Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest

by Roger Herst

  It couldn't have been more than a dozen meters until she felt herself being shoved into a car as a heavy hand shielded her head. Anger and determination fueled new resistance as she violently kicked her legs. She found herself being wedged between heavy bodies belonging to men, shouting instructions to each other in Russian. The engine of the vehicle was running; the driver put it into gear and inched from the curb into oncoming traffic. Gabby attempted to lift her head to be seen by other motorists, but a fierce hand cuffed her, compelling her to remain hunched below the window line out of sight. Each time she tried to straighten up, the hand, which remained heavy on the crown of her head, pumped down, and provided a punishing slap.

  She heard what sounded like the jingle of keys. Were they the keys to her apartment removed from her fanny-pack? And if so, were these kidnappers going to enter her home?

  Panic was not easy to resist, but she kept telling herself that to lose her reason would compound the disaster. It took all her powers of concentration to note how many times the vehicle changed directions. The car moved at a modest speed through Jerusalem's traffic, in what felt like the direction of her neighborhood. As soon as her breathing slowed, she became aware of a familiar odor, stale garlic on the breath of the man in the bakery. She knew a few Russian words, but far too few to understand what her abductors were saying. A woman's voice originating from the driver's seat surprised her.

  When the car stopped, somebody lowered a window. For the second time, she heard the jangle of keys. Somebody outside the car spoke in Russian before the window closed and the car started to move again.

  Only the one smelling of garlic spoke in English, commanding her not to lift her head. His palm smacked her crown to ensure obedience. Instead of offering more futile resistance, she counted the number of times the vehicle turned along Jerusalem's short streets, noting how it seemed to descend a long, curving road she didn't believe existed to the north or west of the city. That left as a possibility the Arab populated valley of Silwan on the capital's southeastern perimeter. The driver switched on air-conditioning that muffled the chatter in Russian and made it even more difficult to pick out a few words.

  She estimated twenty-minutes of driving before the car slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether. There, she was allowed to lift her head and sit back against the car seat, easing pain in her lower back, but the sack over her face remained in place. Someone removed the gag over her mouth. For the first time, the female driver addressed her directly in the sandpaper voice of a dedicated smoker. "So tell us, Rabbi Lewyn. You go five days to Mea She'arim. Where did you talk with Timothy Matternly."

  Gabby had expected a question along these lines and had a reply ready. "That's madness. I never spoke with Tim there or anywhere else."

  "Dressed like Hasidic woman? I don't think so." the driver pursued.

  "I'm a Reform rabbi from the States. I go to the Orthodox district to refresh the roots of my faith. These are people most dedicated to the study of Torah."

  "Don't insult us," the woman responded.

  "How better to experience Judaism? When I'm dressed in Hasidic clothes, I feel close to these people, though I obviously don't wish to live my life as they do."

  "You live with Matternly in Chicago. You also live in his apartment here in Jerusalem."

  "He's in neither," Gabby snapped.

  "We know that. Where is he?"

  "Why should I tell people who kidnap me, put a hood over my head, and take me to God only knows where? Take this hood off so I can see you. Otherwise, I must conclude that you're nothing but thugs who have no legitimate business with my friend."

  The abductors spoke to each other, once again excluding Gabby, until the man with the garlic breath said in English with a thick Slavic brogue, "You're better off not seeing us."

  A cell phone rang in the front seat. A male beside the driver answered in Hebrew, which Gabby understood. "No, not yet. She hasn't told us yet... not yet. Call back as soon as you find something in her apartment."

  "Where's Matternly?" the woman repeated.

  Gabby wanted to know what was going on in her apartment, but to demand they tell her would reveal that she understood their Hebrew. Instead, she said, "I told you I don't know. I don't like you people, whoever you are, but we share the same desire to find him."

  "Hard to believe since you're his woman."

  "I could tell you he's now in Chicago or Buenos Aires. To find him, you'd have to go there and discover that I lied. Let's say I'm saving you the trouble. Why do you want him?"

  "We need his brains."

  "You don't have a clue and neither do I. So you might as well remove this infernal hood and take me home. If you're courteous, I won't report this to the police for twenty-four hours. If you apologize, I might not do it at all."

  "We could easily dispose of you in the desert."

  Gabby released a derisive laugh. "If you want Tim Matternly, disposing of his friend isn't a smart way to go about it. Harm me and you'll have an army of police hunting you down."

  The cell phone rang again, answered by the same individual in the passenger seat in poor Hebrew obviously learned in adulthood. He listened for a moment before reporting what he had heard to his cohorts. "They heard voicemail on Matternly's phone. There were eight voice messages from this woman in Chicago, asking for Matternly to return her phone messages."

  This confirmed to Gabby that while she was being held hostage, somebody was searching her apartment. Though she didn't like the idea of unauthorized people in her home, she knew there was nothing to find. Thank God she had neglected to delete her voice messages for Tim.

  There was a short interval while the man on the phone listened, then reported to the others, "They searched her laptop. Not a single message from Matternly. But in her SENT BOX there are six e-mails she sent from Chicago asking to hear from him. And one from Jerusalem, seeking the same thing."

  The female driver spoke to the others in Russian. A moment later, she turned on the ignition and put the car into reverse, then circled about as if backing out of a tight parking spot.

  "Where are you taking me?" Gabby demanded.

  The woman answered. "You'll see."

  Once again, the car snaked along a series of steep curves, but eventually descended onto roads where it was possible to accelerate. For nearly thirty minutes, nothing was said. The car traveled faster, then suddenly seemed to creep through traffic where the ambient sounds of a city were everywhere. She heard voices in Arabic and much horn honking. When the vehicle finally stopped, the man with the garlic breath yanked at her arm, forcefully hauling her from the rear door. She found herself wobbling on numb feet that had fallen asleep in the car. The abductor took no notice and pushed her for about fifty meters, before ordering her to stop.

  "Count to hundred slowly, out loud," he said, "If you don't want to get shot, don't try and take off the hood. Start counting now."

  Gabby felt like throwing a punch in the abductor's direction, but thought it wiser to commence counting. She heard footsteps rapidly receding back toward the car. That signaled her to tear off the hood, but a cord had secured it tightly around her neck. Without the use of her eyes, she was forced to rely upon her fingers to undo the knot. When it was possible to remove the sack from her head, afternoon sun blinded her eyes. By the time they adjusted to the new light, the vehicle had long since disappeared.

  She pivoted around, trying to orient herself, thinking about calling Itamar or Major Zabronski. But how would she explain her Hasidic clothing without revealing she had found Tim in Mea She'arim? Until it was possible to change these clothes, she resolved to say nothing about the abduction.

  Her first problem was to get her bearings and return home. She found herself standing in a narrow street surrounded by Orthodox Jews that looked much like the denizens of Mea She'arim. This was not Jerusalem, but Hebron, an enclave of the Orthodox Jews living near the traditional tombs of Abraham and Sarah, surrounded by a warren of Palestinian villages
. While her abductors had failed to return her fanny-pack, they had not searched her pockets and left her sufficient funds for a bus ride to Jerusalem. That was the good news. The bad news was it was nearing sundown and the interurban bus connecting Hebron with Jerusalem did not travel through Palestinian villages after nightfall. Taxi drivers refused to take her for the same reason.

  Her bus joined the first convoy of trucks and taxis heading north the next morning at 0900 hours and departed under military protection at 0945 hours.

  ***

  Each time Tim sat down before his computer, he wrestled away a craving to reply to Gabby's latest e-mail. The icon for her message sat on the monitor's desktop begging to be answered. Simultaneously, he was haunted by the idea of going to prison for what happened in Qumran, and Israeli prisons, he had come to understand, were far more unpleasant than their counterparts in America, if that were possible. How could he justify drawing Gabby into a conspiracy and subjecting her to share his punishment? With that in mind, he carefully timed his visit to their Ussishkin Street apartment in mid-morning when he felt certain she would be out.

  In Zechariah's dark overcoat and hunched over like an old man, Tim shuffled along Rambam Street, occasionally stroking his grizzled whiskers and adjusting the wide-brimmed hat that hid all but his chin and mouth. While he recognized several passersby in the neighborhood, none appeared to see through his disguise. The spot where he usually parked his SUV was taken by a Volkswagen belonging to a neighbor and, as far as he could tell, no strangers idled on the street keeping watch.

  In contrast to his Chicago home, he had never thought of his Jerusalem apartment as light-filled and cheery, for even when the sun was at its highest, he needed to turn on lights. From the street, he could peer through the windows to the electrical ceiling fixtures in the kitchen and study. Lights in both rooms were dark, confirming his prediction that Gabby had left for the day.

  In the public stairwell, he resolved not to linger any longer than necessary. But his plan dissolved the moment he opened the door. The apartment was in complete disarray, with furniture strewn about, pillows and kitchen utensils tossed to the floor, books and papers pulled from their shelves and roughly scattered. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it to quiet a racing heart. He had long believed that Father Benoit would strike back, but never with such ferocity. The sound of the irate priest's voice from the monastery parapet reverberated in his ears, echoing with rage. "You won't get away with it!"

  As he struggled to bring his emotions under control, he calculated Father Benoit's cunning. When his heartbeat slowed, he reasoned that, by ransacking the apartment, Benoit had overplayed his hand. Having already sent goons to break in, he wasn't likely to authorize it a second time. And this played to Tim's advantage.

  He cautiously navigated around untidy piles of household items to the living room where the floor-to-ceiling bookcases were located. Volumes that had once been housed there were strewn in heaps on the floor. The intruders seemed to have worked from top to bottom, first tossing down his books on higher shelves, then following with Gabby's below. He briefly considered attempting to straighten up the mess, but rejected the idea out of hand. Remaining at home longer than necessary was dangerous. Additionally, it might deceive Gabby into underestimating the precarious situation in which he had now placed her.

  He scrambled through her books on top of the heap. Cicero and Gibbon, both dealing with the first century of the Common Era. There were commentaries on Amos, Jonah, Obadiah, and Deutero-Isaiah. A cherished volume of Maimonides' Guide to the Perplexed. Buried below the first layer, he found what he was looking for, her Biblia Hebraica—the Masoretic text of the Old Testament in Hebrew, edited in Latin and German by Rudolf Kittel, printed on thick, rich paper, and sporting a distinctive beige fabric binding with an embossed red-letter title. Since he was confident she would never discard or destroy this archetypal reference, he selected it as a temporary depository for what he had taken from the Monastery of St. George.

  He climbed out of his heavy woolen overcoat and let it drop unceremoniously over other books. Next, he pulled out his tunic from its foothold in his trousers, simultaneously unhitching the belt. To the inside of this shirt near the small of his back, he had sown the edges of the vacuum-sealed plastic envelope. In a hurry to move on, he dug his fingernails between the tunic and the envelope, plucking out the threads.

  Moisture from his body clouded the transparent envelope, but had not seeped inside. As he had done numerous times at St. George, he reread the three words for confirmation that somehow in the thrill of discovery he had not misread what was there. To his relief, no error had been made. Balancing in his hand Gabby's heavy Bible, he thumbed past the five books of Moses into a subsequent section housing the major prophets. Isaiah was first in the canonical order, perhaps because his writing represented a compilation of several authors, or because more of his prophecies remain extant than those of his fellow prophets.

  For storing the precious fragment, no ordinary resting place would do. Tim had in mind a special passage dealing with Isaiah's prophecy that from the lineage of King David would come a hero to redress injustice in the world. Chapter 26. A perfect location for short-term storage!

  Once he was satisfied that the plastic sleeve was neatly tucked near Isaiah's vision for the future, he returned the Kittel's Biblia Hebraica to a pile of books on the floor, approximately where it had been discarded.

  He then moved quickly to complete a second task and started looking for a CD disk on which he had stored software to assemble texts now waiting for him in Rav Schreiber's apartment. He had kept the disk in his desk, the drawers of which were now overturned with their contents strewn over a Bukhara rug. His mood plummeted when he failed to find the disk among the debris. The desk drawers had been filled with pencils, pens and miscellaneous trinkets, many in Ziploc bags. When extracted from the desk and overturned, these articles had scattered widely. He found himself searching in a series of concentric circles and treating articles on the floor with the same disrespect as the burglars, rudely tossing unwanted ones aside. On an outer ring of his search pattern, he spied the corner of an envelope that looked suspicious. Two steps brought him within snatching distance.

  The disk was inside, undamaged. That was a relief, for while he knew the final version of this software, now over eight years old, would require considerable modification, at least he would not have to write new code from scratch. He also knew that Father Benoit, who now possessed a copy installed on his Dell laptop abandoned at St. George, would face the same need to update.

  Tim's next mission was more mundane. Though his family suffered from little or no heart disease, a physician in Chicago had recommended that as insurance he take a statin drug to lower his blood cholesterol. Before departing for Israel, he had purchased a half-year's supply of Lipitor. Part of this prescription he stored in a transparent orange bottle on the bathroom countertop, where it would remind him to take a pill each night before bed. It came as no surprise that this bottle was not where he had left it, but then nothing in the bathroom was. He discovered it on the floor underneath several hand towels. Almost touching the Lipitor was his Gillette razor, the same instrument he had used with replacement blades for more than ten years.

  From a pile of his clothing scattered over the bed and floor, he quickly selected a sweatshirt, two T-shirts, a pair of short pants and his favorite pair of tennis shoes. Finally, from the office area, he grabbed an extra pair of reading glasses that might prove useful, given the extensive work facing him.

  ***

  Back in Jerusalem by 1225 hours the next afternoon, Gabby took a taxi from the Central Bus Station to her apartment, expecting to find that intruders had been there the previous afternoon. While climbing the stairs, she was met by voices through the open door. Once in the vestibule, the sight of the ransacked apartment had a similar effect on her that it had on Tim Matternly, only four hours before.

  She managed to step over
a narrow table usually placed beside the front door for keys and letters. A uniformed police officer was navigating a path through a sea of household possessions, papers, furniture, pillows that had found new resting places on the floor.

  "Mah yesh, What's going on here? she growled at the officer in Hebrew.

  The sergeant threw up his hands as if to say, 'Don't blame us for this mess, Lady.' He replied, "We just got here to take you in for questioning, and found the front door unlocked. I don't know what this is all about, but I must ask you to accompany us to our station. We can sort this thing out later. Major Zabronski wants to ask questions about yesterday. I just called him to report you weren't here, but when I told him what we had found, he said he'd be over shortly and that was about twenty minutes ago."

  "What about yesterday?" she asked.

  The officer responded. "You were seen in Mea She'arim. I know he's interested in something that happened at the Afukim bakery on Ein Yaakov Street."

  On several occasions, Itamar and Zabronski had cautioned her about mafia criminals. Had she mistaken the heavily bearded man with the garlicky breath in the bakery for a criminal, not the police? But if she had been followed by the police, then who were the Russian speaking goons who had abducted her?

  Gabby felt an urge to abandon her Hasidic garments before Zvi Zabronski arrived, but there were two additional officers searching articles strewn on the floor and she could find no privacy. She knew it would look suspicious to be in Hasidic dress, but then it was clear the police already knew about her forays into the Orthodox district. She also needed a shower, but that too would have to wait for a quieter moment.