by Dan Sofer
Kanfey Nesharim, the street sign read. The Wings of Eagles.
How appropriate.
Mandy took the stairs two at a time to the second-floor office and pressed the buzzer. The lettering on the window read Nefesh B’nefesh.
The girl at the desk held a folder in her hand and smiled at Mandy.
“Can I help you?” she said in a Canadian accent.
She wore a denim skirt and a cotton T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves. Straight out of high school, Mandy guessed.
She returned the smile. “I hope so. I’m here to make aliya.”
Chapter 6
Streetlamps hummed as they flickered on and off, casting jaundiced light over the sidewalks of downtown Jerusalem. Bus shelters stood empty on islands between the vacant lanes.
Dave kept pace with Ben on Keren Hayesod. Both men wore Shabbat trousers and collared shirts.
Let’s get this over with, he thought.
He had excused himself after a cozy Friday night dinner at Mandy’s and strolled to the Greens. Ruchama’s sweet chili chicken and steaming almond rice still warmed his stomach. The buzz of sugary Kiddush wine circled his head. Mandy had brushed her foot against his leg under the table. Even Shani seemed to have softened. All was well in the world.
Ben marched in silence, retaining full sulking rights.
Perhaps he was right and Dave had overreacted, imagining trolls under every bridge. He considered apologizing to Ben and turning back, but the least he could do was to see it through. Wrap up the visit. Tuck his conscience in. Call it a night.
Keren Hayesod became King George. They passed the Great Synagogue and the green edge of Independence Park.
Shutters sealed the fronts of tourist stores and fast food joints on the Ben Yehuda pedestrian walkway.
A black hat whisked by. Trimmed beard. Eyes to the ground. Brow tense with concentration.
Years had passed since Dave had forayed into the ultra-Orthodox underworld and he was not looking forward to the prospect.
“Remind me,” he said, to break the silence. “How do you know him?”
“I used to guide tours in Me’ah She’arim. ‘A cross-cultural Shabbat experience.’ We’d stroll the streets and crash a few tishen. The finale was a Q and A in the home of a genuine Charedi couple. Mishi was one of the few willing to host tourists.”
“Mishi?” Dave said. “Our Cabbalist’s name is Mishi?”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. An Isaac. Aharon. Maybe a Nachman. Something more conventional.”
“He’s conventional enough,” Ben said.
Dave tried to lighten the mood. “He lives in a two-room apartment with a wife and ten kids?”
“Six kids. All under the age of eight.”
Dave and his older brother had spent their childhoods at each other’s throats and they had slept in separate rooms. The thought of a two-room warren made him cringe.
“They must be miserable.”
“Actually, they’re extremely happy.”
“Well, the thought makes me feel miserable.”
A yellow Volkswagen Golf sped by and Dave had a glimpse of peroxide hair and an earful of trance music. The tires screeched as the car veered right at the blinking red light on Jaffa Road and the pulsating beat faded.
Ben and Dave crossed on the painted lines. Far down the street, a crowd of long-legged teenage girls in painted-on jeans chattered outside a nightclub.
In a way, Dave had as much in common with secular Israelis as with Charedim: pop culture; university; modern clothing; concern for the world beyond the four cubits of Jewish Law.
After the ghetto walls had crumbled, some Jews, wary of the temptations of the big wide world, had raised unseen walls of their own. Dave had Charedi cousins in Gateshead and he had whiled away many an evening in the men’s sections of their frequent weddings, like an anthropologist among a tribe of bearded, smiling wizards.
His British cousins, however, were regular cosmopolitans compared to their Israeli counterparts, who were known for draft dodging, the siphoning of government budgets, and spitting at immodestly clad women on buses. On Independence Day, some of them burned Israeli flags.
Dave’s annoyance with the ultra-orthodox Charedim went beyond the bad name they gave religion, beyond their chronic poverty and single-minded conclusions.
Dave loathed the almost palpable sense of superiority and entitlement. They turned their noses at hard-working, tax-paying, fully observant Jews such as Dave, who straddled both worlds. In their eyes, these Modern Orthodox were capitulators, Secularists in disguise, a device of the evil Other Side, whose filthy lips suckled at the teat of Sanctity.
And tonight, he needed them. He needed the kind of specialist who could germinate only in their sterile Torah incubator.
Ben and Dave climbed Strauss Street. More black hats bustled by. Darkened storefronts displayed religious books and Judaica.
Ben and Dave stepped over the peak of the hill and two hundred years back in time.
Me’ah She’arim Street teamed with humanity. Bearded men in satin robes and furry shtreimels—the hat worn by married Charedi men. Women in formless gowns and shower cap head coverings. Strollers rolled along the middle of the street. Young boys in white stockings and waistcoats played tag, weaving between pedestrians, their ear locks flying, black skullcaps held to their heads with their hands. Young girls with braided hair and ankle-length Victorian dresses chatted excitedly.
Dave’s wristwatch read 11:30 PM but it could have been the middle of the afternoon on those cobbled streets.
A banner in severe black letters warned visitors against immodest dress unbecoming the Daughters of Israel.
Ben and Dave joined the throng and the scents of pressed clothing and recent showers. The color and length of the robes and stockings distinguished the Chassidic bloodlines, but ultimately their dress code aped that of the Polish gentile nobilities of a forgotten age.
Makeshift balconies jutted overhead like sewn-on appendages, suspended by rusted steel rods and a miracle.
Despite his ideological misgivings, Dave found comfort in this pocket of simple, childlike faith.
Ben stopped at a public notice board thick with layers of paper and glue. Dave studied the harsh Hebrew font but knew little Yiddish.
“What is it?” Dave asked.
“A Pashkevil,” said Ben. “Readers beware. Some book about evolution. They’ve excommunicated the author for heresy.”
“Anyone I know?”
Ben frowned. “Never heard of him. Until now. C’mon.”
Ben ducked into a dark alley and paused at a weathered wooden door a full foot above street level. He tried the handle and the door gave way.
Low voices echoed down the long, dark passageway.
Ben stepped into the void. Dave’s lungs rebelled.
“Coming?” Ben said.
Dave wiped his palms on his thighs. “I’ll wait out here.”
“Come on. Don’t be a muggle. We’re almost there.”
The corridor reeked of damp, mothballs, and old plywood. Doorways spilled rectangles of light across their path. Dave felt like the detective in a crime thriller, braving the derelict hallways of a rundown tenement, but instead of trigger-itchy drug dealers, bearded men pored over heavy tomes on narrow tables and rickety podiums in the small study rooms and makeshift synagogues.
After a few turns, Dave lost his sense of direction. He would have trouble finding his way out without Ben. Could this Mishi be trusted even if he told him what he wanted to hear? Especially if he did. Ben could easily have staged the meeting, or at least primed the witness. Again, he walked onto a chessboard filled with Ben’s pawns.
The voices grew louder, rising and falling to a seemingly random tune, as the two men ventured deeper into the alternate universe.
The corridor emptied into a large marble foyer. The voices resonated from behind two large wooden doors.
Ben pushed through the doors and re
leased waves of sound and blinding light. The hall was the size of a basketball arena. A mammoth chandelier hung from the ceiling. Wooden grandstands lined three of the walls, packing row upon row of men in cloaks and hats and beards. Many of them swayed at the waist like frenzied metronomes, fingers curling their ear locks to the wordless song that carried on five hundred throats.
A tight jam of Charedi teenagers blocked the standing room. They tiptoed and craned their necks to win a better view of the central court, entering and exiting the fray according to their own Brownian motion. Dave felt like a scuba diver in a cloud of sardines.
Ben pushed through the mass of bodies and disappeared. A moment later he reappeared, grabbed Dave’s wrist, and pulled him in. The smell of fabric, sweat, and awe assaulted his nostrils. The coats and hats jostled him and each other without apology.
None of the boys seemed bothered by the culture tourists and their white kippas which, from above, must have looked like seagulls on a sea of black. Every eye and ear strained toward the center of the hall.
Ben halted at the edge of a clearing. Plastic platters of fruit, pretzels, wafers, and assorted pastries covered a long table set with a white cloth. A row of seated, aging rabbis in shtreimels lined the table but none touched the food. A rabbi in robes of cream and gold and an adventitious white beard sat at the center. He looked very frail and sat perfectly still, his eyes and mouth closed in deep meditation. Or sleep.
“That him?” Dave whispered in Ben’s ear.
Ben shook his head. “That’s the Rebbeh. Our man is next to him. The redhead.”
The man to the Rebbeh’s left had a ginger beard and side locks, and looked three decades younger than the other seated rabbis. He shochelled back and forth on his chair, his eyes clenched with concentration.
Mishi.
The Golden Rabbi raised his hand and the hall fell into a silence so complete Dave could hear his own heartbeat.
The Golden Rabbi spoke in Yiddish, his voice hardly above a whisper. The hall soaked up each word, eyes straining through spectacles, ears cupped to collect each drop of holy wisdom.
One figure remained in motion, rocking to a soundless melody of his own.
Mishi.
The Rebbeh’s speech dragged on. Dave understood only snatches: Riboyno shel Oylom. Master of the World. Oraysoh. The Torah.
Dave’s knees hurt. He shifted his weight from leg to leg. Then the Golden Rabbi mumbled a blessing over a chocolate wafer and bit into it.
Pandemonium ripped through the hall. Men pushed toward the table and almost knocked him to the ground. Arms snatched at the snacks on the dishes and lifted the plastic trays into the air. The sardines had turned into sharks at feeding time. The rabbi with the red beard rose to his feet.
“Quick,” Ben said. “He’s on the move.”
They fought the surge and ebb of bodies, and chased the shtreimel out a back door.
They pursued Mishi along a dark passageway, down a dingy stairwell, and squeezed past a band of hats barreling in the opposite direction.
As they turned a corner, another set of double doors swung shut.
“Stay close,” Ben said, and he slipped through.
Dave followed and found himself adrift in deep space. The room had no light source and, judging by the utter blackness, no windows either. He sensed an expanse ahead and above, like a cave.
He heard Ben’s footfalls and the rustle of clothing. He didn’t dare step forward. Then he heard the hum. A single human baritone. Then another. Five male voices. Twenty. A hundred. The voices rose and fell and meandered, then repeated. The tune sounded like “Three Blind Mice” on a stretched audio cassette.
Silhouettes emerged in the dark: men in coats, seated on chairs, distributed at random in the void. Their voices reverberated against the walls and through Dave’s body. Ben’s figure advanced delicately between the seated Chassidim toward a thin rectangle of light. Dave followed. For an instant, the outline became a block of blinding light and the man in the shtreimel exited.
Dave stumbled and felt his way across the hall.
“They’re the Slonim Chassidim,” Ben explained when they stepped out the door. They stood in yet another dimly lit corridor. The scrape of a chair leg sounded from a nearby room.
Ben nodded at the doorway. “Let me do the talking. Let’s not sidetrack him, OK?”
Dave nodded.
Mishi sat behind a narrow table of chipped plywood, a large black yarmulke on his head. The shtreimel sat on the table like a curled up, sleeping fox.
Mishi looked up from a thick volume, smiled broadly, and rose to his feet.
“Binyomin,” he said. He gave Ben’s hand a vigorous double-handed shake. “Gutten Shabbos.” Ben introduced Dave, and Mishi pressed Dave’s hand between thin, bony fingers. Mishi indicated the wooden bench opposite and closed his book.
Mishi, bright-eyed, pale-faced, and hatless, looked very young indeed. Dave had expected a wizened, benevolent Gandalf.
He beamed at them. “English, yes?”
“Please,” Ben said.
Dave rejoiced. He would receive the truth unfiltered by Ben.
Ben inquired regarding the rabbi’s family. Then he said, “My friend here, and I, we want to know if it’s possible to make someone fall in love?”
Put in so many words, the question embarrassed Dave.
The smile dropped from the young rabbi’s face.
“No magic,” he said. “No amulet. I do not do this thing. Yes?”
“Oh, no,” said Ben. “We don’t want you to do anything. We just want to know if it’s possible.”
Mishi peered from Ben to Dave.
“Ahhh…”
He ran his long fingers through the sparse red beard of his chin. “Love? Yes? In beginning, God make man and woman. Not like today. No. No. One body. One soul. Then—”
Mishi performed a martial arts chop worthy of Bruce Lee. “Break in two. Lonely. Walk-da-walk-da-walk-da world.” He clapped his hands together, startling Dave. “One again! This is love. Yes?”
Mishi giggled. He slapped his leg. He giggled some more. His torso rocked forward and sideways and threatened to floor both the young rabbi and the bench on which he sat.
Ben and Dave exchanged glances.
“Yes,” said Ben. “But can you make a girl fall in love with you even if she’s not your… soul mate?”
Mishi sobered up and wiped his eyes. “Make girl fall in love?” He scratched his beard. He stared at the ceiling. He frowned. His eyes fell on Dave. “No,” he said.
“No?”
Mishi smiled like an escaped lunatic. He found the question incredibly amusing. “God make soul. And man. And woman. No magic. No amulet. Yes?”
No magic.
Dave savored the words. He felt his shoulders relax. It was official. It was all in his head.
“Thanks, Mishi,” Ben said. “That’s all we needed to hear. Regards to Rochelleh.” Ben patted Dave on the knee. “Let’s go.”
“Maybe,” Mishi said.
The two men froze. Mishi stared at the ceiling, as if listening.
“Maybe?” Ben said.
Mishi sighed, searching for adequate words. He raised his hand above his head, the palm level with the ground.
“World Above,” he said. “Soul.”
He placed his other hand below the first.
“World Below. Body.”
He moved his bottom hand and the top hand kept up. “Move Below, move Above.”
Dave understood. Actions in the physical world affect the spiritual. It was the principal behind every mitzvah—good deed.
Mishi positioned his hands in the air, side by side. “Two body. Two soul.” He moved his hands together and entwined the fingers. “Body and soul togeda.”
“But how?” Dave asked and won a first-class scowl from Ben.
Mishi smiled. “One place,” he said. “First place. Togeda Below. Togeda Above.”
Mishi slapped his leg again and surrendered to anoth
er fit of laughter.
“Where?” Ben asked, as Mishi showed signs of recovery. “Where is this place?”
Mishi coughed and drew a deep breath.
“Where?” he repeated, as if the answer was obvious.
“One place. Holy Holy. One place. Even shesiya.”
***
Dave jogged down Strauss Street. He tried to keep up with Ben and his own scattered thoughts.
His intestines writhed and threatened to push Ruchama’s home-cooked meal up his throat. The short foray into the unreality of Me’ah She’arim had turned his world on its head once again.
Even shesiya.
The Shesiya Stone, the holy place where Heaven and Earth collide. Finally, Dave had a name for the mechanism behind the worst mistake of his life.
“I hope that settles it,” Ben said, as they rounded the hill and approached the Jaffa Road intersection.
He had hotfooted his way through the hive of corridors and side streets, leaving little time, or breath, for questions.
“What do you mean ‘that settles it’? Mishi explained everything. Maybe this place, this Even Shesiya, is in Ir David.”
“Even shtiya,” Ben corrected, using the Israeli pronunciation.
Dave translated as best he could. “The Drinking Stone?”
“Foundation Stone,” Ben said. “Or Weaving Stone. The point where Creation began. The site of the binding of Isaac and Jacob’s dream of the ladder to Heaven. The stone upon which the Ark of the Covenant rested in Solomon’s Temple. The stone that commands deep waters and one day will cause a river to flow through the Holy of Holies and reveal the lost Temple treasures.”
Ben spoke in an exaggerated, cynical tone, but Dave’s mind locked on target.
A magical stone. Unassuming. Easily overlooked.
“That’s it,” Dave said. “The stone must be in Ir David.”
“Forget about it. The stone is a dead-end. A wild goose chase.”
“Why?”
“Because we know exactly where it is. It fills most of the shrine built in its honor on the Temple Mount. Maybe you’ve heard of it? They call it The Dome of the Rock.”
Dave paused at the mouth of Ben Yehuda and fell behind.
The large golden dome lay beyond the Western Wall, a few hundred meters North of Ir David.