron.
Henryk pointed his finger in the air and said, “The question to ask, Myron, is why would a tzaddik be going to Israel?”
“What do you think, Rabbi?” Solomon asked.
Henryk paused a moment, nodding slightly several times as if he was calculating the possibilities and then said, “Perhaps they are going to Safed.”
Solomon pointed a finger at the rabbi and said, “I bet you’re right.”
“I don’t understand,” Myron said, shrugging.
“Safed is the birthplace of Kabbalah. The tzaddik could be planning to consult with the great minds of Kabbalist wisdom,” Henryk said.
“To what end?” asked Myron.
Henryk looked at Solomon and said, “Perhaps to challenge the rasha?”
Solomon felt the air sucked out of him as Henryk’s comment catapulted him back to his youth in Warsaw, to the day when Rabbi Sirkis had voiced his suspicion that Solomon was a rasha. Before he could stop himself, he clapped his hands together and yelled, “No! The tzaddik must be stopped.”
“How do you propose we do that?” Myron asked.
Solomon pointed to his son. “You’ll go to Safed.”
“How will I find him?” Myron asked.
“Go and see Arnold Lieberman. I’m sure he knows something,” Solomon said.
“Solomon, do you know who the third man was?” asked Henryk.
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that the councilman called him rabbi.”
The matinee showing of Ben Hur starring Charlton Heston had just started when Myron and Henryk entered the theater lobby. A skinny teenage boy politely asked for their tickets, and then yelled at them to stop when they rushed by and proceeded up the staircase to Arnold Lieberman’s office.
They marched past Agnes who begged them to stop and barged into Arnold’s office. Arnold stood up from his desk and said, “Myron, what a nice surprise.”
“Arnold, we need to speak with you.”
“Of course, please sit down,” Arnold said, gesturing to the chairs.
“What can you tell me about the tzaddik?” Myron asked, glancing over to the rabbi.
“That’s a strange question. Why would you think I know anything about a tzaddik?”
“Arnold, you know who I am. Stop with the bullshit, and just tell me what you know,” Myron said.
Arnold shifted nervously in his seat. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Myron smiled and said, “My father seems to think otherwise. But if you don’t want to talk, that’s all right. As I’m sure you know, we have our own effective ways of digging up information.”
In the car on the way back to his office, Myron knew Arnold was lying. His father’s dream was all the proof he needed. But it was obvious Arnold wasn’t going to give up anything easily.
“Myron, how do you know Mr. Lieberman,” Henryk asked, breaking his chain of thought.
“He came to see me a few years ago wanting to start a bookie business. He used to bring in good money, that is until he became a councilman and quit. I never had a problem with him—until now.”
“What are you planning to do?” Henryk asked.
“I’m going to have Arnold followed.”
Chapter 11
Arnold peered out through his large office window overlooking the Grand Concourse and saw Myron and the rabbi getting into their car and driving away. There was little time. Myron Blass was not one you wanted to anger. He knew that if Myron wanted to extract information he had an assortment of unpleasant and painful ways in his gangster’s toolbox to get what he wanted.
A disturbing thought occurred to Arnold. Myron had insinuated that his father, Solomon, was suspicious of the presence of a tzaddik. What if Solomon foresaw my discovery of the tzaddik and Moshe’s and the rabbi’s imminent trip to Safed?
He turned from the window and walked toward his office door. He decided that he must go to Safed and warn Moshe and the rabbi that they may be in danger.
“Agnes,” he called out, as he stepped into the reception room.
“Yes?”
“Is it too late to get on the flight with the rabbi and the cobbler?”
The Righteous One Page 4