The men shivered with horror.
“The Zionists,” he went on, “reject God for laws created by Goyim like Aristotle, Cicero, and hypocrites like Saint Thomas Aquinas. They ponder the works of so-called philosophers like Baruch Spinoza, who was rightly excommunicated by the rabbis of Amsterdam.” Rabbi Gerster hit the lectern with an open hand. “The Zionists argue that dependency makes the fetus expendable. But a one-year-old child is also dependent upon his mother, right?”
His right hand gently caressed the head of an imaginary boy standing next to him.
“If the baby is still inside her, she may go to a doctor, who will insert a sharp steel rod between her thighs.” He pierced the air in front of him with his hand. “And stab the baby, stab it and stab it and stab it until it becomes a perforated piece of dead, bloodied flesh!”
The crowd responded with a fearful groan.
“And what if the baby is born?” His right hand returned to caressing the imaginary boy’s head. “A handsome boy, three or four years old, but still dependent on his mother for his survival. By the same logic, she may choose to care for her little boy, or bind him hand and foot and lay him on a table.” The rabbi pretended to do so. “And shove her knitting needle through his brain!” He grabbed the imaginary boy and twisted, shouting, “Or break his little neck!”
A terrible howl tore through the air, and many of the men buried their faces in their hands, crying. Lemmy watched them cry to God through burning throats, beg for His mercy. Even Benjamin was crying, his fists pressed to his eyes.
A memory came to Lemmy’s mind, his mother, lying on her bed. He drove the image from his mind, groaned to silence the persistent voice that told him he was the cause for his mother’s childlessness. For a brief second he saw her again, trying desperately to pin herself onto his father, only to be shoved away with the same hand, with the same rage with which his father had just twisted the imaginary boy’s neck. It was his fault, Lemmy knew. Somehow he had repulsed his father to the point of refusing to have more children, of preferring to live a lie, of depriving Temimah of what she so desperately longed for.
He looked at Benjamin, but his friend was too overwhelmed by the pantomimed killing of the little boy.
After a long time, the men of Neturay Karta fell back onto the wooden benches, exhausted. Only an occasional whimper sounded.
Rabbi Gerster wiped his face with a white handkerchief. “We’ll now go to the streets of Jerusalem to proclaim the word of God: You shall not kill! We’ll warn the Zionists not to pursue their abortion law, lest God’s hand comes down to punish them. But we’ll do it peacefully and pray for our misguided brothers, because a sinner who repents is more righteous than one who has never sinned.”
He kissed the velvet curtain on the ark, his hands on the embroidered golden letters. He descended from the dais and walked through the synagogue, each row draining behind him into the center aisle. He led the column of men through the foyer to the forecourt and down to the gate. Cantor Toiterlich chanted verses from Psalms, which they repeated after him. As the long snake of black hats wriggled its tail against the rusted bars of the gate, Lemmy slipped away.
H e entered the quiet apartment and shut the door, leaning against it, panting. On the opposite wall, above the door to his father’s study, a square of exposed bricks contrasted with the white walls. Every house in Meah Shearim had a similar unfinished patch to symbolize the dwellers’ constant mourning for the destruction of the Temple on Mount Moriah, which had stood in ruins for two thousand years. Roman hands had thrown the torches and catapulted the rocks that had demolished it, but Talmud said that the Temple was destroyed due to hatred among Jews. As he looked up at the naked bricks, Lemmy thought of his father, leading his disciples through the streets of Jerusalem to a certain confrontation with other Jews.
He entered his father’s study. The desk was covered with books and papers. The chair had a tall back and padded armrests that ended with carved lion heads. Hundreds of books were lined on wooden shelves all the way to the ceiling.
Lemmy sat in the armchair and clenched the lion heads. He remembered sitting in his father’s lap, embraced by the big hands, his own little hands tapping on the desk, the back of his neck tickled by his father’s beard.
On the desk was the brown book his father always carried into town, a pencil resting in the crease. When Lemmy opened the book, the pencil fell out, together with a stack of Israeli liras. He turned the book to look at the cover. The title had faded with time. Lemmy traced the letters with his finger. THE ZOHAR.
His hands reflexively threw the book back on the desk. It was the book of Kabbalah!
He wanted to put the pencil and money back in the book, but could not bring himself to touch it again. He stumbled out of the study, ran to his room, and closed the door.
“Jerusalem? Is that you?”
He had assumed his mother was out. Had she seen him enter his father’s study? He wished she would just go away.
Temimah entered his bedroom. “Why didn’t you go to the demonstration?”
He avoided her eyes, afraid of remembering the way she had looked at the height of passion. “I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?” She reached the back of her head and tightened the knot on her plain headdress. Her fingers felt around it, ensuring it covered her head. The motion was mechanical, reassuring.
“I’m tired.”
“You read too much.” Her eyes lingered on the bookshelf, lined with volumes of Talmud.
Suddenly he realized it wasn’t Talmud she was referring to. He jumped from the bed and stood between her and the bookshelf.
“I clean your room every day. You think I would miss those books?”
“Don’t tell him!”
“Your father has enough to worry about. God knows what would happen here without him.” Anxiety tightened her voice. “You must stop.”
“No!”
“But these books are bad for you.”
“That’s a lie!”
Temimah seemed startled by his anger.
“I can’t go back. I can’t ignore what I know. I’m not a damn horse.” He placed his hands by the sides of his face like horse blinders.
“Am I a damn horse?”
Her pain tied a knot in his throat. It was his father he was angry at, not her. “I didn’t say that.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m missing? But I also know what I have-a husband, a son, a home, and a God, who has prescribed this life for me.” She approached the bookshelf, inserted her hand behind the set of Talmud volumes, and pulled out The Painted Bird. The small book was wrapped in transparent plastic for protection. The cover illustration showed a bird with a human expression, its feathers red, yellow, and green, its beak crooked, its malicious eyes staring at the reader. A straw basket was strapped to its wings, and in it sat a boy with sad eyes.
“Please,” Lemmy said, “put it back.”
She opened the book. “Who is Tanya?”
He snatched The Painted Bird from her, shoved it behind the Talmud volumes, and headed to the door.
“Jerusalem!” His mother grabbed his forearm. “She gives you those books, doesn’t she?”
He nodded.
“Who is she?”
“Ask your husband!” Lemmy shook off her hand and left the room.
She followed him to the hallway. “I’ve asked him.”
Lemmy paused and turned.
“Your father used to have nightmares.” Her face was ashen, the wrinkles of untimely aging growing deeper. “He cried her name in his sleep. Tanya! Tanya! ”
“What did he say when you asked him?”
“Nothing.” Temimah went to her room, pausing at the door. “He wouldn’t answer.”
“So you sent him to sleep in the study?”
His mother’s voice cracked when she answered, “That was his decision.”
“W hat a nice surprise!” Tanya embraced Lemmy. He had never visited her on a weekday, only on the Sabbath. And she had never embraced him, only touched him briefly, as if unintentionally. Now she was holding him to her, pressing her limbs against him. Without thinking, he kissed the top of her head. She must have just gotten out of the shower, her hair still wet, its scent fresh like flowers.