Benjamin’s face lit up. “Bless be He who cures the ill!”
“Amen,” the rabbi said.
Despite his anger at his father, Lemmy was relieved. Eight days had passed since the abortion protest on King George Street. His father’s self-imposed confinement had deepened the division in the sect. Redhead Dan had boasted that Rabbi Gerster would soon order a violent struggle against the Zionist government, whereas Cantor Toiterlich timidly gave voice to Neturay Karta’s long-held principles of seclusion, prayer, and the study of Talmud. The debate in the sect had been brewing all week while the men had waited for their rabbi’s return.
Rabbi Gerster noticed The Painted Bird and picked it up.
Benjamin shifted in place as if his feet stood on red embers.
“Cheap entertainment for the feebleminded.” The rabbi tossed it on the bed. “Has my son become feebleminded?”
“It’s neither cheap nor entertaining,” Lemmy said. “It’s a story about a boy who spends the long years of the war hiding from the Nazis, freezing in the winters, hungry, terrified. Weren’t you once such a boy?”
Rabbi Gerster’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You have a clever mind,” he said. “Why don’t you apply it wholly to God’s books?”
Before Lemmy could answer, Benjamin took a step toward the door. “Shall we go?”
On the way to the synagogue, the rabbi rested his arm on Benjamin’s shoulder. “I hope you concentrate on the teachings of God, not on stories of the Goyim.”
“We study together.” Benjamin walked stiffly under the weight of the rabbi’s arm. “The two of us, every day, all day.”
“Apparently, my son finds time for idleness.” He spoke as if Lemmy was not behind them. “But not you. God blessed you with a pure soul. Our people need leadership and guidance. Continue to study hard, and one day you’ll be a great rabbi.”
The synagogue appeared before them with its tall windows and massive wood doors. The forecourt was filled with men, and they rushed to greet the rabbi.
Redhead Dan pushed through the crowd. “Rabbi! Have you heard the news? On Sunday morning the Knesset will approve the final abortion law! God wants us to fight! The death of babies takes precedence over the observance of the Sabbath!”
Everyone started talking at the same time, but Rabbi Gerster only smiled, lifted his arms into the air, and began singing: “ Heighten your heads, gates, exalt yourselves! ”
Confused, the men of Neturay Karta stopped arguing.
“ Doorways of the universe, ” he sang, “ the King of Honor, God is coming! ”
The men joined, and the rabbi started from the beginning. Quickly the singing intensified, and circles formed around him. Their faces grew more cheerful as they danced around him faster and faster, proceeding into the synagogue. Inside, the men’s singing filled the hall, their hands on each other’s shoulders, dancing with their beloved rabbi around the elevated bimah, under the glistening lights of the crystal chandelier. “ The King of Honor, God is coming! ”
Lemmy danced, his arms locked with the men, whose faces glowed with sweat and spiritual joy. The dancing grew faster, the singing louder. Someone broke between Lemmy and the man to his right. It was Redhead Dan, his round, freckled face full of excitement. He sang at the top of his voice, and slapped hard on Lemmy’s shoulder. “ Heighten your heads, gates! Exalt yourselves! ”
As he danced, Lemmy thought of the mysterious box and Redhead Dan’s talk of fighting. What was he up to? Yoram must have told the rabbi, but did anyone realize how crazy Redhead Dan really was? And who would Tanya tell about this, and what would they do?
Rabbi Abraham Gerster danced with his men, his hands bound with theirs, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the glowing chandelier. It went on and on, until the rabbi suddenly pulled free and leaped on top of the nearest wooden bench.
The men stopped dancing and stood still, watching him.
When the synagogue was completely silent, the rabbi filled his lungs and, very slowly, began singing again: “ Raise! ”
He paused, his hands reaching up. “ Your heads! ”
His face creased in great devotion. “ Gates, exalt yourselves! ”
Everyone looked up at him, holding their breath.
Like a conductor leading his orchestra, he suddenly waved his hands, and his forceful baritone bounced from the walls, “ Doorways of the universe! ”
They joined him with a wonderful, earthshaking roar, “ The King of Honor, God is coming! ”
The men of Neturay Karta danced in circles, their pace faster, their unbuttoned coats flying around them, their faces red with ecstasy, brilliant with sweat, their legs going up and down with boundless energy, their black shoes drumming the floor in honor of their beloved rabbi, who had returned to lead them.
But Lemmy broke off from the circle and went outside to the forecourt. The breeze was cool on his moist face. The sun had descended below the horizon. Sabbath had arrived.
“T urning your head saved your eyes.” The doctor on call at the Sharay Tzedek Hospital smeared ointment on Elie’s left cheek, neck, and upper chest, where the tea had scalded him. “Eyes are like eggs. Hot water would boil them.” He was young and not too happy about having to work on Friday night.
Elie wasn’t listening. His mind was filled with vengeful images of Tanya suffering all kinds of torture. But those images would have to remain in his mind. Hurting Tanya in any way was outside the realm of possibility. It had been his fault anyway. His infatuation with her had loosened his tongue, and he had bragged like a schoolboy on a pubescent date, receiving his just reward in the form of second-degree burns. Now she was under guard at a safe house on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where she would remain until after tomorrow morning’s operation. The doctor put down the ointment jar and pulled off the gloves. “We’ll keep you overnight with a fluid drip. I can prescribe something to make you comfortable.”
“No.” Elie gave him a look that discouraged any argument. “Pain isn’t a problem. I’ll take this.” He pointed at the jar of ointment.
Ten minutes later, he walked out of the hospital, all the records of his treatment already in the trash. He wore a cotton undershirt, separating the rough khaki shirt from the ointment and his angry-red skin. One of the agents was waiting for him in the car.
“Drive me to the police compound at the Russian Yard,” Elie said. “They’re waiting for me.”
T he Special Force combined experienced police officers and veterans of elite IDF units, men who engaged in extreme violence without raising their pulse. The group filled a conference room on the second floor of the building. Pinned to the wall was a street map of the Rehavia neighborhood, marked with green, blue, and black pushpins that represented the troops, the commanders, and the attackers respectively. The prime minister’s residence was circled in red.
Elie listened as Major Buskilah assigned men to positions, discussed the chain of command, the range from each position to the targets, the lines of fire assigned to each team, and the need to avoid civilian casualties.
When Major Buskilah was done, Elie addressed them. “This operation is based on a tip we received from an informant that two members of Neturay Karta plan to attack the prime minister in the morning. We don’t know their identity or appearance,” he lied, “and unfortunately, senior members of the media have already been invited to a press conference tomorrow on the roof of the prime minister’s residence.” He cleared his throat, and the movement shot burning pain across his scalded skin. “We suspect that the conspirators have obtained some kind of explosives. We’re still investigating how and what they have, but time is running out.”
He looked around the room, waiting for his lies to sink in. The faces he browsed showed no doubts. They were eager and attentive, open faces of men accustomed to trusting their commanding officers and adhering to a plan of action.