The righteous men

by Sam Bourne

  Calm down, that's not going to happen. Everything's going to be OK. 'That's fine. I'll leave it here.' Will took off his bag, placed it alongside the pile-up of shoes and strollers by the front door, slipped his notebook into his breast pocket and followed Sandy out the front door.

  They walked just a few blocks to reach the synagogue.

  Clusters of men in twos and threes, friends or fathers with sons, were heading in the same direction.

  The building had a kind of piazza in front of it but was entered by walking down a couple of stairs. Just outside, a man sucked heavily on a cigarette. 'Last one before shabbos,' Sandy explained, smiling. So even smoking was banned for the next twenty-four hours.

  Inside was what Will would have described as the very opposite of a church: it resembled a high school gym. At the back were a few rows of benches and tables, backing on to bookshelves. In this area, like a large schoolroom, every seat was taken and the noise was rising. Will soon realized this was not a single class, but rather a cacophony of different conversations. Pairs of men were debating with each other across the tables, each man hunched over a Hebrew book.

  They seemed to be rocking back and forth, whether they were speaking or just listening. Next to them might be an eavesdropper or, more likely, another pair engaged in equally intense dialogue. Will strained to listen.

  It was a mixture of English and what he took to be Hebrew, all delivered in a sing-song rhythm that seemed to match the rocking motion, beat for beat. 'So what are the Rabonim trying to tell us? We learn that even though we might wish we could study all the time, that this is the greatest mitzvah and greatest pleasure we could ever know, in fact HaShem also wants us to do other things, including working and making a living.' That last word was on a down note. Now the tune was about to go up again. 'Why would HaShem want this?

  Why would HaShem, who surely wants us to be full of wisdom and Yiddishkeit, why would He not want us to study all the time?' The voice was getting high-pitched. 'The answer-' and a raised finger, pointing at the ceiling emphasized the point '-is that only by experiencing darkness do we appreciate the light.'

  Now it was the turn of his friend, his study partner, to pick up the thread — and the tune. 'In other words, to fully appreciate the beauty of Torah-' Toy-ra '-and learning, we have to know life away from learning. In this way, the story of Noach is telling every Hassid-' Chossid '-that they cannot spend their whole life in the yeshiva, but must fulfil all their other duties, as a husband or father or whatever. This is why the tzaddik is not always the most learned man in the village; sometimes the truly good man is the simple cobbler or tailor, who knows and really understands the joy of Torah because he knows and understands the contrast with the rest of his life. Such a Jew, because he is one who knows darkness, truly appreciates the light.'

  Will could barely follow what he was hearing; the style of it was so unlike anything he had ever heard before.

  Perhaps, he thought, this was what monasteries were like back in the Middle Ages, monks poring over texts, frantically trying to penetrate the word of God. He turned to Sandy. 'What are they studying? I mean, what's the book they're looking at?'

  'Well, usually in the yeshiva, you know, the religious academy, people will study the Talmud.' Will looked puzzled.

  'Commentary. Rabbis debating the exact meaning of each word of the Torah. A rabbi in the top left of a page of Talmud will pick a fight with one at the bottom right, over the two dozen meanings of a single letter of a single word.'

  'And is that what they are reading now?' Will indicated the two men whose teach-in he had been following. Sandy craned his neck to check what book they were using.

  'No, these are commentaries written by the Rebbe.' The Rebbe, thought Will. Even his words are studied with the fervour of holy writ.

  While they spoke, the room was filling up, people arriving in big numbers. Will had been at a synagogue once before, for the bar mitzvah of a schoolboy friend, but it had been nothing like this. On that occasion, there had been a single central service and a degree of quiet (though not the pin drop silence he was used to in church). Here there seemed to be no order at all.

  Strangest of all, he could only see men. There seemed to be thousands of those white shirts and dark suits, unbroken by so much as a splash of female colour.

  'Where are the women?'

  Sandy pointed upwards, at what looked like the balcony of a theatre. Except you could see no one sitting down, because the view was blocked by an opaque plastic window. You could just make out the outline of the people behind, like glimpsing a projectionist in his booth. But they seemed to be shadows, revealed only in the small gap below the Perspex window.

  Will stared hard, trying to make out a face. Giving up, he realized that he had been searching for Beth.

  It gave him the creeps. He felt as if he was being watched, as if these blocked-off, unseen women were spectral spectators, observing the antics of the men below. He imagined their vantage point: he would stand out in an instant. The one man not in black-and-white, but in chinos and blue shirt.

  From nowhere, a hand-clap began. Rows of men were forming into two lines, as if clearing a path for a procession.

  The rhythm became faster as the men started singing.

  Yechi HaMelech, Yechi HaMelech

  Sandy translated. Long live the King.

  Now people were stamping their feet, some were swaying, others were actually jumping in the air. It reminded Will of that old, archive footage of screaming girls waiting for the Beatles. But these were grown men, working themselves into a frenzy of anticipation. One man, his face flushed, was jerking from side to side, inserting two fingers in his mouth to make a wolf-whistle.

  Will took in all the faces, crushed in the crowd before him.

  They were not identical after all. He guessed several were Russian; a few more, their clothes somehow less formal, were dark and looked Israeli. He noticed one man, his beard wispy, whom he took to be Vietnamese. Sandy followed Will's stare.

  'Convert,' he explained concisely, his voice rising to be heard above the din. 'Judaism doesn't exactly encourage conversion, but when it happens the Rebbe is really welcoming. Much more than most Jews. He says any newcomer is as good as someone born Jewish, maybe even better because they chose to be a Jew-'

  Will missed the rest, as he was squeezed between two men pressing forward, part of a large, surging huddle which, without cue or instruction, was now turning. The children seemed to be pointing the way. Several boys, who could not have been more than eight years old, were on their fathers' shoulders, waving their fists in the same direction, again and again. They looked like underage football hooligans, pointing the finger at a reviled ref. But they were not looking at a person. Their energies were directed instead at a throne.

  That was the word that came to mind, without prompting.

  It was a large chair, covered in plush red velvet. In a Spartan room like this, it stood out as an item of lavish luxury. There was no doubt, this seat was being venerated.

  Yechi Adoneinu Moreinu v'Rabbeinu Melech HaMoshiach Volam va 'ed.

  The crowd were singing this one line, over and over, with a fervour Will found both exhilarating and terrifying. He leaned into Sandy's ear, shouting to be heard. 'What does it mean?'

  'Long live our master, our teacher, the Rebbe, King Messiah forever and ever.'

  Messiah. Of course. That's what this word daubed everywhere meant. Moshiach was Messiah. How could he have been so slow? These people regarded their Rebbe as nothing less than the Messiah.

  Now Will was desperate to raise himself to full height, to see above the crowd who were all staring so intently at the throne, their voices hoarse with anticipation. Surely the Rebbe would make his entrance any second now, though how his followers would top their current levels of ecstasy to mark his arrival, Will could not imagine.

  The noise was becoming deafening. Will tried to find Sandy's ear again, but he had been shoved forward in the melee.
>
  Will's face was now uncomfortably close to a different man, who smiled at him, recognizing the humour of their sudden intimacy. What the hell, thought Will.

  'Excuse me, can you tell me, when does the Rebbe come in? When does everything begin?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'When does everything begin?'

  At that moment and before the man had a chance to respond, Will felt a hand clamp tightly on his shoulder. In his ear, a deep, baritone voice.

  'For you, my friend, it all ends right here.'

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday, 8.20pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

  The hand left his shoulder only to be replaced by two more on each of his arms. He was flanked by two men who he guessed were no older than twenty but were both taller, and stronger, than him. One had a reddish beard, the other just a few wisps of chin hair. Both looked straight ahead as they frogmarched him away through the crowd. Will was too shocked to shout; no one would have heard him anyway. In the crush, he knew people would barely take a second look at a trio of men jammed together, especially since two of them were now singing along with enthusiasm.

  He was being led away from the throne, back towards the library area, where the crowds were marginally thinner. Will was no good at guessing numbers — not enough experience covering demos — but he reckoned this room must have had two or three thousand people crammed into it, all of them chanting so furiously that his captors could have killed him there and then and nobody would have noticed.

  Suddenly his handlers turned behind some shelves and down a narrow, scuffed corridor. The redbeard opened one door, then another until finally they were in what seemed to be a small classroom: more of those dark-wood benches and tables, more shelves lined with leather books, whose titles were in gold-lettered Hebrew. He was deposited firmly in a stiff, plastic chair in the middle of the room, the Hassidic heavies planting him to the spot by taking a shoulder each.

  'I don't understand what's happening,' Will said weakly.

  'What's going on here? Who are you?'

  'Wait.'

  'Why have you brought me here?'

  'I said wait. Our teacher will be here soon. You can talk to him.'

  The Rebbe. At last.

  The noise from next door was still throbbing. Maybe the Rebbe had finally made his entrance; perhaps he was working the room before he came in here to work over Will. The clamour was certainly thumpingly loud; the ground was moving like the walls of a club, shaken by bass. But whether it had suddenly got louder, as if the Rebbe had arrived while Will was dragged out of the room, he could not tell.

  'OK, let us begin.'

  That same baritone voice, again from behind. Will tried to turn around, but the hands came down to clamp his shoulders tight.

  'What's your name?'

  Tom Mitchell.'

  'Welcome Tom and good shabbos. Tell me, why do we have the pleasure of your company in Crown Heights?'

  'I'm here to write a story for New York magazine about the Hassidic community. It's for a new slot: "Slice of the Apple".'

  'Cute. And why have you come here this weekend of all weekends?'

  'They only commissioned me to do it this week so I came the first weekend I could.'

  'You didn't call ahead, you didn't want to make an arrangement maybe?'

  'I just wanted to look around.'

  'See how the natives live in their natural habitat?'

  'I wouldn't put it like that,' Will croaked. The force of two men pressing their hands down on his shoulders was starting to take its toll. 'I hope I'm not being rude, but why are you holding me like this?'

  'You know, Mr Mitchell, I'm glad you asked me that because I wouldn't want to give you the wrong impression of Crown Heights or its people. We welcome guests here, we really do.

  We invite visitors into our homes. We are not even hostile to the press; reporters have come here often. We have had no less than The New York Times pay us an occasional visit.

  No, the reason for this,' he paused, 'unusual reception is that I don't believe you're telling us the truth.'

  'But I am a reporter. That is the truth.'

  'No, the truth, Mr Mitchell, is that somebody has been prying into what is strictly our business and I am wondering if that somebody is you.' The voice, briefly raised, paused to recover its equilibrium. 'Let's relax a bit, shall we? It's shabbos, we've all had a hard week. We've worked hard. Now we rest.

  So let's take it slow and calm down. Back to my question.

  You've been talking to Shimon Shmuel for a while, so I'm sure you've picked up a few things about our customs already.'

  They've been following me.

  'You're an intelligent man. You've realized by now that observance of the Sabbath is one of our strictest rules.'

  Will said nothing.

  'Mr Mitchell?'

  'Yes, I understand that.'

  'You know we are forbidden from carrying on the Sabbath, don't you?'

  'Yes, Sandy told me. Shimon Shmuel.' He regretted that late addition of Sandy's Hebrew name: it sounded like an attempt at ingratiation.

  'He may not have mentioned that on the Sabbath, we are forbidden to carry but not only to carry: we are also barred from using electricity of any kind. The lights that are on now were switched on before shabbos began and they will stay on all day until after shabbos ends tomorrow night. Those are the rules: no Jew is allowed to turn them on or off. Moreover, you'll have noticed that there were no cameras out there just now. And there have never been cameras out there, not on shabbos. What you saw just now has never been photographed or filmed. Never, and that's not through lack of requests. Do you see where I'm heading, Mr Mitchell?'

  Now that he had heard the voice speaking for longer, he began to form a picture of the speaker. He was an American, but his accent was not the same as Sandy's. It was more, what, European? Something. Will could not quite identify what it was: certainly more New York, almost musical. It contained a kind of shrug, a recognition of the absurdity of life, sometimes comic, usually tragic. In split, fractional seconds he saw the face of Mel Brooks and heard the voice of Leonard Cohen. He still had no idea what the man speaking to him looked like.

  'Mr Mitchell, I need to know whether you understand what I'm saying.'

  'No, I don't have a camera, if that's what you're asking.'

  'As it happens, I wasn't thinking about that. More on the lines of a recording device.'

  Again, Will was in the clear. Despite his age, he did things the old-fashioned way: notebook and pen. This was not down to some technophobic Luddism on his part, but sheer laziness.

  Transcribing recordings was just too much hassle: you did an interview for half an hour, then spent an hour writing it up.

  The mini-disc recorder was saved only for set-piece interviews where every word was likely to count: mayors, police chiefs, that kind of thing. Otherwise he opted for paper and ink.

  'No, I haven't recorded anyone. But why would it be a problem-'

  He suddenly felt himself jerked forward and then up, the darker, younger man at his left side apparently taking the lead. The pair of them had looped their arms under Will's armpits and levered him upward, ensuring he did not turn around. Next, the dark man swung around to face him, avoiding Will's eye while he first stretched Will's arms up and out, then reached under his jacket, moving his hands over Will's shirt, around his back and under his armpits. He was like a zealous airport security guard.

  Of course. Recording device. They weren't looking for a reporter's Dictaphone. They were looking for a wire. They were worried that he was the police or the FBI. Of course they were: they were kidnappers and they feared Will was an undercover cop. The questions he had been asking, the snooping around with no warning.

  'No wire,' the dark man was saying, in an accent that confirmed him as at least Middle Eastern if not Israeli.

  'But there is this.' It was the redbeard, whose task during this two-man body search, which had continued up and down Will's
legs when it was not focused on his back, had been to examine the captive's every pocket — including the one on the inside left of his jacket. His secrets offered little resistance: his Moleskine notebook always made a neat bulge in his left breast pocket. Redbeard took it out and offered it to the unseen hand behind. Will, shoved back down into his seat, could hear the pages being turned.

  The blood seemed to drain from him. His mind rewound back to Sandy's house, when his host urged him to leave his bag behind. And Will thought he was being so clever. He had left his bag behind all right — but only after he had slipped out his notebook and zipped his wallet into what he liked to think was a concealed compartment. He had not wanted Sara Leah prying. Now the book was in the Rebbe's hands. What a fool!

  Will girded himself for the explosion. The longer the silence lasted, punctuated only by the sound of turned pages, the slicker the moisture on Will's palms.

  His mind was racing, trying to remember what was in that book that might give him away. Luckily, he was not organized enough to have written his own name on the first page or anywhere else. Walton did that, a neat inscription on the cover of each pad he used. Some reporters even used those nerdy address labels. On that score at least, Will was saved by his own inefficiency.

  But what about the reams of words inside, including the copious notes he had taken today, right here in Crown Heights? Maybe those would be OK; they would at least confirm his Tom Mitchell cover story. But had he not scribbled down all that computer stuff at Tom's earlier? Surely he had written down something about the kidnappers' email?

  The seconds lurched by, like a record playing at the wrong, too-slow speed. A hope took root. Could it be that his bastard shorthand, his unique speedwriting scrawl, was about to rescue him? He had developed this hybrid non-system of note-taking first at Columbia and then at the Record. It worked for him, though he always feared the day he was asked to produce notes for the editor, or worse still a judge in court.

  He imagined a defamation trial, turning on the accuracy of his written account of a conversation. He would need teams of graphologists to verify that he was as good as his words.