by Sam Bourne
Whoever had been sending those text messages knew all this, Will now realized. While Rabbi Mandelbaum stretched for another book, Will stole a glance at his cell phone, to look at the last message he had received. A four-line poem, a quatrain.
Just nen we are, our nunber few
Describable in digits two
We're halted if these do Multiply
If we few perish then all must die.
Just men… describable in digits two. The two digits were three and six. If these do multiply. Three times six was eighteen, half of thirty-six: We're halved. And the texter understood what was at stake. If we few perish then all must die.
Will tried hard to compose himself. He wanted desperately to produce his notebook, to start ordering all this information.
Still, he had to ask some questions.
'These thirty-six? Are they all Jewish?'
'Usually in' Hassidic folk lore the tzaddikim are Jewish. But this is more sociology than theology: who else did these yidden know? They knew only Jews. That was their entire world.
In the early rabbinic writings, there are different views on the identity of the tzaddikim. Some believed they all lived in the land of Israel, some said that a portion lived outside it; others said that the righteous men emerged from the goyim, the Gentiles. There is no settled view. It could be all Jews, all non-Jews or a mixture.'
'But they're always men?'
'Always. On that the sources all agree. No doubt about that at all. The lamadvavniks are all men.'
TO could read Will's mind. So why are they holding my Beth?
The truth was, Will was disappointed. Since the rabbi had first started talking, Will had been trying to trace a path back to his wife and her abduction. Even before he came here he had accepted that Macrae and Baxter were connected, but he could not fathom their link to Beth. This theory of the thirty six seemed bizarre and far-fetched, if not completely loopy, to Will, but at least it might explain what was in the Hassidim's mind. Perhaps for some deluded reason, they had decided Beth was one of the righteous ones. Now he knew that could not be true: she was the wrong sex. He was as mystified as ever.
A new question surfaced. He asked it as soon as he had thought of it.
'Who would want to do such a thing? Who would want to bring about the end of the world?'
'Only one who was in thrall to the Sitra Achra.'
Will's brow furrowed.
Rabbi Mandelbaum realized he needed to say more. I'm sorry, I'm forgetting. The Sitra Achra means literally "the other side". In kabbalah, it is the phrase used to refer to the forces of evil. Unfortunately, these are present all around us, every day and in everything.'
'A bit like the devil, like Satan?'
'No, not really. Because the Sitra Achra is not some external force we can blame for everything that goes wrong. The power of the Sitra Achra derives from the actions of human beings. It is not Lucifer who brings evil into the world. I'm afraid, Mr Monroe, it is us.'
'Why would religious people, men of God, want to do such a thing — to kill the righteous men?'
'I cannot imagine why. You know, we Jews say that if you save a life it is as if you have saved the whole world. So to kill any human being is a great crime. The ultimate crime.
To kill a tzaddik? That would be a further desecration of the name of the Almighty. To kill more than one? To aim to kill all of them? I cannot even contemplate such wickedness.'
'No motive we can think of?'
'I suppose it's conceivable that someone very misguided might want to test this belief to its limits. To see if it's really true, that the lamad vav maintain the world. If the lamad vav are all gone, all not here, well then we will know, won't we?'
'Or they could believe it already,' said Will. 'Believe it so much that they want to bring about the end of the world.'
In the silence that followed, Will was struck by something he had half-noticed but had not thought about properly till now. For someone who had just been confronted with such news, Rabbi Mandelbaum looked remarkably calm. He remained in his chair, thumbing his books. As if this was a purely theoretical problem.
Now it was the rabbi's turn to read Will's mind.
'Anyway, no one could ever do it,' the old man said, sighing as he adjusted himself in his seat. 'Because no one ever knows who the lamadvavniks are. That is their power.'
Will was ashamed to realize this was the one thing he had never thought of. Thirty-six people, living in humble obscurity across the globe: how would anyone know who they were? How had the killers of Macrae and Baxter found them? 'The tzaddik is hidden, sometimes even from himself; he may have no idea of his own nature. If a man does not know himself, who else can know him?'
'So no one has any idea who the thirty-six are? There's no secret list?'
The rabbi twinkled. 'No, Mr Monroe, there's no list. Tova Chaya, behind you, can you pass me the book by Rebbe Yosef Yitzhok?'
Will started. He had heard so few familiar words since he had arrived in this room, but this was a name he knew. TO caught his expression and whispered a clarification.
That's the name of a previous Rebbe. YY was named after him. He died fifty years ago.'
'All right the rabbi said, now fallen back into his chair.
'This is a kind of autobiography of the Rebbe. Here he describes the tzaddikim as if they were a secret society. He doesn't refer to them explicitly as the lamadvavniks, but that's what he's talking about. He suggests these people, each stationed in a different city, were somehow the founders of Hassidism.' He turned away from the book, his eyes closed, as if reading a text written inside his eyelids. Will realized he was dredging something from his memory. 'There is also the great Rabbi Leib Sorres. From the eighteenth century. It was said of him that he was in secret contact with the hidden just men, that he even made sure they were fed and clothed. They said the same about the Baal Shem Tov, the recognized founder of Hassidism.' His eyes opened. 'But these are the exceptions.
Generally, it is understood that the hidden tzaddikim remain hidden. There are stories of near misses, of tzaddikim about to meet another of their own kind, only to miss out. And it's assumed that one righteous man would have the wisdom to recognize another. You know, he would somehow "feel the glow".' The rabbi cracked the smile Will had seen earlier, the one that belonged to the playful, mischievous young man it seemed Rabbi Mandelbaum had once been. 'But generally, these men are out of view, from themselves, from each other, from the rest of us.'
'How would anyone work out where to find them?'
'Now, this is the kind of question Tova Chaya used to ask — a question Rabbi Mandelbaum cannot answer!' The two exchanged warm smiles, like an old man with a favourite granddaughter. 'I wish I knew, Mr Monroe, but I don't. For this, you would need to talk to others. Those who have penetrated the deepest secrets of the kabbalah.'
Will could see the rabbi was getting tired. And yet, Will did not want to let their conversation end. In the last thirty minutes he had got more answers than he had had in the previous forty-eight hours. At last he understood not only the barrage of clues that had arrived by text message, he now could see the wider picture, the ancient story unfolding. Surely this wise old man held the key to why Beth was a captive.
If only Will could think of the right question.
There was a buzzing sound, the low vibration of a cell phone. TO, so used to wearing combat trousers with multiple pockets, seemed flummoxed by the realization she was now in a long, pocket-less skirt: she did not know where to look.
Eventually she remembered. She had borrowed a smart leather handbag of Beth's — more grown-up than anything TO owned herself. The phone was in there. Mouthing an apology, she stepped out of the room to answer it.
Will was scrambling to absorb everything he had just heard.
Wild theories about the end of the world, dire warnings of a cataclysm foretold. He put his head in his hands. What on earth was he caught up in here?
Suddenly there was a
hand on his shoulder.
'It is a terrible thing for a man to be without his wife. Mrs Mandelbaum has been dead three years and I carry on with my life. I still study, I still pray. But if, occasionally, I dream of her at night — ahhh, now that's a shabbos.'
Will felt his eyes soaking with tears. To break the moment he cleared his throat and collected himself to ask a question.
He did not know if it would help him find Beth, but he wanted to know everything he could. 'What counts as good?
What counts as such a good deed that it marks you out as righteous?'
I'm not sure it's as simple as this. One has to think of the soul of the tzaddik. This is a soul of such purity, of such goodness, that it cannot help but express itself. The deeds are merely the outward manifestation of a goodness that is within.' The rabbi began to haul himself out of his chair as if on a book-hunting expedition. 'The key Hassidic text is known as the Tanya. In that book, there is a definition of the tzaddik. It explains that in each person there are two souls: a divine soul and an animal soul. The divine soul is where we have our conscience, our urge to do good, our desire to learn and study. The animal soul is where we have our appetites, for food, for drink; lust. This is all from the animal soul.
'Now, these two souls are usually in conflict. A good person works hard to control his animal soul. To restrain his desires, not to give into every longing. That's what it is to be a regular, good person — to struggle!' He gave a creased smile, as if in recognition of the frailty of man. 'But a tzaddik is different.
A tzaddik does not just tame his animal soul. He transforms it.
He changes his animal soul into something else, turning it into a force for good. Now he is firing on two cylinders, so to speak! It's as if he has two divine souls. This gives him a special power. It equips him to save the world.'
'And would one act be enough?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if a man had performed one act of extraordinary goodness, would that be enough to say he was a tzaddik.'
'Perhaps you have some example in mind, yes? My answer is that it may seem to us as if the tzaddik performed just one holy act. But remember, these men hide their goodness. The truth may be that this is the only act we know about.'
'And what might such an act look like?'
'Ah, this is a good question. You know, in that story about Rabbi Abbahu and the man in the whorehouse-'
'The story from the third century?'
'Yes. In that story, the tzaddik has done something very small. I forget the details, but he makes some small sacrifice to preserve the dignity of a woman.'
Will heard himself gulp. Just like Macrae.
'And this seems to be the common thread. Sometimes it is an act on a very large scale-' Will thought of Chancellor Curtis in London, diverting precious millions to the poor '- perhaps a tzaddik will save an entire city from destruction.
Sometimes it is a tiny gesture to one individual: a meal when they are hungry, a blanket when they are cold. In each case, the tzaddik has treated a fellow human being justly and generously.'
'And in that way, even a small gesture might redeem a whole life?'
'Yes, Mr Monroe. The tzaddik may have lived as if he was drenched in sin. Think of Chaim the Watercarrier, drinking himself to oblivion. But those acts of righteousness, they change the world.'
'So goodness is not about rules. Or wearing a hair shirt.
Or praying hard. Or knowing every word in the Bible. It's about how we treat each other.'
'Being adam v'adam. Between man and man. That is where goodness, even divinity resides. Not in the heavens, but right here on earth. In our relations with each other. It also means we have to be careful. We have to treat everyone we meet with great respect because, for all we know, this man driving a cab or sweeping the streets or begging on a street corner, he might be one of the righteous.'
That's pretty egalitarian, isn't it?'
The rabbi smiled. 'The equal value of every human life.
This is the preoccupation of Torah. This is what Tova Chaya studied each day at the seminary. And what she studied here with me, before…' The rabbi looked wistful and, suddenly, very old. He did not finish his sentence.
Will felt guilty. Not personally — he knew he was not to blame for TO's leaving all those years ago. But he felt guilty as — he struggled to articulate it — as a representative of the modern world. That was it. It was modernity, America, that had lured young Tova Chaya away from the routines and rhythms that had shaped Jewish lives for centuries, whether in rural Russia or Crown Heights. It was Manhattan, shimmering glass buildings, K-ROC on the radio, tight-fitting jeans, Domino's Pizza, blockbusters at the Cineplex, The Gap, HBO, Glamour magazine, Andy Warhol at MOMA, rollerblading in Central Park, AmEx cards, one-click shopping, Columbia University, sex outside marriage — it was all that that had drawn TO away. How could the medieval conformity of Hassidic life compete? The drabness of the clothes, the regimented calendar, the countless limits — on what you could eat, what you could study or read or draw, on who you could love. No wonder TO had had to escape.
And yet, Will could see that TO had lost something by leaving. He could hear it in Rabbi Mandelbaum's voice and he had seen it in TO's eyes. He had experienced it for himself in those few hours before he was grabbed and grilled on Friday night. This place had something Will had hardly known, either growing up in England or living as an adult in America. The bland word for it was 'community'. People fantasized about that often enough. Back home, the myth of the English village, where everyone knows everyone else, still exerted a powerful hold, though Will had never seen it for real. In America, suburban picket-fence neighbourhoods liked to think they were communities — with their car pools and block parties — but they did not have what Will had seen in Crown Heights.
Here, people were as involved with each other as one large, extended family. An elaborate welfare system meant that each provided for the other as if they were drawing from a common pot. Children were in and out of each other's houses.
No one seemed to be strangers. TO had explained that the claustrophobia could be choking: she had had to get out to breathe. But she also described a warmth, a shared life, she had never known again.
Rabbi Mandelbaum had his head down, turning the pages of yet another book. 'There is one more thing. I don't know if this will be useful or not. According to several legends, one of these thirty-six men is even more special than the others.'
'Really? What kind of special?'
'One of these thirty-six is the Messiah.'
Will leaned forward. 'The Messiah?'
'"If the age were worthy of it, he would reveal himself as such." That's what the scholars say.'
'The candidate,' Will said softly.
'Someone explained this to you already?'
'TO told me that in every generation there is a candidate to be Messiah. If now were the Messianic time, then that man would be it. If it's not the time, then nothing happens.'
'We have to be worthy. Otherwise, the opportunity is lost.'
Almost involuntarily, Will looked at the photographs of the Rebbe, gazing out from every wall and every angle. Dead more than two years, his eyes still shone.
'Exactly,' said Rabbi Mandelbaum, following Will's eyes.
And the two men looked at each other.
The door opened. TO was standing there, clutching her phone. There was no colour in her face; her eyes were glassy, like an animal stunned for slaughter.
She bent down and whispered in Will's ear. 'The police are after me. I'm wanted for murder.'
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Monday, 2.20am, Darwin, Northern Australia
The music had stopped, that was why he had gone in. He kept this up throughout his shift, whether it was day or night — tip-toeing into the room to take out the finished CD and replace it with a new one. The bedside cupboard was full of them, Schubert mainly, left there by the old man's daughter.
The fami
ly had not asked Djalu to do it, but he knew it was what they wanted.
He put on the record. He could hear wailing from the next room along; he would have to be there in a second. But he wanted to stay a while with this resident, Mr Clark, the man who loved music. Djalu had only seen him awake for an hour or two each day; the sedative kept him asleep the rest of the time. But in those conscious minutes, Mr Clark seemed healed by the sounds of violins and cellos which uncoiled from the CD and into the room like stretches of fine thread. His aged lips parted as if to taste the melodies; his mouth sometimes made the same tiny movement even when he was in deep slumber.
Djalu would seize on those moments to take the small sponge, mounted on a stick, dip it into the bedside glass of water and brush it onto Mr Clark's mouth. The old man, nearly eighty-five, could no longer eat or drink, not without vomiting. So this was the only way to give him sustenance.
He was dying, like so many of the people in this place, not from the disease that had assailed him for months but of starvation and eventual dehydration. Once it was clear that the patient could never be cured, the organs would be allowed to pack up, one by one until death finally arrived.
It seemed a cruel way to let a person die. Djalu's father denounced it as typical of 'white man's' medicine, all science and no spirit. Sometimes Djalu thought he was right; after all, he had seen some terrible things in this place. Old women lying in pools of their own urine; men crying out for hours to be helped to the toilet. Some of the nurses quickly lost patience, shouting at the residents, telling them to shut up.
Or addressing them by their first names, as if they were babies.
In his first few months, Djalu had gone with the flow. He did not want to draw attention to himself, one of only two aborigine care assistants in the home. His position was hardly secure, not with a resume which included two spells in jail — one for burglary, the other for shoplifting. So he said nothing when the senior staff would hear moans or screams from down the corridor — and would turn up the TV to drown out the noise.