Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest

by Roger Herst

  "Mafia?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Maybe Timothy Matternly's the wrong target."

  "Hang with this, Shmuel," Itamar said as his associate back stepped toward the office door. He immediately angled away to look out the window, but just as Shmuel stepped into the corridor, Itamar called him back. "One last thought, friend. If you possessed vital information about the location of a Dead Sea cave, would you restrict it to a single buyer?"

  "If that was my game plan."

  "How about an auction? What would stop you from selling the same information to more than one buyer? Why not get two or three fees rather than one?" Shmuel wrinkled his brow before saying, "If there are multiple buyers and one is the mafia, that's a nonstop ticket to heaven."

  "Two years have passed since the cave was discovered. A lot can occur in that time."

  Shmuel said nothing to this. He now had a new possibility to mull over

  ***

  Tim spent ten days updating software retrieved from his apartment in Rehavia. It was now eight years since he had finished the actual coding and used this software to decipher the original Qumran fragments. During the intervening period, many improvements had come to mind, but without new documents to compile, he had little motivation to incorporate them into his program. That, he realized, had been a tactical mistake because now that a new cave had disgorged a trove of text, his software was woefully inadequate. And in the meantime, several good ideas to update this code had been lost. Additionally, any complete software would have to accommodate for matching the DNA of similar parchments, though now that meant nothing to Tim because he had left the original texts behind for Father Benoit.

  Scanning performed at the Monastery of St. George revealed 4,237 phrases, full words or partial words, and 9,765 individual letters. Tim first sorted them into groups, starting with the full words and phrases. Partial words were then divided into subcategories of those with sufficient letters to propose a meaning and those that wouldn't support an intelligent guess. The 9,765 stray letters were alphabetized according to the twenty-two consonants of Hebrew and Aramaic. His software also recognized the decomposed parchment edges of each scanned fragment, and where other fragments were obviously complementary, they were merged. Where it was clear that individual fragments were part of a larger unit, they were joined. Unfortunately, such felicitous situations were rare.

  While Tim tinkered with his code, Rav Schreiber busied himself by perusing volumes of rabbinic texts his deceased neighbors had bequeathed to him. They referred to his apartment as a genizah, a permanent depository for books harboring the sacred name of God—discarded tractates of the Mishna and Gemora, commentaries of Rashi, the Ramban, and the Rambam, endless forgotten responsa letters seeking rabbinical interpretations of pressing laws—volumes so sacred they could never be physically destroyed, no matter how faded, dog-eared or decayed their pages. Zechariah Schreiber readily accepted these holy volumes as if lost cousins who had shown up on his doorstep to reside permanently in his crowded apartment. Not only did he clean and stack the new manuscripts, but included each in a schedule for obligatory review, reading a chapter from each volume at least once a year. Tim soon came to appreciate how this bizarre behavior was nothing short of Schreiber's salvation. Now that most of his fellow scholars had made their final journey to study Torah in the Yeshiva shel-Maalah, the heavenly academy, he fussed over every volume placed into his custody. Tim liked to think that while Zechariah kept his books from oblivion, they protected him from the Angel of Death.

  During the six-year interval since collaborating on Fragments from the Dead Sea Scrolls, Schreiber's macular degeneration had left him almost blind in one eye. A cataract operation on the other provided him with partial sight. He made a habit of listening to what Tim read, then in a weak, unevenly hand wrote full words on a notepad, distinguishing subjects from predicates, adverbs from adjectives. Proper names were subdivided into given names and surnames. Periodically, he handed the pad to Tim who would enter this transcription back into his computer. New and old constructions appeared on split screens for easy comparison.

  There were times when the rabbi would close his eyes to explore an encyclopedic memory cultivated over a lifetime of Torah study. Several minutes would elapse before his eyes would reopen and his tongue wet his lips with a smacking sound. He would begin by saying, "Dat is..." and then declare a word or phrase for Tim to record. When the rabbi wrestled with a perplexing puzzle for long intervals, Tim couldn't be sure if he had shut his eyes for the last time, never to reopen them again. But whether he was actually snoozing or delving deep into his reservoir of knowledge, he would eventually wake with a start, accompanied by a miraculous grammatical or syntactical solution.

  On Shabbos, when Schreiber disappeared to pray with his elderly colleagues in a small synagogue a few blocks away, Tim seized the opportunity to take long walks through Mea She'arim and observe Hasidic families strolling the streets in their finest clothes, offering Sabbath greetings and showing off their new babies, of which there seemed to be an endless number. On Shabbos afternoons, he pondered up-to-date topographical maps, careful to observe the prohibition against writing on the holy Sabbath in Rav Schreiber's apartment. Unable to write, he inscribed potential locations in his memory. The more he pondered this lost wilderness, the more he became obsessed by what he imagined to have occurred there. The Romans were harsh, but efficient, practical rulers in Judea who would not have squandered their resources to demolish a yeshiva on the distant extremity of their empire if it were not perceived as a genuine threat. But without further information, he could only speculate.

  When Rav Schreiber awoke late one Sunday morning ready to resume work, Tim had a surprise waiting for him: a list of proper names that had emerged from their previous readings. One by one, he read them aloud, spelling each. Zechariah's arthritic fingers pushed a ballpoint pen over paper with starts and stops, transforming them into a new list written in modern Hebrew characters.

  Zarepheth bat Ishimaris

  Urias bar Natan

  Simon bar Amos

  Ananus, son of Jonathan

  Alcyon, a physician

  Jochanan Gaddis

  Judas bar Jairus

  Joseph bar Daleu

  Netir of the Galilee

  Noami, bat Nadab

  Shmiel, bar Gera

  Tephtus, unknown family

  David, the Pharisee

  To have stumbled into a cluster of names early in their collaboration was indeed a stroke of luck, though Tim remained puzzled. "Any ideas why these turned up in the cave?" he asked Schreiber.

  "Two women. Not all are Hebrew. But we know many Jews assumed Hellenic names back then. Like Alexander and Hyrcanus."

  "So, what do you make of them?"

  Schreiber retreated into his thoughts and remained there for a while before shaking a bony finger to signify that he had something to share. "What do we know so far about the contents of the cave?" he asked with uplift in his voice practiced by yeshiva students as they grilled each other on some fine point in the Gemora.

  "Very little," Tim said, voicing his frustration.

  "Not exactly. We know from the Greek scroll that the yeshiva at Ein Arugot was destroyed. We know also that the commander, Digius Silban, forced Jewish prisoners to help with his dirty work. I know what that's like because I spent three and a half years of my life working as a slave for the Nazis in Germany. Prisoners think a lot about their fellow inmates because their fates are inextricably tied. I'm thinking that maybe one of these unfortunate Jews working for Digius Silban was able to send a warning that Legionnaires were coming to burn down the yeshiva and arrest its students and faculty. If so, it's possible that somebody spirited away the school records, perhaps for safekeeping in Qumran, where we know other valuable records were being stored. These names might represent a list of students, or faculty. I don't recognize any, do you?"

  "Not one," Tim said, more than intrigued by the possibility Sch
reiber offered. But he knew something Schreiber didn't—that the fragments had yielded not thirteen, but fourteen names. Immediately, Tim's passion to visit the desert site at Ein Arugot took on the aura of a pilgrimage. Of course, he didn't expect to do more than make superficial observations. No digging. No excavations. But finding artifacts was unimportant compared with reliving history. Just standing at this location, or near it, was bound to inspire him.

  Schreiber did not own a car, but he had a relative prepared to lend Tim a small Brazilian-assembled Volkswagen. On one of his daily ventures to purchase food, Tim stopped by a military surplus store and bought a pair of hiking boots, a collapsible shovel, a compass, light desert clothing, five water bottles, and a disposable Kodak camera. It would have been ideal to make this pilgrimage on Shabbos, while Schreiber rested, but he didn't think it proper to offend the car's religious owner by using it to travel on the Sabbath. Tim waited impatiently for a convenient weekday. That came when Schreiber's doctor admitted him to the hospital for treatment of a urinary infection.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  True to its nomadic tradition, the Ta'amireh tribe of Negev Bedouin moved its camps frequently to avoid over-pasturing the flocks. It took Father Benoit Matteau a full day of searching the northern wilderness of Judah in his newly acquired Subaru 4-wheel-drive to spot the latest Ta'amireh encampment. During the search, he kept comparing this new vehicle to his lost Buick, unwilling to acknowledge that the 4-wheeler was substantially better suited to driving on rutted desert tracks. Even less was he prepared to equate his role in jettisoning the Hyundai with Tim's childish part in the unnecessary loss of his Buick.

  In the distance, smoke rose from the Ta'amireh ma'nad tents. Given the late hour and the fear of driving over unfamiliar ruts after sundown to approach a Bedouin camp under the veil of darkness when its guards might mistake him, the Dominican priest turned back toward Bethlehem with the intention of returning early the next morning.

  The track he followed with the rising sun only ten hours later soon petered out, forcing him to approach the Bedouin camp on foot over rugged terrain. The clean, dry air confirmed to him that he was more suited to the desert than the city. By this time, the sun's warmth had begun baking the forbidding terrain. Fortunately, he knew how to dress for extreme heat. A white Palestinian kafia shielded his head and a black djellaba, his chest and legs. On his back was a knapsack with water, maps, compass, granola bars and several heavy gifts for his host. He barely noticed the burden because the wilderness always evoked in him a feeling of spiritual rejuvenation. In these open spaces, the presence of his tribal ancestors was almost palpable.

  Some three kilometers from his parked Subaru, he knew that he was no longer alone, for though he could see no signs of human presence, hidden somewhere in the rocky terrain, Bedouin outposts were watching. No doubt, his approach to the Ta'amireh camp had already been announced by flashing mirrors.

  Father Benoit was no stranger to these people. As a young archeologist in the early 1950s, he had sought field experience to augment his book learning and lived with the family of Telfik banu al-Fahl, sharing its food, wearing its flowing black robes and speaking its Negev Arabic. Together with Telfik al-Fahl, he explored the ruins of irrigation projects built of Nabateans along with Roman trading routes and revenue stations. Once, in an irresponsible youthful escapade, the pair journeyed across the Arabian Wadi as Sirhan, through the Trans-Jordanian Ara as Sawwan on camelback, following T. E. Lawrence's epic military assault on Akaba in 1917. They spent their nights under the stars, smoking and dreaming of lost peoples who once inhabited this vast wasteland. In Telfik's company, the priest learned to survive for days on limited food and water, and to use firearms for protection against marauding bandits. In the harshness of this landscape a friendship was forged that survived when Telfik succeeded his father as the Ta'amireh tribe's young sheik.

  Eventually, Benoit left the desert to assume a post with the Studium Biblicum Franciscamum in Jerusalem, and later was appointed dean of the École in Bethlehem. Rarely did a month go by in which he and Telfik failed to communicate—in the early days by messenger, but later via satellite telephones. When Telfik's young shepherds observed something that might be of archeological interest, the sheik passed on this information to Benoit. In exchange, the Dominican priest saw to many of the tribe's material needs, providing portable generators, an occasional truck, television sets with antennae for desert reception, rifles, ammunition, and satellite phones. Most importantly, he supplied the Ta'amireh with up-to-date topographical maps to facilitate the tribe's smuggling operations between Israel, Egypt and the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Once the Israeli military introduced aerial reconnaissance to the region and smuggling operations had to be scaled back, he provided information on the movement of Israeli patrols. The exchange of vital information and materiel worked for nearly thirty years, as it had when Mumud banu-Nazeem was pasturing his flock and spotted cave robbers making preparations to enter the new cave at Qumran.

  A pair of armed Bedouin on camels, their heads covered with the white kafia circled by a finely woven emerald-colored 'aqal to identify the tribe, greeted Father Benoit as he approached the Ta'amireh tents. These were stern-looking men with thick beards who swayed in their saddles, precisely matching the steady rhythm of their camels. Benoit spoke to them in their dialect, a sign he was to be greeted as an honored visitor.

  The sheik was waiting in camp, crouching in front of the flap of his dark ma'nad perched on a mound slightly above a cluster of equally black tents. He rose to press his lips against both of the priest's cheeks, then uttered a series of blessings from the Koran. Benoit responded with Latin blessings from the New Testament. A troop of children gathered around, their hands outstretched for baksheesh, which Benoit dutifully filled with Israeli coins and wrapped candies he had brought for just that purpose.

  Arm in arm, the friends entered the ma'nad where two of the desert chieftain's wives awaited them with a copper urn of heavily sugared coffee. Once settled on woven carpets, the two men exchanged additional greetings of friendship.

  Telfik banu al-Fahl said, "I'm pained to learn of more terrorist troubles in Bethlehem. These acts are committed by city Arabs who have forgotten the ways of their fathers. I discourage my young men from taking jobs in Jerusalem and try to keep them busy with their flocks. But for how long will they listen? Two have already joined the hotheads and want to blow themselves up to show contempt for the Jews. This is bad business, not the way of Allah."

  "A credit to you and your people," Benoit answered with a wistful sigh. "Violence is an imperfect weapon, but some people feel there is no alternative. I talk to you as a brother, for you are my eyes and ears. Without you, I would not know what happens here. The Holy Father in Rome is pleased with the information I send from the land of both your ancestors and his. As long as I keep His Holiness well informed, he will let me remain his servant in Bethlehem. If I fail, he will transfer me to some terrible place in Europe, or even worse, Latin America."

  "That is not my wish, brother." Telfik possessed a penetrating gaze as if peering beneath the Dominican's skin for signs of dissemblance. A wife returned, carrying a Syrian brass tray piled with honey and pistachio-filled baklava. To Benoit's mind, it was a miracle how these women managed to bake such delicacies in their primitive ovens. Normally, he avoided sweets, but had learned to accept Telfik's hospitality. All Arab cafes in Bethlehem served baklava, but none as tasty as that made by the Ta'amireh.

  He opened his backpack and fished through the contents for electronic gadgets sealed in clear plastic. First, two handheld, battery-operated walkie-talkies. Next came a packet of spare batteries. "I know your shepherd boys can use these to keep in touch," he said, passing the walkie-talkies over to his host. "They've increased the range on these devices to about eight kilometers."

  Telfik appeared pleased, nodding his head. Benoit foraged for additional gifts in the backpack, presenting them intermittently between fresh cups of coffee.
When there was only one gift left, he eased back and said, "I'm curious to know how you learned of the cave at Qumran."

  "A terrible business," Telfik said, his head nodding. "I made a mistake there."

  Benoit fixed his eyes upon the sheik, pursing his lips in silence and waiting for what he knew would come.

  "My cousin's son, Mumud, discovered Russians on their first day. They paid us handsomely for not telling the police and later gave Mumud a job as a guard. Three days later, somebody shot him. He bled to death outside the cave. We found his body and took it to Jerusalem. An Israeli police officer, a friend of my people who often looks the other way when we trade goods across the border, brought Mumud's body back to us. We buried him on the hillside, below the entrance to the cave. He was too young to die."

  "I had heard a rumor from Jerusalem that someone was killed near Qumran. It is a great pain to learn the victim was one of your family. The death of a young man is always tragic. Do you know who's responsible?" Telfik's eyes were hollow, staring at the priest. "We do not know."

  "That's what I was afraid of," Benoit said matter-of-factly from a script he had earlier etched in his mind. From his backpack, he pulled out an Uzi, its stamped blued metal cowling severely scratched but undented. Everyone in Israel could identify this weapon by its squat design and compactness. The sheik's eyes froze on it, giving Benoit time to add, "One of my assistants found this at my École. We have strict rules against firearms on the premises. So we were shocked when it turned up in the locker of an American archeologist who regularly uses our library. He has unexpectedly disappeared and has not returned in weeks. I heard through my people in Jerusalem that the boy killed near Qumran was shot with an Uzi."

  Telfik studied the stout little automatic, twisting it in his hands, then weighing its balance. His head nodded in silent respect for its streamlined design and renowned functionality.