‘More than a few people have surprised me with their kindness. Anyway, yesterday Leanne came; she had heard from Lynn that I was down. She brought me a lovely soup: kneidlach. You know her son had that dreadful condition?’
‘Ummm, yes.’
‘Darling, you know that I don’t have much faith in matters of religion, but I felt I just had to pass this message on to you.’
Mum then relayed Leanne’s message, that we must locate a man called Shlomo who lived in Jerusalem. He had recently been to London and quickly established a reputation of both helping people with life-changing problems and being an extremely powerful spiritual person.
‘Okay . . .’ I sighed. I was already reciting prayers and lighting candles every night. I didn’t have time for much more. Then again, this was such an unusual request from my mother. So out of her comfort zone. I couldn’t ignore it.
‘Please look after yourself, Mum.’
‘I am, darling. You know, I’ve started on medication, I’m hoping it will take the edge off. I want to be well for you and the children. You’re my first priority now. I’ve made that decision: first priority.’
I liked that. ‘Yay!’ I felt like squealing.
‘I’m out of bed now,’ she continued. ‘Still not great, hardly going to any functions except the most important ones. For a while I just cancelled everything, darling. Everything. But I feel a little better now. Seeing someone, an analyst, a lovely woman, as well. Trying the “talking cure”, you know, as per Freud.’
Days turned into weeks and my fear about Dov and Lev’s future built with nothing to alleviate it. Meanwhile, their profile was being sent around the world as Dad tracked down leading researchers through his growing network of contacts. He was one hundred percent focused on his objective: to find the diagnosis so we could find the cure. His attention to business and philanthropic ventures, including Voiceless, had waned. Both Dad and Dror read medical paper after medical paper, hundreds of them, educating themselves on all related fields of neurological, metabolic and genetic diseases. While Dror had a decent background in the sciences and, with much effort, could understand medical papers, Dad started at ground zero, reading papers repeatedly, sometimes ten times, familiarising himself with the new language and trying to make sense of their conclusions. I found it hard to talk to him while my mind was bursting with fear and his was full of jargon.
I remembered Leanne’s advice and the man called Shlomo. Dror found a contact number for him and we arranged a meeting. Despite Dror’s inclination to view the supposed ‘powers’ of a pious man as pure superstition, both of us were lost and desperate enough to be open to the possibility of divine intervention, despite the black hat.
We drove to Jerusalem. I wound up the window against the familiar sounds of blaring car horns and incessant building construction.
‘I can’t believe how the media is reporting on Gaza,’ Dror started. ‘Hamas have been firing rockets into Israel every day, aiming at civilians.Three people were killed yesterday and we’re the only ones getting criticised in the international press . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I can’t talk about politics right now.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I could have continued, ‘I’m struggling. Just to breathe is an effort. Shlomo has to help us, he just has to.’ But I said nothing.
Dror turned the radio on and I turned it off, he turned it on again and I turned it off again. He glared at me.
‘I can’t. I need quiet,’ I hissed.
I walked as if in slow motion into the five-star King David Hotel, where black-waistcoated waiters moved quietly between tables of softly spoken tourists and businesspeople. The plush old-fashioned reception area was to be our meeting place.
My religious friend Ruth had told me that the ultra-Orthodox often met for coffee in hotels, and it was Israeli law that all hotels keep kosher dietary laws. Before they married, Ruth and other religious single women met men whom their matchmakers had identified as being suitable husbands in hotel lobbies, a safely crowded and kosher location in which to get to know each other.
In his top hat, black suit and dark beard, which covered most of his face, leaving only pitch-black eyes, Shlomo looked like he had stepped out of a foreign film. But I wasn’t laughing. Did this man have the power to know and change my future? Shlomo spoke no English. His wife, Miriam, in a wig and covered head to toe in baggy clothes, served as his translator. Although her clothing seemed dreary to me, religious women’s dress code is a show of modesty, or tzniut, which they believe prevents others being distracted by their appearance and encourages them to focus instead on what lies beneath.
Neither Dror nor I understood what tradition and protocol required of us: were we to pay Shlomo for his time, give a donation to his synagogue? Should we ask him outright for his predictions? What kind of information could or would he offer us?
From 10 am until 1 pm, Dror and I listened to Shlomo’s steady stream of stories about people he had helped and miracles he had witnessed. It came across as a big sales pitch and I wondered if this was allowed in Jewish law: wasn’t boasting frowned upon? Maybe he was just trying to reassure us that there was hope, but I was struggling to make sense of his message, as there were few pauses in his speech and no engagement or interaction. His wife translated slowly, although seemingly inexactly: he would speak for five minutes in Russian and she would summarise what he said in one minute. What had he said in the other four?
What did we have to do to become one of these miracles? Is he testing us? I wondered. Would he help us and, if so, how? Could he speak to God directly and beseech cures for the sick? Increasingly anxious and frustrated, I started tapping my foot under my long green skirt. ‘What do we have to do around here to get a friggin’ miracle?’ I wanted to scream.
I gazed through the French doors to the vista beyond. The Old City of Jerusalem seemed to glow in the distance. High walls dating back to the Ottoman Empire encircled the narrow mazes of busy laneways. Every building was made of Jerusalem stone, pale and creamy, the original building material of the area that was now mandated into law to conserve its ancient heritage.
My gaze returned to Shlomo and to my relief he finally asked to see the pictures I had brought. I took the photographs from my wallet. In the first, Lev was sleeping, sandy curls squashed as his head rested against the dividing arm of the double pram. The other one showed Dov with his eyes open, staring straight down the lens. Thick wavy hair on a symmetrical oval head, big milky blue eyes, pale kissable skin, cute button nose and small, thin rosy lips. He looked so sweet, so normal.
Shlomo peered down at the pictures. ‘When were they born?’ His wife translated quickly this time.
‘The sixth of December,’ I said.
‘No, the Hebrew calendar dates.’
‘Oh . . . no, um, I’m not sure, sorry . . .’ I stumbled, looking at Dror for help.
Seeing our ineptitude, Miriam quickly made calculations between the Christian and Hebrew calendars and found the correct date. I had forgotten that the Hebrew calendar was thousands of years older and bound by cycles of the moon rather than the sun.
‘What are their Hebrew names? Do they have them?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Yes! They have Hebrew names,’ I quickly answered, hoping to score some points. ‘Dov Peter Ben-Ami and Lev Avraham Ben-Ami.’ Dov meant ‘bear’ in Hebrew, while Peter was in honour of my mother’s late brother. Lev meant ‘heart’ and Avraham was in memory of Dror’s grandfather.
Minutes passed and Shlomo was silent. People entered and exited the hotel lobby. I tried to regulate my shallow breathing, instinctively drawing on the meditation tapes I had listened to as a child—in and out.
Finally he spoke.
I looked to his wife, impatient for the translation. ‘They are not elevated souls,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’ Dror and I both asked simultaneously.
‘There are certain souls who are brought back into this world to fix one last thing in
their spiritual journey.’ He paused and rubbed his beard while his wife translated. ‘Often they are children who only live a very short life or are so disabled that their souls are not soiled by the impurities of the society they are in; the souls can focus solely on finishing their journey. These are very special children and it is an honour for parents to care for such elevated souls. An honour,’ Miriam repeated. ‘But Dov and Lev are just regular souls.’
I noticed my fingernails digging into my palms. I released my fists, stretching my fingers out under the table. I smiled and squeezed Dror’s hand.Yay. Normal souls. The last thing I wanted was baby spiritual gurus, unable to be cured.
Shlomo started scribbling numbers on a scrap of paper he’d taken from his pocket.
‘He is calculating the Hebrew letters of their names,’ his wife explained. I had heard about Gematria, a system where every letter in Hebrew was given a numeric value. With years of study you could learn to link names to numbers and discover hidden intrinsic qualities. Some Israelis even sought advice before they named their babies, choosing combinations of letters that would bring positive attributes to their child.
Damn it. I should have seen a rabbi when I was pregnant. Why didn’t I see one and get name advice? I thought. Their name values are probably terrible, catastrophic. If only, if only, if only . . . Stop it!
‘The numerical values of their names are quite good,’ Shlomo said. Phew. ‘If you added an extra letter, they may be even better.’
Change their names? I thought. Now? But . . . I like their names. Then doubt crept in. ‘I guess I could change Lev to Levi,’ I said. ‘Would that help?’
Shlomo nodded solemnly. I looked across at Dror but his face gave nothing away.
Our meeting ended without ceremony. Miriam told us they would be in touch again. I was relieved to leave.
‘What did you think?’ I asked Dror in the car. ‘Maybe we should change their names? Wouldn’t be such a big deal, I guess . . .’
‘We are not changing their names,’ he said, staring at the road ahead. ‘That’s just stupid.’
‘Why does he want to see us again?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand how this is meant to work.’
‘No idea,’ said Dror.
‘Is he waiting for next time to give us a message from God?’
‘I’m as confused as you are,’ said Dror, ‘but he seems like a good guy, he’s given us so much of his time, I think he sincerely wants to help us. Let’s just wait and see.’
Despite my repeated suggestions, Dror put his foot down about any name-changing, but he was willing to see our quest to its natural end. Two months later Shlomo and his wife came to our house to put up mezuzot, which are supposed to be hung on each doorpost of the house. They contain a miniature scroll with the quintessential Jewish prayer, the Shema. If one letter of the Hebrew alphabet is smudged or illegible, it is believed that great tragedy can befall the occupants of the house. We already had a mezuzah on our front door but the scroll had not been properly checked, as tradition dictated. Maybe a badly written word on our scroll had caused this tragedy? Shlomo seemed to think it was possible. How good would that be? One smudged letter, one small correction . . . Bingo. Walking and talking.
I took the mezuzah off our front door and watched, full of hope that a smudge would be found, as Shlomo unrolled the scroll to reveal the print. ‘It looks all right,’ he said slowly, not noticing as my face fell with disappointment, ‘but that doesn’t matter. What’s important is now you have a good one.’
He walked through our apartment holding his hammer, Miriam following with the bag of mezuzot. I sat on the couch waiting. After ten minutes he had finished nailing them to the corner of each doorway. I ushered the couple to the couch for drinks and kosher cakes I’d bought especially. I hoped they wouldn’t linger too long, as I really wanted to take the children out before their afternoon sleep.
But once he was reclining on the couch, Shlomo started afresh with allegorical stories. Despite the translation, I understood nothing. Black-suited and sombre, he looked so out of place in our sunny Tel Aviv apartment. He took a sip of water from the plastic cup I’d provided, as our dishes were not kosher. I chewed at my cuticles, willing Dror to end this, to send them away. Eventually I had to excuse myself.
I gave Dov and Lev their bottles and put them to bed. I put on another Hi-5 DVD for Jasmine. Maybe we could catch a short walk later, before it got dark.
Hours passed. Finally they got off the couch and started to walk towards the front door. On the way Shlomo noticed a pile of stuffed toys in our lounge room—horse, moose, monkey, bear. The boys loved the panda, a gift from Dror’s aunt’s travels in China, best of all. It was the only plaything, apart from balloons, that lit up their eyes.
‘I suggest you make all their toys kosher,’ Shlomo said through his wife. ‘Non-kosher animals are not healthy for babies.’
We said our goodbyes and a third meeting was suggested. After they left I turned to Dror and sighed. ‘Should we get rid of the teddies? Sounds a bit silly to me—how on earth could a stuffed panda be bad?’
‘Ridiculous,’ Dror said sternly. ‘Absolutely stupid.’
Despite Shlomo’s recommendations of name-changing and teddy-throwing, I wanted to see him again. Damn lingering hope. Was he holding a miracle card up his sleeve? Perhaps he was testing us before he used it.
We met again at the King David in Jerusalem. ‘The last time,’ I swore to Dror. This time we sat outside in the balcony restaurant with sweeping views of Jerusalem’s Old City walls before us. I had vowed to be patient but after another three hours I kicked Dror under the table, sneaking him a look of displeasure. But Dror had interminable patience with people: a trait I either loved or loathed, depending on the situation. I couldn’t rely on him to bring this meeting to an end so I took a laboured breath.
‘So, Shlomo, what can we do? What can you suggest to help Dov and Lev?’
I was ready for a concise answer but instead heard a story about seeds in a pomegranate—six hundred and thirteen, in fact. They corresponded with joints in the body, and mitzvot or ‘laws’ in the Bible.
Answer the bloody question! I raged inside. Tell us how to fix them. What God is doing. What God wants. Tell me that you know, that God has told you they will be okay. Please.
Finally Shlomo came to some kind of point. I could start covering my hair. Part of the expression of tzniut, modesty, he explained. That might help.
Then he suggested we donate money to a cause that would help sick children. If we helped other children, ours might be helped too. But we had to give more than was comfortable. Give so it hurt, he said. My back slumped against the chair: had this whole relationship been about getting money from us? And, coincidentally, he had a charity that helped children. I was relieved, however, when he emphasised that we didn’t have to donate to his; there were many others. We said goodbye.
Driving home I asked Dror, ‘Should I cover my hair? I don’t understand, how will this help? Do you know? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘That’s just absurd,’ he said dismissively. ‘But let’s donate to his charity, it sounds really good. I’d want to support it anyway.’
I agreed; the charity gave small practical grants to families who had suffered from disease or disability in some way and were in serious financial strife.
‘But why did he suggest the hair?’ I asked Dror. ‘If he had said “keep Shabbat” I could have understood.’
I would even have complied, I thought. Shabbat began with the appearance of the first star in the night sky on a Friday evening. I liked that, checking the sky for stars, a link to thousands of years of tradition. It was like a twenty-four-hour meditation where one was instructed to ‘be’ rather than ‘do’. But this?
‘I have no idea. Don’t worry about it. We’ll give the money,’ Dror said.
‘But maybe it’s not as good, maybe if I cover my hair something miraculous will happen? Should we just trust him?’ I asked
. Dror ignored me.
‘Oh my God, what would my mother say?’ I mumbled to myself. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t make sense to me why God would want me to cover my hair in order to help Dov and Lev. Dror?’
‘No idea. It’s like getting rid of the non-kosher moose. We met with them, gave them a fair go. Just stop thinking about it. Let it go.’
For the next two weeks I became hyper-aware of all the women who covered their hair or wore wigs. I bought a scarf from the local market and tried different ways of tying it. Trust Shlomo, I tried to persuade myself.
‘What do you think, Noodles?’ I asked Jasmine one morning, standing at the mirror with the green scarf covering my hair.
‘Mmm . . . I’m not sure about that,’ she said, always the diplomat. ‘Can I try?’ she asked with sudden enthusiasm. I knotted it around her head.
‘No, you can have it,’ she declared, pulling it off. ‘Can we do the puzzle now?’
Vanity was hardly a big price to pay for a miracle. Don’t be selfish. But I imagined returning to Sydney and explaining the scarf to Lisa, Denise and Louise, and my mother, my family. I timidly asked our Tel Aviv acquaintances who lived with different levels of religious observance about the custom. They weren’t fans of women covering their hair, thinking it hot, impractical and too extreme, so I was soon dissuaded.
I struggled to believe that there was a God, and if there was, that he/she would be interested in me personally, as well as the other six billion people on the planet. I also found it strange that this God would want me to follow specific laws such as covering my hair—wouldn’t he/she just want me to be a decent person?
I put the scarf in my closet drawer.
Shlomo’s wife emailed us stories of religious families on the poverty line, struggling with one or several sick or disabled children. They moved me to tears. Dror and I wanted to donate, regardless of karma or God.
The Miracle of Love Page 12