When the sun touched the rooftops in the west, he headed home. He knew his parents would be shocked, but they would have to let him live according to his principles. They had to understand and accept him in this new phase of his life as a modern Jew. After all, he was their only child. The threat of banishment was empty, Lemmy was certain. His father had preached: Our child is our creation. Once we give birth to a child, it’s ours, flesh and blood, for better or for worse. As to the rest of the sect, Lemmy did not care what they thought. He was done studying Talmud from morning to night, and his future did not include marrying Sorkeh, he was certain of that. Maybe she could marry Benjamin?
H is mother opened the door. She gasped and stumbled backward until her back met the wall. Slowly her knees gave way, the whites of her eyes appeared, and she descended to the floor.
“Mother!” Lemmy knelt beside her.
The hinges creaked as the study door opened. Lemmy looked up at his father, who seemed calm, as if he had expected his son to come home with his payos chopped off.
“Fetch water for your mother.”
Lemmy ran to the kitchen and brought a glass of water. He held it to her lips while his father supported her head. Her eyes slowly came into focus.
They held her up and walked her to her room, where she collapsed on the bed. Lemmy took her hand, but she pulled it away.
“You are the same,” she whispered, “the two of you, the same.” She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side, facing the wall.
Rabbi Gerster left the room and waited for Lemmy in the hallway. “Did Tanya tell you to do this?”
“No. She told me to make my own choices.”
“I see.” There was no anger in his voice. “Is this your final decision?”
“Yes.”
“You feel you have no other choice?”
“Correct.”
“Then I have no choice either.” Rabbi Gerster gestured at Lemmy’s bare head. “Put on your yarmulke. We’re going to the synagogue.”
“The synagogue? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Obey me, Jerusalem, this one last time.”
As they were leaving the house, Lemmy saw The Zohar in his father’s right hand. Why was he taking the book of Kabbalah to the synagogue? Lemmy’s heart beat faster as thoughts raced through his mind. Was his father planning to cast a spell on him? No. That was a ludicrous idea! More likely, his father would use the book to somehow make the men accept Lemmy in his new form. And if they refused? He touched the bulge of the Mauser against the small of his back. The men in the synagogue would be shocked by his snipped payos, his Zionist outfit, his proverbial slap in the face of his father, their beloved rabbi. Would they scream? Wave fists? Throw rocks?
His legs weakened, and his throat went dry. He had expected his choice to cause discomfort, maybe even a bit of acrimony with his parents, but he had not planned to follow his father, like the first Abraham, to an altar. And Abraham held up the slaughterer’s knife to slay his son.
Entering the synagogue behind his father, Lemmy was blinded by the glow of the crystal chandelier, which burned with a thousand drops of light. He realized it had been turned on in honor of his scheduled engagement, in celebration of continuity, of the first step in the rabbinical succession at Neturay Karta.
The two of them entered the hall and stood behind the rows of men, who swayed as they studied, unaware of Rabbi Gerster and his only son, who was no longer a faithful member of their community.
“Good bye, Jerusalem.” His father started to turn away, but suddenly changed his mind, took Lemmy in his arms, and pressed him tightly.
Lemmy’s hands hung listlessly at his side. He wanted to speak, but no voice came out. His father had not hugged him since he was a toddler.
Rabbi Abraham Gerster let go, turned, and walked down the aisle. A thousand crystal tears rustled above him. Row after row, the men’s voices quieted. They noticed their rabbi’s slow pace and bowed head. They watched him climb onto the dais and kiss the blue curtain.
The rabbi turned and faced his men. “Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai wrote this book eighteen hundred years ago.” He held it up.
The men murmured, “ The Zohar! The Zohar! ”
“This book lists the secret names of God.” Rabbi Gerster’s hand pointed up, toward the ceiling. “God’s names are divided into three groups: Names related to Adam, the source, the first father. Names related Eve, the first mother, who was created out of Adam’s rib. And names related to the son, who is like Malkhoot, the kingdom of continuity.”
From the rear, Lemmy saw rows of heads in black yarmulkes or hats. The men focused on Rabbi Gerster. None of them looked back yet to see Lemmy’s missing payos, his pale face, and his right hand, which emerged from under the jacket, clenching a handgun.
“A son represents continuity of faith. For every Jewish father and mother, a son is the focus of all sacred things, a cherished vessel to carry God’s Torah onward to the next generation.” Rabbi Gerster closed his eyes and turned his face up in meditation.
Lemmy’s heart beat hard. He wanted to flee, but his legs wouldn’t move. His fingers clung to the ivory handle of the Mauser.
“God entered into a covenant with our patriarch Abraham.” Rabbi Gerster’s voice roamed through the synagogue. “ You shall be the Father of multitudes, and the land of Canaan shall be for you and your seed to possess forever. I shall be your God. ”
Now Lemmy knew what was coming: Abraham sacrificing his son! A voice screamed inside his head: Run!
Rabbi Gerster sighed. “Our sons are the essence of the eternal covenant.” He opened his hands in pleading. “But here I am, Abraham Gerster, your rabbi, standing before you today in shame!”
Many asked loudly, “What? What? What?”
Lemmy’s thumb pushed the safety latch of the Mauser.
“Shame, dear God, so much shame!” The rabbi’s voice was broken. “I have failed to raise my own son to honor the covenant.” He pointed above the men’s heads to the back of the hall.
The air froze in Lemmy’s throat. His forefinger slid into the trigger slot.
Hundreds of faces turned to him, bearded faces with bewildered eyes that looked at his blue shirt and khaki pants, at his shaven sideburns. He felt naked without his black coat and black hat. He was The Painted Bird, surrounded by its own kin, who were ready to lynch him. Fear screamed inside his head.
He saw their disbelief giving way to rage. They tore up from their seats, hands clenching into fists, lips spitting words of revilement, a collective howl of damnation, which grew louder as they advanced at him. Behind them, his father stood high on the dais, eyes shut, face upturned, hands stretched to the sides, palms open upward.
Lemmy’s hand rose, the Mauser appearing between him and the mosaic of red faces. The muzzle aimed at the black of their coats, their heaving chests.
His finger applied pressure to the trigger while his hand rose higher, across their faces, above their heads, until the bump at the end of the barrel found his father’s chest at the opposite end of the synagogue. It lingered there, while the men were almost upon him.
He raised his hand farther up and pressed the trigger.
The recoil threw him back, the explosion tenfold louder than he had expected. He fell down and saw the ejected casing hit the floor nearby. But when he looked up, he froze in terror.
The crystal chandelier, still burning bright, detached from the ceiling. The giant cluster of lights descended, gaining speed until it hit the center of the synagogue and exploded. The noise was terrifying, and the glistening crystal tears bounced up in the air and landed on the floor with ringing chimes, spreading throughout the center aisle and between the benches and under the hundreds of shoes of stunned men, who slipped and dropped to the floor with flailing arms.