An Unexpected Afterlife

by Dan Sofer

  The attendant led them to the no-man’s-land between the pews and the conference table, and the three visitors faced the Great Council of Torah Sages, their backs to the many rows of silent students.

  The seven sages sized them up with intelligent old eyes like judges inspecting defendants. Moshe recognized the generous white beard of Rabbi Auerbach from Simcha’s soccer card.

  “Reb Emden,” said the sage in the center of the council. He spoke a few more words in Yiddish. His eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness, but whether he extended those sentiments to all three of the visitors, Moshe could not tell. Rabbi Emden replied at length in Yiddish.

  “Who is that?” Moshe whispered to Rabbi Yosef.

  “Rabbi Alter,” Rabbi Yosef whispered back, without taking his eyes from the formidable sages. “The Rebbe of Belz Chasidism. On his left is Rabbi Auerbach; Rabbi Teitelbaum on his right. Heads of Chasidic lines and leading poskim—authorities on Jewish law.”

  The Chasidic world, it seemed, had its own aristocracy, and Moshe stood before the kings of this parallel universe.

  A gasp washed over the seated multitude behind them. Some of the rabbis of the council stirred as well, but not the three central figures. Emden must have gotten to the crux of their story.

  Rabbi Emden concluded his address. Rabbi Alter raised his hand, and the murmurs fell silent. He turned his warm, kind eyes to Moshe and spoke in Hebrew. “Mr. Karlin,” he said. “Please show us the sign.”

  Moshe felt all eyes train on him, and his cheeks warmed. “The sign?” He looked to Rabbi Emden for an explanation.

  “Your shirt,” Rabbi Emden said, with an encouraging smile. “Go on.”

  Moshe was not in the habit of exposing himself in synagogue, but he overcame his inhibitions. He pulled the edge of his shirt from his jeans and lifted the hem above his belly. The sages leaned forward and squinted. Eyes widened behind thick glasses.

  The rabbis whispered quiet consultation, and Moshe tucked in his shirt.

  Rabbi Alter raised his hand again for silence and the hall obeyed as one. He fired off a series of short questions and Rabbi Emden replied. Then Rabbi Alter spoke at length. The warmth faded from his eyes, and his tone hardened.

  For the first time in his life, Moshe wished he understood Yiddish. “Is everything OK?” he whispered. Rabbi Yosef gave his shoulders a helpless shrug.

  “Mr. Karlin.” Rabbi Alter had switched back to Hebrew and turned his icy gaze on Moshe. “We of the Great Council long for the Redemption and the Messiah, son of David. But false hopes and deceivers litter our history. We see before us neither the mass resurrection of Ezekiel nor the return of the prophet Elijah. The Third Temple has not descended from on high with fire and wonders.” The sage paused. Not a peep from the crowd.

  “And yet,” he continued, “here you are. A dead man walking among us. A secular Jew, who remembers nothing of the World of Souls. The sacred responsibility of this council is to safeguard the tradition of Sinai, as handed down through the ages. It is clear to us, Mr. Karlin, that you seek to undermine that tradition, to plant seeds of doubt, and to challenge our holy Torah.”

  A scandalized murmur rose in the ranks behind them. Moshe opened his mouth to object that he wasn’t seeking anything, only survival, when Rabbi Alter raised his hand again for order.

  “This council has reached its decision. We can find only one explanation.” He spoke the next sentence in Yiddish, and banged his fist on the polished table like a judge sealing his verdict with the slam of a gavel. The murmur rose again and filled the hall. Not surprise, this time—but indignation. The murmur surged into an agitated roar. Hinges squealed behind them as seats pivoted and a hundred men got to their feet.

  The robed attendant appeared beside them. “Leave,” he said in Hebrew. “Now!” He waved his arm. “Out! Out!”

  Rabbi Emden pointed to the door at the end of the synagogue. “Go! Go!” he said.

  Moshe wasted no time. If he didn’t escape now, the mob might rip him limb from limb. Rabbi Yosef seemed to fear the same outcome. At first, they walked—around the platform and down the endless aisle toward the Holy Ark. Then they ran, the footfalls of the angry mob in their ears. The roar coalesced into a chant of two strange words, over and over, the same two words Rabbi Alter had used at the end of his verdict.

  “What are they saying?” Moshe asked as they rounded a block of pews and high-tailed it toward the large twin doors of the exit.

  “Sitra Achra,” Rabbi Yosef said, his voice a gasp as he sprinted. It sounded like the end of the world. “Sitra Achra!”

  CHAPTER 37

  Early Monday morning, on a derelict street in the Talpiot industrial zone, Moshe climbed out of Rabbi Yosef’s white Subaru for the last time. He held his worldly possessions in one plastic grocery bag. Irina and Samira waited on the cracked sidewalk.

  Moshe leaned on the open window of the passenger door. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Rabbi. We appreciate it.”

  Rabbi Yosef looked forlorn. “I’m sorry,” he said, the first words he had spoken during the short journey.

  “It’s OK. There’s nothing you can do.” After the Great Council’s verdict, they were lucky the rabbi had let them stay the night.

  His words did not seem to console the kind-hearted rabbi. “Good luck,” he said, and he drove off.

  Sitra Achra. In hushed tones the previous night, the rabbi had explained the expression. The concept seemed bizarre to Moshe, but all the same, the result was “goodbye.” They had found new accommodations just in time.

  Moshe glanced at the gray corrugated wall of the nondescript warehouse. Home sweet home. He pulled at the metal handle and the corrugated wall slid sideways on a track.

  They stepped inside. Nothing had prepared Moshe for the sights, sounds, and smells that greeted them. The warehouse floor teemed with men and women under the harsh white light of fluorescents that dangled in the air. Tall Nigerians in grimy overalls. Scruffy Europeans in sweat-stained undershirts. Workers of every size and shape sat on cots and peered at them with suspicious eyes. A fat bald man ladled lumpy porridge into tin cups.

  A lanky Ethiopian sauntered in their direction. He looked them up and down. “Moshe and Irina?”

  “Yes,” Moshe said. “And this is Samira.” He reached out his hand.

  The Ethiopian stretched his shoulder. “Call me Damas. You work with me. Put your things in twenty-three and twenty-four, and get in line if you want to eat. We leave in ten minutes. You”—he indicated Samira with a nod of the head—“go upstairs and sign. Don’t be late.”

  He padded off.

  “He’s a bundle of joy,” Moshe said.

  Irina forced a brave smile. Samira clambered up the metal stairwell toward the supervisor’s office, and Moshe caught sight of Boris, the Russian with the bushy gray mustache, through the glass window.

  The apartment was a two-meter square of tarpaulin. A tin mug. Dusty sleeping bag. Thin mattress. Rusty spring cot. Moshe kicked his plastic bag under the bed and closed the door flap.

  He surveyed the hive of activity in the warehouse. Moshe had heard about the Sudanese refugees and fortune seekers who infiltrated the borders and infested Southern Tel Aviv, but he had never given much thought to how they made their way through the country without papers or money. He was finding out firsthand. He slipped his watch into his pocket. No need to advertise his good fortune.

  Irina emerged from her tent.

  “Hungry?”

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll skip the line too.” Good thing they had gobbled a slice of toast in the rabbi’s kitchen before they left.

  A loud whistle drew their attention. Damas waved at them to approach the entrance, and herded them into a white minivan that idled outside, the morning air filling with diesel fumes. A balding middle-aged man sat in the back. Moshe and Irina took the middle row. A minute later, Samira emerged from the warehouse and climbed into the van. She seemed relieved to see them a
nd sat in the row in front.

  Damas slid the door shut, climbed into the seat beside the driver, and the van pulled off.

  “Thank you,” Samira said, with an eager smile. “This is my first job.”

  “You’ve never had a job?”

  “My husband wouldn’t let me work outside the home. He made me stop going to school. I couldn’t leave the house alone.” Her husband. Samira still spoke of the man as though she was still under his thumb. The improvised hijab made her look far older than her twenty-one years.

  “Don’t thank us yet,” Moshe said. “Let’s see how the day goes.”

  “Did the rabbis of the Great Council arrange the jobs?”

  “Not exactly. They said we’re the Sitra Achra.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s Aramaic for ‘the Other Side.’”

  “Other side of what?”

  Irina spoke up. “Demons, Samira.” Irina had a way of cutting to the chase.

  “Oh.” Samira’s smile disappeared. “Are we? I mean we were dead.”

  “Do you think you’re a demon?”

  She shook her head.

  “There’s your answer. But let me know if you grow horns.”

  Samira patted her hijab, then smiled at her own foolishness. “So that’s why the rabbi…?” She trailed off, either failing to find the Hebrew words or uncomfortable about speaking against their former host.

  “Threw us out? Yes.”

  The man in the seat behind them coughed.

  “I’m sure everything will be OK,” Moshe said. He should be careful about what he shared with whom.

  Damas rested his arm on the backrest of the front seat and tapped the upholstery with his hand. The hand had a thumb and two fingers. The other two digits ended at the first joint.

  A shiver traced his spine. Very careful indeed.

  CHAPTER 38

  Noga sat at the desk of the interview room at the hospital. She ran her fingers through her hair. After a half hour of fussing at the bathroom mirror that morning, she had decided to wear her hair down. She had even allowed Sharona to comb her lashes with mascara and dust her cheeks with blush.

  In an hour, she would take the lift to the fourth floor and wheel Eli Katz to his first physiotherapy session. An hour seemed like an eternity. You’ve fallen for him. She giggled. The thought didn’t alarm her.

  Eli Katz had gone from zero to hero in a single meeting. He had apologized and volunteered to help with her research. He even shared her interest in genealogy. More importantly, he had listened attentively as she ranted about genes and haplotypes. His dark, magnetic eyes and stubbly cheek floated in her mind whenever she closed her eyes.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said the man across the desk. The young Arab gazed at her with concern. “You were saying?” He wore jeans and a T-shirt; his wife, a brown burka from head to toe.

  Noga sat up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The study is anonymous.” She recited her sales pitch by heart. Every couple undergoing genetic counseling—a euphemism for fertility treatment—passed through her interview room, regardless of their ethnicity. Most signed the consent forms. Did they really care about science or did they hope that a random act of kindness would increase their chances of success?

  After a short hushed deliberation, the couple signed on the dotted line and Noga thanked them for their cooperation. She had recruited Christians, Bahai, Ethiopians, and even Swedish medical tourists in addition to the expected mass of Ashkenazi Jewish hopeful parents. She was glad that this couple had consented. She needed more Arabs to round out the control group.

  She escorted the couple to the corridor, wished them luck, and made for the bathroom. Five minutes until her next interview. She washed her hands and inspected her makeup in the mirror. She rubbed her lips together to spread the fading lipstick.

  Does this count as a first date? If so, her physio session with Eli would be the only date she had looked forward to in years.

  She threw a paper towel in the bin and charged down the corridor. A voice called her name.

  “Dr. Stern.” She paused. “Is everything OK?”

  The head of neurology had a distant look in his pale blue eyes. “Noga,” he said. “May I consult with you?”

  Consult with me? “Of course.”

  “The patient in room 419C,” he said. “Mr. Katz. You’re familiar with him, I understand?”

  Rumors spread faster than viruses along the hospital corridors. “What about him?”

  “He’s recovering fast, wouldn’t you say?” The speedy recovery seemed to worry him.

  “He’s making good progress, yes.”

  “Very good progress. His fractures have healed in record time. I think his case could be of great scientific interest. Now, there was a mix-up with his blood work, and, as I just discovered, the last remaining sample is marked for genetic research.”

  “Yes. He signed the forms.” She clenched her jaw. She was not about to give up her prized sample, or give it away without Eli’s approval. Suddenly, she didn’t like the idea of other doctors poking around his DNA. He belonged to her.

  She said, “Have you tried obtaining another sample?” Fat chance that Eli would agree to another test. Bad with blood, he had said.

  Dr. Stern frowned. “I was hoping to avoid that. He’s been through enough already, don’t you think? Especially after that nasty incident last week.”

  She could see where he was going with this.

  “He’s been clear since then. All the nurses agree.”

  “So they say.” He studied her over his glasses. “But delusions are a tricky phenomenon. I think we might have to ship him off to Kfar Shaul for observation.”

  A hint of coercion had slithered between his words. Relocation to the Kfar Shaul Mental Health Center would mean the end of her visits with Eli and the end of his freedom for the near future. Although her gut resisted the manipulation, the fear of losing Eli won out.

  She swallowed. “I’ll speak with the lab,” she said. “I’m sure we can split the sample.”

  Dr. Stern inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  She turned to go, eager to put a healthy distance between her and the doctor.

  “And, Noga, dear,” he called after her. “Take care. Delusionals can be very convincing.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Moshe peered out the window of the van. They sped south on Hebron Road, toward Baka. Turn right and they’d land up near his old home. Near Galit and Talya.

  The night they had moved into Shimshon Street, Galit had jumped for joy in the entrance hall like a little girl and wrapped him in a tight hug. She might be quick to anger but she also radiated warmth and affection. He thrived on her love. With Galit at his side, he could conquer the world.

  His new job had distanced him from her.

  If Galit came knocking on the rabbi’s front door, she’d find an empty house. But as the van sped toward Baka, it seemed that his new job might be returning him home after all.

  The van, however, gunned down Hebron Road without slowing. Soon they would cross the 1967 armistice lines and enter Arab Bethlehem. He straightened on his seat. Was Damas shuttling them into stone-throwing territory in a vehicle without shatterproof windows?

  He worried in vain. The van veered right at the last moment and climbed into Gilo, Jerusalem’s southernmost suburb. The van pulled up next to a new apartment block of white Jerusalem stone.

  Damas turned to face his crew. “New people, listen up. Don’t speak to the customers. Not a word. Speak only to me. Understand?”

  They nodded.

  “Now, get out.”

  At the back of the van they collected tins of paint, overalls, and a wooden ladder—all streaked with white—and carried them up two flights of stairs to an empty apartment. Damas mixed cement with water in a bucket and showed them how to fill holes in the wall. While the plaster dried, they poured paint into plastic trays and whitewashed the walls with long strokes of roller brushes. Damas came in a
nd out, leaving them to their tasks for hours at a time.

  During one of those stretches, the middle-aged man rested his roller brush in the tray.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. He patted strands of hair over his balding pate and hope glimmered in his tired eyes.

  “Overhear what?” Moshe said.

  “About your new lives.”

  Irina looked down from the ladder. Samira stiffened. This was just the sort of attention they had hoped to avoid. This information could complicate matters with their new employers.

  The man raised a conciliatory hand. “I won’t cause any trouble,” he said. “My name is Shmuel. I’m like you.” He unbuttoned his overall and lifted his T-shirt. Shmuel was indeed like them. Moshe returned the favor. Exposing his belly in public had become a habit.

  All of a sudden, Shmuel shuddered. He sank onto a closed tin of paint and bawled into his hands. “I thought I was alone,” he said.

  Moshe touched the older man’s shoulder. “When did you return?”

  “A few days ago. Woke up in the cemetery, managed to get home.” He shivered at the memory. “My son has moved into my house. Wouldn’t believe it’s really me. The greedy little runt kicked me out.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Moshe said.

  “Yes,” said Samira, her voice devoid of sarcasm. “Welcome to the afterlife.” Her role of afterlife hostess gave her new confidence.

  Moshe said, “Not what you expected, right?”

  Shmuel gave a gruff laugh. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  Moshe made the introductions.

  “Tell me,” Shmuel said. A sense of urgency crept into his voice. “How long do I have?”

  Good question. Were they newborns or had God pre-aged their new bodies? “I don’t know,” Moshe admitted. “We’ll have to figure things out as we go.”

  Shmuel’s joy of discovery ebbed. He lowered his voice. “Be careful what you say here. Our employers aren’t exactly philanthropists.”

  As if on cue, Damas sauntered into the room and scowled at them. “What is this? A summer camp? Eat your lunch.” He tossed a plastic bag onto the floor. “Don’t screw around. You have an hour to finish. We have another job waiting.”