An Unexpected Afterlife: A Novel (The Dry Bones Society Book 1)

by Dan Sofer

  Menachem waved his hand so hard that Yosef feared he might dislocate his shoulder. “The rabbis tell us how to understand the Torah.”

  “Very good. But surely the Sages of Blessed Memory also make mistakes?”

  Twenty pairs of fearful eyes stared at him. “That is Emunas Chakhomim. We trust that God guides the leading rabbis of the generation to the correct interpretation. The Torah tells us, ‘Do not turn from what they instruct you neither to the right nor to the left.’ The Midrash comments, ‘Even if they seem to tell you that left is right and that right is left, obey them.’ Trust their judgment, even above your own.”

  The bell rang. The boys collected their study materials and prepared to go home.

  Yosef leaned against the wall of the empty classroom. During the meeting of the Great Council two days ago, something inside him had broken.

  Sitra Achra. He shuddered. He had invited them into his home. Exposed his family. How had he not realized that his undead visitors were the agents of the unholy Other Side? Two secular Jews. If that had not set off alarm bells, the Arab girl certainly should have!

  And yet, neither Moshe nor Irina had struck him as evil. Not even Samira. They were people struggling to survive. They were victims, not demons. They needed his help. How could that be wrong? Had his moral compass lost its bearings?

  Yosef collected his bag and left the low school building. Shards of orange sunlight slipped between the apartment complexes of Jerusalem stone in Sanhedria. As Yosef climbed into his battered white Subaru, two teenagers in black hats and suits passed by, holy books in hand.

  Black and white. The uniform of the frum world. Life was easier in black and white. Right and wrong. Nothing in between. That required faith. Emunas Chakhomim. To surrender his intellect and heart to the guidance of God’s true representatives. Have faith, Yosef.

  He turned the key and, defying the odds of probability, the engine started.

  He negotiated the curves of the suburban streets, slowing as hats and gowns crossed on foot. He bypassed the crowded hive of Meah Shearim, the heart of ultra-Orthodox life, and turned south onto Route 60. Traffic choked the highway, as workers returned home after a long day.

  Yosef rested his elbow on the door. The world crawled on, tired and colorless. Empty. Purged of the intoxicating scent of the Redemption. Once you had a whiff, sobriety became intolerable. Yosef knew that only too well. False hope was worse than no hope at all.

  Twenty minutes later, he parked on Shimshon Street. His boys had beaten him home. The scent of barley soup wafted from the kitchen, to his surprise. Rocheleh never cooked dinner on a weekday. Since Yosef had removed their unholy guests, however, she had made an extra effort. She even smiled at him.

  He had not mentioned the verdict of the Great Council, and she had not asked. Best not to disturb the purity of his home with talk of the Sitra Achra.

  Life had returned to normal. Better than normal. He poured a cup of coffee and settled at the dinner table with Uriel, his eldest, for their weekly study session.

  Last time, they had completed the Chapters of the Fathers, the ethical teachings of the Mishna. Tonight they started the Eight Chapters, the introduction to those teachings penned by Maimonides. After a feverish week of Resurrection speculations, Yosef welcomed the return to timeless first principles—character building and human decency—the bread and butter of religious life.

  Uriel read the text; Yosef corrected and commented as necessary. The famed philosopher kicked off with an analogy. Doctors need to understand the human body to heal illness. Similarly, we need to understand our mental faculties to correct our faulty character traits.

  Yosef listened to the sound of his own breathing, the rustle of the page beneath his son’s hand. In the kitchen behind them, a pot hissed on the stove. Compared to the tumult of their strange guests, the house felt empty. In time, he would forget them. All that the Merciful One does is for the best.

  Uriel giggled.

  “What?” Yosef had drifted off.

  “Look, Aba.” His finger marked the passage.

  Yosef read the words. “‘Things that make no sense or that are inconceivable.’” Nothing humorous there. He scanned the next paragraph. “The faculty of imagination,” he said. “What’s funny about that?”

  “Aba!” Uriel said in the exasperated tone of a teenager. “Read on.”

  He did. “‘For example, a metal boat flying in the air—’” His son giggled again. “What?”

  Uriel rolled his eyes. A teenager, indeed. “A metal ship,” he said. “Flying. What about airplanes?”

  “Ha. You’re right.” Yosef had missed the glaring error.

  “Aba, didn’t he know about airplanes?”

  “Maimonides lived a very long time ago,” he explained. “In the twelfth century, a flying boat was unimaginable. But today…”

  He gazed at the turbaned rabbi in the framed picture. Maimonides had erred—black on white. Not by any fault of his own. According to the physics of his day, a flying metal ship was, indeed, inconceivable. But still, the passage gave him pause.

  For three seconds.

  There came a knocking at the door.

  “Expecting anyone?”

  Uriel shrugged. Yosef rose to his feet and crossed the living room. He opened the front door.

  Moshe Karlin stood on his doorstep. Behind him stood Irina, Samira, and an older stranger. “Sorry, Rabbi,” Moshe said. He gave him an apologetic smile. “We had nowhere else to go.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Irina awoke Wednesday morning to the sound of angry voices. The rabbi and his wife were arguing again, or, more precisely, she was shouting and he was emitting meek consoling noises.

  Irina lifted her head from the armrest of the couch and rubbed the pain in her neck. How had Moshe slept there five nights in a row? Samira lay huddled in a blanket on the other couch. Moshe and Shmuel made the most of the living room carpet.

  In the kitchen, spoons clinked in cereal bowls and mouths slurped chocolate milk.

  The voices grew louder. She lowered her head and pretended to sleep.

  “Boys,” the rabbanit called with forced restraint. “Time to go. Wait for me outside. Now!”

  Chair legs scraped the kitchen tiles and little feet pattered out the front door.

  “Get rid of them today,” she continued in the harsh tone she reserved for her husband, “or I will. Do you understand? Think of our children!”

  The front door slammed shut.

  Silence reigned for a few seconds.

  Rabbi Yosef was a good man. A kind man. He didn’t deserve this. None of them did. But what were they supposed to do?

  The rabbi cleared his throat. “Moshe?” he whispered. Moshe raised his head from the floor. The rabbi stepped into view. “I have to go to work. Help yourself to food and drink—whatever you need.”

  Moshe nodded. “Thank you.”

  The rabbi gave him a brave smile and left the house.

  Moshe sat up, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

  Irina said, “Sleep OK?” She had slept fitfully herself, waking at every creak of a door, gripped by the sudden fear that Boris and his henchmen had come to drag them back to slavery. You don’t have to worry about that anymore. You’re free.

  Moshe smiled. “Better than last night. And probably better than I will tonight.”

  Humor, even in desperate situations. That was Moshe. His attitude made their predicament seem less hopeless.

  She swung her legs off the couch. “I’ll make breakfast.”

  She freshened up and got to work in the kitchen. They had raided the fridge the previous night, wolfing down frozen dinners as fast as the rabbi could heat them. Irina toasted the last four slices of bread and fried the last three eggs.

  She served Moshe, Samira, and Shmuel at the kitchen table. They chewed their last foreseeable cooked meal.

  “How many of us are out there?” Moshe asked.

  “How many resurrected people?” Irina said.
>
  He nodded

  Shmuel said, “More than the four of us, that’s for sure. And good luck finding them. I hadn’t told a soul until you lot showed up.”

  They pondered the fate of their fellow resurrectees as they ate.

  “What do we do now?” Samira asked.

  Moshe washed down his egg with a glass of tap water. “I’ll make some calls. Let’s shoot in all directions: anyone who might take us in for a night.”

  He withdrew a wad of shekel notes from his pocket and divided them into four equal mounds on the table. “We have seven hundred shekels each. That won’t get us very far.”

  Irina stared at the money. The crumpled bills were all that remained of Moshe’s treasured family heirloom. He had bought their freedom and now he was treating them to the rest of his cash. He did it without fanfare, as though it was the most natural thing to do. The others shared her sense of awe and gratitude. They would do anything for Moshe Karlin.

  “I have a nephew in Hadera,” Shmuel said. “It’s a long shot but I’ll see what he can do.”

  Irina had nobody to call. “I’ll clean up,” she said.

  “And I’ll wash their clothes,” Samira added. “Maybe the rabbi’s wife will grow to like us.”

  They laughed.

  Irina got to work on the dishes. Galit Karlin was a very poor judge of character. She didn’t know her husband at all. Over the past week, Moshe had passed up many opportunities to make advances on her. Lately, she had been inclined to accept. But Moshe still loved his wife. Were all good men stupid?

  She hung the dishcloths to dry.

  Moshe sat on the couch with a notepad in one hand and the house phone in the other. The rabbi’s battered laptop lay open on the dining room table.

  Irina sat at the computer and nudged it awake. She opened an Internet browser and searched for two words.

  Moshe had sacrificed so much for her. She could at least return the favor. As a woman and an unknown, she could go where Moshe could not.

  The results for “Galit Karlin” returned a Facebook profile—friends only—a genealogy site, and a Ynet listing. She clicked the link and arrived at the schedule for a club in Emek Refaim.

  Well, well, well. Now who’s been leading a double life?

  Irina knew exactly when and where to find her. She would have to dress for the occasion.

  “Galit Karlin,” she whispered, “tonight is our first date.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Wednesday noon, Rabbi Yosef returned home from school. He had made his decision and it tore him up inside.

  When Moshe and his fellow resurrectees had shown up on his doorstep the previous night, he had acted on instinct. His visitors were no demons, just desperate people in dire need of help. How could he turn them away?

  That morning, however, away from the eyes of his guests, Rocheleh’s words had simmered in his mind. She was right. He could lose his job. His well-intentioned generosity might get his children expelled and ruin their marriage prospects. If he had told Rocheleh about the Sitra Achra, she would have thrown him out along with his evil guests.

  “Ve’chai bahem,” the Torah wrote. Live by these teachings. From this verse, the rabbis of the Talmud inferred that “your life takes priority over another’s.” Those who pity the cruel will, in the end, act with cruelty against those deserving of mercy. By pitying these strangers, he had endangered his innocent, young boys.

  He piled on the quotations to strengthen his resolve, but the sharp talons of conscience still clawed at his heart.

  He opened his front door quietly, like a thief. The living room had never looked tidier. Samira smiled at him from beneath her hijab. She folded a boy’s T-shirt and placed it on a pile of freshly laundered clothes on the couch. Moshe and Irina emerged from the kitchen.

  “Welcome home, Rabbi Yosef,” Moshe said. Behind them, white grocery bags sat on the kitchen counter.

  They were not making this easy for him. “My friends,” he said. Don’t cry, Yosef. Hold it together. “We need to talk.” The smiles waned.

  Shmuel entered from the corridor. “Come here, Rabbi, I want to show you something.”

  “Shmuel, I was just telling the others—”

  “In a moment. Come on.”

  He gave in. He followed Shmuel down the corridor. The older man pushed open the glass-paned door that led to the yard. “What do you think?”

  Yosef stepped into his yard. The weeds and wild grasses were gone. In their place, tidy rows of turned soil bordered the enclosure walls, with parallel lines of little circular ditches.

  “Surprise!” said Irina.

  “Gerberas on the sides,” Shmuel explained. “Sunflowers in the middle. In a few weeks you’ll have a lovely flower garden.”

  Yosef could hold back no longer. His shoulders trembled. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” Moshe said.

  Yosef wiped his eyes. They stood before him, hands at their sides. Unarmed men and women facing the firing squad.

  “You are good people,” Yosef said. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake and that, once they get to know you, the rabbis will change their minds. But you have to understand, I have a family. They need me and I need them. There’s only so much I can do.”

  They listened in silence and studied the dirt. He had rehearsed the speech in the car on his way home. He had imagined a firm delivery and an amount of angry resistance. Reality had disappointed on both counts.

  His next words would seal their fate. He had no choice. “And so,” he said, “with much regret and a heavy heart—”

  The doorbell rang. They looked at each other. Yosef was not expecting any visitors and Rocheleh had a key.

  Oh, no! The boys had opened their mouths at school. Or messengers of the Great Council had arrived to ensure that he had complied with their decision.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Please.” They nodded.

  Yosef went indoors. “Just a moment,” he called. He hurried down the corridor and brushed lint from his suit jacket. He peered through the peephole but saw neither Rabbanit Schiff nor men in Chasidic uniform.

  He opened the door. A little old lady peered up at him. Her eyes filled her glasses. The aromas of tasty hot food rose from the tall stack of large tinfoil trays in her arms.

  A middle-aged man with creased olive skin stood behind her. He carried a similar stack of trays, and yet more piles of trays waited on the backseat of the white taxicab that idled in the street.

  “Rabbi Yosef?” the old lady said.

  “Yes?”

  “Here.” She offloaded the trays onto his arms and stepped into the living room. “Where are the others?” she said. “It’s time to eat.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Noga strode into room 419C on a gust of anticipation, but when she rounded the divider curtain, she found Eli’s bed empty.

  The good feeling fled. They had arranged to meet that afternoon. Had he tried to walk and slipped? She had warned him not to push his luck. Or was he avoiding her? He had seemed edgy that morning. Had she crowded him?

  “Oren,” she said. “Where is he?”

  The older man in the next bed peered over his Yediot Acharonot and shook his wobbly jowls. “Have a closer look.” He nodded toward the empty bed and winked. “Romeo might have left you something.”

  She approached the bed and sure enough, a folded note of lined paper lay on the pillow. She read the spidery handwritten message and smiled. Every day she discovered a shiny new facet of Eli Katz.

  She pocketed the note and marched down the corridor. She took the elevator to the first floor, walked past the Steimatzky bookstore and flower shop, and pushed through a glass door that led to a small green courtyard. She had pointed out the hidden garden to Eli on one of their wheelchair tours. He had remembered. What could Eli possibly want to say to her—or do with her—in the privacy of the courtyard? Her cheeks warmed.

  Eli had parked his chair beside the wooden bench. He had combed his hair and sha
ved. He hid his arms behind the chair. A gift? His lips trembled as he smiled. Eli Katz—nervous? She sat on the bench beside him.

  “For you,” he said. He revealed one arm. It held a single long-stemmed rose.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the flower, breathed in its scent, and savored its meaning. She was more than a friend. That explained the nerves.

  “And there’s this.” He revealed his other hand. It held a small box in black velvet. Her heart skipped a beat. They had met barely a week ago. A rose was one thing, but a jewelry box…

  Her concern must have displayed on her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not a ring.”

  She exhaled audibly, and he gave a short, nervous laugh. She placed the rose on the bench, accepted the box, and flipped the lid open. On a bed of black velvet sat a strip of white paper. He had printed four digits on the slip.

  “I had to bribe a nurse to get the box,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s the code to my apartment. 103 Jaffa Road.”

  “Your apartment?” Was he asking her to move in with him? And what apartment had a code and not a key? None of this was making any sense. She would have preferred a ring.

  He looked at the myrtle sapling in the corner. “I haven’t been fully honest with you, Noga.”

  Her mouth went numb. She remembered the feverish intensity of his eyes when he had grabbed her arm that first time. Oh, no, Eli. Please. Don’t.

  “When we met,” he continued, “I felt… a sudden connection. I had never experienced that before.”

  Her lungs inflated. This wasn’t so bad. In fact, this was excellent. “Me too,” she said, then she held back. Don’t be too eager.

  “What I’m going to tell you will seem absurd, even crazy.”

  Love at first sight, she thought, as crazy as it gets. Spit it out already!

  “That’s why I’ve given you the code. The proof is in my apartment. I wish I could show you some other way, but I can’t… I can’t…”

  He seemed to teeter on the verge of tears. She reached out and touched his hand on the armrest of the wheelchair. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she said. “I feel the same way.”