An Unexpected Afterlife_A Novel

by Dan Sofer

  Moshe seemed shocked. “How many?”

  “All of them. Twenty in total. Some days I get a call, some days none. But I cut my expenses. I get by. Sold the house too, moved to a two-room apartment. The boys are in the army now and the house was getting too large for Rivka anyway. She… she hasn't been very well.” His eyes darkened in the mirror.

  “I'm very sorry to hear that,” Moshe said, but he didn't press him for details. Then, he said, “I don’t understand. What about that mobile app?”

  Rafi’s voice filled with fire. “And turn my back on Karlin & Son? Never! I told those toddler techies to shove their stupid app you-know-where.”

  Moshe ran his hand through his hair and Irina understood his anguish. A good man had thrown away his business to keep faith with the dead.

  “Rafi,” Moshe said in a kind voice, “Karlin & Son had a good run, but times have changed.”

  Rafi was not convinced. “Those little squirts have no respect.”

  “My father wouldn’t want you to suffer in his name,” Moshe said. “And I sure don’t want you to lose out. You’ve paid back our family ten times over with your loyalty. So please, my friend. Move on. For my sake. For my father.”

  Rafi said nothing for the rest of the trip, but in the rearview mirror, the eyes blinked back tears.

  The cab stopped at a run-down backstreet. Rafi refused to let them pay for the ride. He handed Moshe a business card through the window. “If you need anything, just call,” Rafi said. “Anything.” Moshe shook his hand, and the cab pulled off in search of better days.

  Irina scanned the deserted street corner. Large silent buildings lined the street in varying degrees of decay. “There’s nothing here.”

  Moshe rechecked the flier. “This is the address.”

  Cracked planks boarded the doors and windows of an old store. The name stenciled on the wall had faded beyond recognition.

  “These guys have a very bad sense of humor.”

  The sound of footfalls made them turn. A man in a tweed suit jogged toward them. His hair was a mop of gray, as was his thick mustache.

  “Can I help you?” Another thick Russian accent.

  Moshe handed him the flier.

  The man pocketed the paper without reading it. He sized them up with small, beady eyes. Irina gave him a polite smile and straightened her shoulders, as if to say, I’m as good as any man, buster! It seemed to work.

  “This way,” he said, and he trotted down the street.

  They followed.

  He turned a corner, then another, and waited for them outside a warehouse of corrugated fiberglass. He opened a sliding door and closed it behind them. They stood in a large airy hangar. Plastic curtains divided the grounds into cubicles that contained low steel-framed cots.

  The man climbed a metal stairwell and the clank of their shoes on the steps echoed off the fiberglass walls. A narrow walkway led to a square office with large windows.

  He unlocked the door and waved them inside. “Coffee? Tea?”

  They declined the offer.

  He took his seat behind a cheap desk and waved them to two rickety chairs. A laptop and filing cabinet lent the room an air of businesslike respectability.

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “My name is Boris,” he said. “Many people want to work but don’t have the right papers. The State doesn’t make life easy. Foreign workers, they call them. Infiltrators. They hunt them down. We can help.”

  “What kind of work?” Moshe asked.

  “This and that. Manual labor. Training on the job. The pay is modest but you get two solid meals a day, and an apartment downstairs.”

  Irina would not have called the refugee camp of changing booths below “apartments” but she could excuse the exaggerated marketing language for a roof over her head and food in her belly, all earned by her own labor.

  “Two apartments,” Moshe said.

  Irina nodded.

  Boris made a show of deliberation. “Two apartments, then. No extra charge. Agreed?” They nodded. “First, a few technicalities.” He turned to Irina. “Raise your chin.” He pointed to a small mounted camera behind him. He clicked a button on his laptop. Irina and Moshe swapped seats, and he repeated the procedure. A few more clicks and a printer came to life and pushed out two sheets of paper.

  The paperwork reassured her. For all its shabbiness and dodgy advertising, Boris ran a bona fide operation.

  The manager slid the pages of fine print toward them, along with two ballpoint pens. “Sign at the bottom,” he said. “Good.” He reclaimed the sheets and tucked them in a folder. “You start tomorrow at six AM.”

  Six AM! Irina had missed that in her very cursory review of the contract, but she would do whatever the job required. Moshe glanced at her, a question in his eye. Irina nodded. They had learned to read each other’s thoughts.

  He said, “A friend of ours needs a job too. She can stay with Irina.”

  Boris shrugged. “Bring her along and I’ll make the arrangements. If you’ll excuse me, I have other work to attend to.”

  He escorted them out and slid the doors of the hangar shut.

  “That was simple enough,” Moshe said. “Things are looking up.”

  “Yes,” Irina said. No matter what the rabbis of the Great Council decided that night, she would stay by Moshe’s side for the near future. That alone was worth the early mornings.

  CHAPTER 35

  Eli felt his pulse quicken in his neck when the girl appeared at the foot of his bed.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “The nurse said you wanted to speak with me,” she said, apprehension in her eyes and her mouth shut tight. After their last encounter, he didn’t blame her. But why had his own mouth dried up?

  His free arm twitched. “Yes,” he said. “Eliana. Your name is Noga, right?”

  She nodded. She had tied her hair up, exposing a creamy neck and her large intelligent eyes. Had the sudden vision of beauty triggered his involuntary responses, or his unease with what he was about to do? He had always kept interactions with humanity to a minimum and for good reason, but now he needed this girl.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I had no right to talk to you like that.” That much was true. The large eyes fixed on him, so he continued. “This has been very difficult for me.” Another truth. “I was… not my usual self.” Not strictly accurate but the words had the desired effect. Her shoulders relaxed, as did the corners of her mouth. She was starting to thaw.

  “You mentioned that you were heading a research project. Could you tell me more?”

  The arms loosened over her chest. “Sure,” she said.

  Bingo! I’m not as rusty as I thought. “Please,” he said and indicated the empty visitor’s chair. “Sit with me.”

  She did. He lifted his bandaged leg from the sling and orchestrated a soft landing on the bedsheet. Then he pressed his palms to the mattress, pushed back, and raised his body to a sitting position. He had practiced the procedure all of Saturday. The pain had subsided a little each time.

  “What?” he said. She was gawking at him.

  “Nothing. Just… Are you supposed to be doing that already? I thought you’d be immobile for weeks.”

  He shrugged. “I’m on the fast track. Now tell me about your study.”

  “I’m measuring gene markers across demographic groups.”

  “So you’re a gene detective?”

  She smiled. “More like a gene archaeologist. Genes mutate over time, but most pass unchanged from generation to generation. We can trace the spread of genetic markers from one ethnic group to another as populations mingled and interbred. That’s how we discovered that all humans are descended from a single female.”

  “I could have told you that without drawing blood.”

  “Well, now we have scientific proof.”

  Scientific proof. A rationalist.

  “And what genes are you tracing now?”

  “The Cohen Gene.”

&nb
sp; “The Cohen Gene—as in Jews of priestly descent?” This would be easier than he thought.

  “Exactly!” She leaned forward. “Priests claim to descend from one man, Aaron, brother of Moses and the first priest. If that is true, there should be genetic markers unique to priests.”

  “And do such markers exist?”

  “We’ve identified a number of candidates. We call them the Cohen Modal Haplotype, a pattern of six Y-STR markers—or short tandem repeats—on the male-only Y chromosome.” She paused. “Sorry, I’m boring you with the details.”

  “No, not at all.” He suppressed a yawn. “Please go on.”

  “Historically, the Jewish community has been genetically aloof,” she continued, her eyes flashing and her smile widening, “only marrying within the faith, and so the gene signatures are quite homogenous. That breeds genetic diseases like Tay-Sachs, but it also allows us to follow the path of specific genes, like the Cohen Gene.”

  Aloof. Signatures. Homogenous. Does she always hide behind long words?

  “So our genes tell a story, is that it?”

  “Exactly! Even if the memory of your past is forgotten, your story is embedded in your genes.” She halted and her eyes glazed over, as though she had revealed too much.

  What is your story, Noga? The geneticist had become more interesting by the minute.

  Eliana swept into the room and they fell into an awkward silence. The nurse made a show of checking his clipboard, then winked at Noga and bustled out. Checking up on her little girl.

  Time to take their relationship to the next level. “We have a lot in common,” he said.

  Noga flushed. “What do you mean?”

  “I also find genealogy fascinating.”

  She raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Do you now?”

  Eli had never shared this with a soul, but the circumstances warranted sacrifice. If the Day of the Lord arrived soon, as seemed likely, this revelation wouldn’t matter anyway.

  “In fact,” he said, “I run a genealogy website.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “Have you heard of OpenGen?”

  She cocked her head and raised both eyebrows. “You’re OpenGen?”

  “Not a big deal. Runs itself mostly but pays the bills. Don’t worry, I won’t go digging around your family tree.”

  She looked away and her cheeks reddened again. His attempt at humor had touched another sensitive topic. Invasive parents? Genetic deformities? He made a mental note to steer clear of her family tree in conversation.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Take part in your study. Where do I sign?”

  She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, pulled a sheet from her plastic folder, and handed him a pen.

  He read the printed text of the agreement. “It’s anonymous?”

  “Yes. We have no way of connecting individuals to results.”

  “Even if the results are off the charts?”

  “Mm-hmm. Statistical analysis ignores the outliers anyway.”

  Eli signed on the dotted line. A vial of his blood donated to an anonymous research project was a vial not undergoing invasive testing at the hospital. How many vials were there?

  He handed her the form and pen. “There’s only one problem,” he said, and he produced his charming smile. “I’ll need to find another excuse to see you again.”

  Another blush. She stood and brushed off her jeans. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She left with a satisfied smile on her lips.

  He shifted his body down the mattress, returned his damaged leg to the sling, and lay flat on his back.

  He needed to conserve energy. He might be home sooner than he thought.

  CHAPTER 36

  Sunday night, Moshe looked out the passenger window of Rabbi Yosef’s Subaru and his mouth dropped open.

  The giant cube of the Belz Great Synagogue blazed golden in powerful spotlights and hung over the old apartment buildings in north Jerusalem like a spaceship landing in a murky forest.

  Seven narrow windows ran the length of the facade, beneath a crown of pointed merlons. The design conjured thoughts both of Herod’s ancient Temple—as a boy, Moshe had viewed a model of the structure at the Holy Land museum—and, strangely, the Knesset building of the Israeli government.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  The rabbi nodded. He wore a fresh black suit. He had turned off the Cyndi Lauper cassette and spoken little during the short drive. When Moshe told him about their new jobs, the rabbi had avoided his eyes and offered to drive them early the next day to their new lodgings. Did he feel guilty about their departure or was the rabbi merely nervous ahead of their meeting with the Great Council?

  They plowed into the thicket of Kiryat Belz and the golden synagogue disappeared behind the bland apartment buildings. The rabbi maneuvered the car through the narrow streets, climbing upward toward the holy sanctuary. They dodged green garbage bins, men in coats and hats, and kerchief-headed women pushing strollers.

  They rounded a corner and the Belz Synagogue burst overhead, a silent beacon in the night. Rabbi Yosef parked his car in the empty lot beside the synagogue. The sound of their closing car doors bounced off the walls.

  Moshe placed a white velvet skullcap on his head. The great twin doors of the synagogue rose to triple his height. The ultra-Orthodox, known for their abject poverty and devotion to Torah study, must have paid a king’s ransom for the extravagant synagogue. Just the monthly electricity bills must cost a small fortune. Some of the devout, apparently, had very deep pockets.

  The rabbi touched the large golden knob but stopped short of opening.

  “Everything all right?”

  Rabbi Yosef turned to him. He seemed to wake from a trance. “I’ve never addressed such a gathering of great rabbis.”

  “You’ve never met them before?”

  “This is the Great Council of Torah Sages. The leaders of the generation. They assemble only to discuss matters of great communal importance.”

  “Good thing we’re on time.”

  The rabbi grinned. He pushed, and the door swung inward.

  They stood in the dim light of a wood-paneled corridor. A tall man with a long, tidy beard turned to them and smiled.

  “Yosef, my friend.” The rabbi, who wore a silken suit and fine black bowler, embraced Rabbi Yosef. He extended his hand to Moshe. “You must be Mr. Karlin. Pleased to meet you.”

  Rabbi Yosef introduced Rabbi Emden.

  “Follow me, my friends,” he said. “The Great Council awaits.”

  They followed Rabbi Emden down the corridor. The furnishers had spared no expense on the interior either. They passed carved benches and miniature crystal chandeliers but not a living soul. The synagogue must be off limits during sessions of the Great Council. A security arrangement? Moshe imagined a row of consulate-grade SUVs with tinted windows parked in a VIP garage beneath the synagogue.

  Rabbi Emden halted outside another set of tall wooden double doors in a spacious foyer.

  “The sages have other matters to discuss this evening,” Rabbi Emden explained. “Their attendants will call when they are ready to receive us. How have you been adjusting to your new life, Moshe?”

  The question caught him off guard. He had not expected small talk with a friendly, stately rabbi. “It’s been challenging.”

  The tall rabbi gave him a good-natured smile. Moshe had not encountered a rabbi like Emden before, so suave, well groomed, and polite. Moshe had dispatched Charedi commuters for years but never chatted with any at length. Rabbi Emden was no street Charedi but a diplomat who would feel equally at home rubbing elbows in cabinet meetings as he would in the study hall.

  “Oh,” he said, as though just remembering an important detail. “The discussions are in Yiddish, so I’ll translate where possible.”

  Moshe had forgotten that some people still spoke Yiddish. Although the language mixed Hebrew and German, he’d probably under
stand only a few scattered words.

  “Rabbi Emden,” Rabbi Yosef said. He shifted on his feet as though desperate for the men’s room. “I tried to reach you earlier. A third survivor joined us on Friday.”

  “A third?” Rabbi Emden displayed rows of perfect square ivories and his eyes sparkled in the dim light. “Excellent.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Yellow light poured from between the double doors of the main synagogue. A young bearded man in a gown of black silk and long black stockings stood in the opening and murmured a few words to Rabbi Emden.

  “Our turn has arrived,” said the elder rabbi. He adjusted his hat and followed the messenger inside with Rabbi Yosef and Moshe at his heels.

  Moshe’s heart jumped from his chest into his throat. He had never experienced a hall so enormous or so full of light. They stood at one extremity of the rectangular room. The Holy Ark towered above them, ten meters of finely sculpted wood. Nine immense chandeliers of brilliant crystal hung high overhead like funnel-shaped spaceships. The messenger moved fast, and they marched down a long aisle between rows of wooden pews, away from the Holy Ark and toward a central clearing dominated by an imposing raised platform of the same carved wood.

  Bearded men in black gowns and white collared shirts filled a large block of pews beyond the platform—a few hundred men at least, but not a word between them. Some eyed the four approaching men with inquisitive expressions, but most trained their attention on the base of the platform, still hidden from view.

  Moshe had entered a surreal and alien world where the laws and norms of the outside world held no sway, and he, in his new trousers, white shirtsleeves, and glossy white kippah, felt very out of place.

  They rounded the platform. A long conference table of polished wood extended along the base, and a row of wizened old men in immaculate black attire and impressive white beards peered over the table at the seated masses.