The Angel of Losses

by Stephanie Feldman

  I will do anything to save my son, but Yode’a can’t help me. He says the White Rebbe must bequeath his seal to me. I must prove myself to him. I must find him. Only the last of the line can help me now.

  The entries were dated minutes apart, submitted at 2 A.M., except for one final one, which had been entered only a couple of hours earlier.

  Coney Island, Brooklyn: Sam is alive. I gave him everything. I don’t want her to know what’s happened to me, but I want her to know why I left. Marjorie, you can find a way to explain, can’t you?

  THE TRAIN ASCENDED TO THE LOWEST PART OF THE BROOKLYN sky, traveling along a flickering filmstrip of orange leaves, brick walls with the occasional swoop of graffiti, smoggy wisps of cloud. The train slowly emptied of people as it made its way to the sea, and when it came to the final stop, I was alone. The sea air was edged with a familiar biological tang; overhead, gulls circled through exhaust clouds. I stared at the senior center, its flat, beige face and slack forest-green awning, its silver-framed doors propped open to reveal a fluid darkness. It felt like only days, not years, had passed since I last visited this place.

  I stepped through the doors, into the same sea-green lobby with that same potted tree. I walked the hall, my heels squeaking on the linoleum, the fluorescents buzzing overhead. There were the same brown couches and plastic trees, the same vending machine and coffeepot. An old man sat alone, reading a magazine, a properly staffed chessboard beside him.

  It was Sam. He looked up at me, his eyes huge and wet behind his glasses.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Ohhh,” he said slowly, pitching his body forward, preparing to stand. I put my hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to sit back, and sat beside him. “You came. You found the old place.” He laughed—just a slight rustle in his throat. “The old man at the old place.”

  I smiled weakly. His shoulder was just a bone under my hand; his chest sunken under his pale dress shirt. His right hand trembled, playing a vibrato against the threadbare upholstery. How long did it take for him to fasten all of those buttons hanging against his chest?

  “How could I forget?” I asked. “How are your children?”

  They were all well, his grandchildren in school, his daughter trying to convince him to move to a retirement home near their house in Connecticut.

  “So,” he said. “What are you doing these days?”

  “I’m working on my doctorate in literature.”

  He smiled. “A professor. Your grandfather could have been a professor. He said he wanted to write a book about what’s-his-name. The traveler.” My heart caught. “Marco Polo.” And released.

  “He never told me that.”

  “Always writing in his notebooks.” His gaze drifted into the middle distance before him. “He asked me—he said if he went first, he wanted me to destroy them. Well”—he opened his hands to the plaster ceiling—“I didn’t expect him to go first. Still, Eli, I said, you don’t want to take all that away from your grandchildren and great-grandchildren. At the end . . .” He circled his hand, indicating a journey with many steps, and then looked in my eye. “Sometimes you don’t think right.”

  “The notebooks,” I said. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. How did you know?”

  “A man came to see me. He brought me this.” There, on the chair next to him, a legal-sized manila envelope.

  “An old man?” I asked.

  “No,” Sam said. “Young. Jewish. He said he knew you, and I should hold it until you came. ” He lifted his hands, palms up. “He seemed . . . not right in the head. I’ll tell you, I was a little afraid.” He picked up the book, considered it briefly. “I wonder what’s in it.” Now he offered it to me and smiled. “But it’s not for me either. It’s yours.

  “I had a dream about Eli,” Sam continued. “I was in the woods, following a little boy. A little boy in old-fashioned clothes with mud on his shoes. And then Eli was there. He said it was okay—it was the right thing, to give you his books.” His hand lifted off the armrest, fingers pointing like a divining rod to the remaining notebook. “I felt guilty all this time. But not anymore.” He sighed. “Now you’ll go home and say, ‘That Sam, his mind is almost gone.’ ”

  “I won’t say that,” I promised. “I’ll never say that.”

  I SAT AT THE BUS STOP ACROSS THE STREET FROM GRANDPA’S OLD building. Hadn’t Sam seen him on the bench here, sitting with a strange old man, only days before he died? The Wandering Jew I studied used his magic to exorcise ghosts, and so did Solomon. But that’s not what Grandpa wanted. He asked the White Rebbe to bring Josef back, if only as a specter. Perhaps he was still here, invisible to me, a little boy hiding behind a wire trashcan or telephone pole, unaware that he had been lifted from the frozen forest where he died to an amusement park by the sea, raised from the dead only to relive his end.

  I opened the book. It was the second story in the sequence: The White Rebbe and the Angel of Losses. It was written in hurried handwriting that, as the story went on, sank under the ruled lines as if an undertow was pulling it to an irresistible destination. The last of Grandpa’s words I would find on earth—and maybe, in a way, Nathan’s too.

  The White Rebbe and the Angel of Losses

  NOT TWO MONTHS AFTER MANASSEH, THE YOUNG Berukhim Rebbe, disappeared, his elder brother returned from exile, emerging from the woods with his father’s staff in hand and a new wife at his side. Though he was still a young man, his hair and beard had gone white—a sign, the people said, of his holiness, of the great power that seemed to conjure him just when they needed him most. They called him the White Rebbe.

  The White Rebbe took up his responsibility as the leader of his people and the primary teacher of the village yeshiva. It was a role he had always believed was meant for his younger brother, a role he had fled home to escape. And yet, now that he had returned from the city of canals, his father dead and his brother disappeared, it came easily to him. Every day the White Rebbe presided over his students, who came from the four corners to study in this holy place where the leaves once glowed with the letters of the Torah, and every month, when the moon was new, he stayed awake in his study, waiting for the knock on the door, his visit from the Angel of Losses, who had brought him home again.

  For years the rebbe and the angel studied, speaking only of the patriarchs, the law, that week’s Torah portion and what the sages had made of it; and though to an angel the days must pass as quickly as a wing beats in flight, Yode’a took notice of the changes they brought. Your yeshiva is growing, he observed, and the White Rebbe confirmed, yes, more students every season.

  And at another meeting, looking up from his book with eyes black as smoke, the angel said: They come from far away. Farther, even, than any student traveled to study with your father. The White Rebbe nodded, his mouth tightening against his swelling pride.

  And at yet another meeting: Your reputation spreads. In cities and towns you don’t know to name, they speak of the White Rebbe. The White Rebbe, flush with delight, said nothing.

  And at the next: Your wife has given birth to a son. A beautiful child. Finally, the White Rebbe was compelled to respond, so full of pride was he, but before he could speak, Yode’a continued. A healthy son.

  The White Rebbe’s tongue froze in his mouth. There was something other than flattery in the angel’s words, something that coaxed him from his midnight bed to watch the sleeping baby’s chest rise and fall.

  Years passed.

  The White Rebbe’s fame spread. His power grew, the Sabbath Light flamed ever more brightly in his skin, and he found that his faith flourished with it. He wondered at the new longing that had bloomed within him, a love of God and his creation—and also the raw emptiness that occasionally replaced his heart, the despair at the exile that had sent Manasseh on his ritual midnight wanderings.

  Years passed.

  The White Rebbe’s family grew: sons and daughters and grandchildren. His yeshiva grew; graduates taught new students, and on
occasion he stopped by their classes to listen, the young people arguing about whether he had nodded in agreement, sighed in frustration, scratched his beard to indicate that the second thesis was correct, the third thesis was blasphemous, the fourth thesis an insightful interpretation of the law. He taught his disciples to rise at midnight, paint their faces with dirt, blink dust into their mourning eyes, and cry in pain at the absence of God. Among them walked the Angel of Losses, his tall figure hunched, his beard trailing vapor, his steps printing the ground in soot, unseen by all but the White Rebbe himself.

  Years passed.

  Now the White Rebbe rose at midnight too—not to mourn but to fly with the Angel of Losses, who carried him on his back to the windows of the celestial academy, great halls where the wise men of the ages studied, where all the books ever written—ever to be written—found shelter. Neither the mortal rebbe nor the disgraced angel could be admitted, but sometimes they saw a face at the window. The White Rebbe hoped to catch a glimpse of his brother—the angel refused to reveal what became of Manasseh’s soul after his brief time carrying the Sabbath Light, after Solomon, as an act of mercy, claimed it from him—but he never did.

  Years passed.

  Where are you, when you’re not here with me? the White Rebbe asked the angel, for he knew now that Yode’a had been banished from paradise.

  I am at the Sabbath River, flying back and forth along its banks, praying for forgiveness, and answered only by the roar of the eternal avalanche of rock.

  Tell me, the White Rebbe said. What is it like on the other side?

  All of the people live in grand palaces, the angel said. There are no man-eating beasts or poisonous insects or sharp-toothed snakes. The rain is gentle. The cattle are fruitful. The riverbeds gleam with gold, and the mountain caves offer diamonds by the handful. The people drink honey from jewel-encrusted goblets. They do not lie or steal or commit adultery. They live in perfect health and do not die for one hundred years. The rulers are kind and generous and command kingdoms of peace. The nights are dazzled by stars, the sky an embroidery of silver thread. On the Sabbath, King Daniel raises the Sabbath Light, and it glows in the sky like a second sun, and in its light all are blessed.

  As the White Rebbe listened, the fiery symbol in his flesh, his own small piece of the Sabbath Light, swelled to illuminate the study, and in that golden embrace, the White Rebbe did not think of his father on his last night, begging his son to reject the angel; he did not think of Manasseh and his terrible fate; no, he listened to the Angel of Losses describe the terms of their agreement, and it seemed a great fortune, a gift, to be the one to finally cross the Sabbath River, to stand, an immortal, on the Lost Tribes’ land, to destroy the separation between living and dead, to call forth the Messiah and bring paradise to all.

  MANY YEARS PASSED. THE WHITE REBBE WAS NOW AN old man.

  One night, Yode’a said: Your stature has grown far beyond any of those who came before. You are a very holy man, and you have given your people so many gifts. In the lamplight, Yode’a was green as the river. Surprising how grateful people are, he said, for such small favors.

  I have given them health when they were ill, the White Rebbe countered. I have given them children when they were barren. Who would call these small favors?

  I do, for I have seen paradise, the angel replied. I know the scent of the wind that heralds the Messiah’s arrival. The time has come for you to fulfill your debt, the debt that your ancestor incurred when he first compelled me to give the Sabbath Light, and all the magic it yields, to man. You must brave the River of Stones. If you make it to the other side, then you shall have the Messiah, and I shall finally return home.

  I do not have that power, the White Rebbe said. None of us have. When you first came to me, you told me that my brother had tried to force the coming of the Messiah, and his punishment was to wander endlessly until his mind was destroyed. You told me the only way to save him was to relieve him of his immortality, to take the Sabbath Light on myself. Now you want me to attempt the same impossible task, but I am no more capable than he.

  Perhaps you are right, Yode’a said, his voice hissing like an ember. And perhaps you are not.

  That month, sleep rarely came to the White Rebbe, and when it did it left him swiftly. He knew the legends of the rabbis who had tried to bring the Messiah—Akiba, Della Reina—and the names of all the Berukhim Rebbes who had attempted the same, ending with Manasseh, the sweetest, most pious of all. They had all failed, and many had suffered. And all such holy men.

  As holy as he?

  At their next meeting the White Rebbe said, I put myself at great risk going in search of the Messiah.

  Perhaps, Yode’a said.

  Certainly, the White Rebbe replied. If I am to challenge heaven with you, and attempt to correct the greatest loss of all, then I want you to right my greatest loss. I want my brother back.

  The angel was silent for a moment. Finally he said, The lamp oil is low. Soon our flame will die.

  In the growing darkness, his shadow seeped toward the ceiling and finally covered the room, a black canopy.

  There is a difference, Yode’a continued, between a soul that is lost and a soul that is imprisoned.

  You have my demand, the White Rebbe said to his invisible guest. The windows were turning from black into blue, and in the light of dawn he saw that he was alone.

  The great rebbe was powerful; he was stubborn. Perhaps he couldn’t resist forever the temptation to travel to the River of Stones, whose light wove tighter around his mind, suffocating his resolve with visions of paradise. But the angel knew by now that the White Rebbe could make him wait a very, very long time for his next chance at redemption.

  At the next new moon the White Rebbe waited in his study, but the angel never came.

  Life continued in the village: Sabbaths were celebrated, students arrived and departed, the White Rebbe’s family multiplied. They were strong and they were happy, and the White Rebbe thought he was arrogant for wanting more than the riches he had.

  One day a stray dog, small and black, walked out of the woods. The students became fond of it, sharing crumbs from their meals and tossing sticks. In return, the dog tried to follow them through the doors, and sat outside the windows as the White Rebbe lectured, as if it too were learning the law.

  Though he ignored the creature, the White Rebbe also became an object of the dog’s affection. It waited for him at the edge of wedding parties and outside homes in which families were celebrating births. It followed him to school in the morning and home in the evening. One night it followed him into his dreams.

  THE WHITE REBBE DREAMS OF A NIGHT SHORTLY AFTER his father’s disappearance and his own escape. He sees his brother sitting in their father’s study, a slight young man, bewildered, a tall wooden staff—his father’s, now his—leaning in the corner. Manasseh waits for the angel, who has, presumably, led his father to heaven. Solomon is gone, and no one in the village will speculate about the rebellious man’s disappearance, lest they offend the young Berukhim Rebbe, still in grief over his abandonment.

  Lightning divides the sky, revealing, for an instant, grasping black trees and a robed silhouette. Another thick snake of lightning, and the figure—hooded, taller than a man—has grown to fill a quarter of the window. A third bolt strikes just beyond the door; the wood seams hiss; the hinges glow orange.

  The Angel of Losses arrives on a wave of salt and ash. He tells Manasseh a story, a terrible story: His father did not ascend to heaven but instead traveled to the Sabbath River and attempted to cross it, losing his way in that great ocean of rocks, unable to return to our world, forbidden from entering paradise, and condemned to remain in between. The Sabbath Light that fueled his power as a wonder rebbe now curses him with immortality, stranding him within the River of Stones and an eternity of certain madness.

  Your father cannot lay down the letter, Yode’a says. His wits have abandoned him. He knows only the rumbling of stone and the rushing
wind between worlds. He cannot stop you from claiming his burden as your own.

  When you take the Sabbath Light, the angel continues, you will assume the magic power that has made your dynasty famous. You will relieve your father of his torturous immortality, and you will be a wonder rabbi to your people.

  The angel has told this tale many times—as many times as there were Berukhim Rebbes to dash against the Sabbath River, against his futile desire to end his own exile and reunite with the heavenly court that cast him out. Some took their father’s curse out of grief and loyalty; some cared only for the magic that would be theirs for so brief a lifetime. Some accepted the accompanying debt—a final trip to the Sabbath River to search out their long-lost brethren—with solemnity; some thought their deaths too distant to be concerned with; some thought they might find a loophole, a magic mightier than the angel’s, to save them. But none since the first Berukhim Rebbe, leading his followers through a desert midnight, eagerly accepted his charge.

  And then at the end of my life, Manasseh says to the angel, you will ask me to do what my father could not. You will ask me to cross the Sabbath River and summon the Messiah. But I’m not like the others. I care nothing for magic, and I won’t make you wait. I’m ready to journey to the River of Stones now. I’m ready to redeem the world.

  The Angel of Losses leads Manasseh along dirt highways, up and down mountains, through the markets of great cities, and finally to a vast desert. In the light of the young rebbe’s staff, the sand shines like the dust of precious jewels. Thunder fires in the distance, but rain never comes, and as they travel, the noise grows louder and louder.

  Manasseh’s heart surges; his bones rattle. Yode’a has brought him to the edge of the world, and the thunder is the mouth of oblivion gnashing its teeth. Soon he sees it: a great river of rocks, each the size of ten men, hurtling through the air.