Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

But Lemmy could not think about dinner. How could hundreds of Talmudic scholars, critical and inquisitive minds, turn into the submissive crowd surrounding him? How could they not raise their voices in the same protest that boiled inside him?

As if in a dream, he raised his hand.

His father noticed. “Yes?”

The clatter subsided as all heads gradually turned to him.

“I think that, just like Talmud doesn’t require a wife to obey her husband blindly, Talmud also doesn’t require a husband to obey his rabbi blindly.” Lemmy swallowed hard. “A rabbi is only flesh and blood. A rabbi could be wrong. Anyone could be wrong sometime, right?” He took a deep breath. The hall was silent. “Maybe the meaning of create is that we have a personal choice to seek a rabbi whose rulings we find to be wise?” He shifted his weight, his knees shaky.

His father’s face remained expressionless. “Go on.”

“A rabbi,” Lemmy said, “might give his followers the wrong advice-not maliciously, but due to ignorance or poor judgment. Not always would it be a minor disagreement about sleeping arrangements. What if it’s a matter of life and death?”

The silence grew deeper. All eyes focused on him.

“For example,” Lemmy spoke louder to hide the tremor in his voice, “the rabbis in Europe told their congregations not to immigrate to Palestine, and the millions who obeyed their rabbis died in the Holocaust. And those who disobeyed the rabbis’ rulings and joined the Zionists in Palestine? They survive! I think it proved that rabbis can be wrong. Deadly wrong, even.” He wanted to continue, but the words never left his lips.

“Master of the Universe!” Rabbi Gerster grabbed the lectern. “Six million were chosen to join God, and you think it was their rabbis’ fault?”

“It’s not about fault, but about being wrong sometimes-”

“Silence!” Rabbi Gerster raised both hands. “Who are we to judge God’s decision to gather His lambs under His merciful wings?” He swayed back and forth. “His decision to take my saintly mother, my eight young brothers, and two little sisters. Was my father, Rabbi Yakov Gerster, guilty of their death? And of the death of the rest of our shtetl?”

After a long moment, Cantor Toiterlich began chanting in a mournful voice: “ This world is only a very narrow bridge, leading to heaven. ”

More voices joined him. “ And the essence is not to be afraid, not to be afraid at all. ”

The second time, every man in the synagogue, except Lemmy, chanted the sad melody, eyes shut in devotion, voices growing stronger. “ Not to be afraid, not to be afraid at all. ”

Lemmy felt Benjamin tugging at his sleeve. He sat down. His throat was dry. No one looked at him.

T emimah served chicken soup with a slice of bread and a piece of meat with boiled potatoes. The silence was broken only by the clanking of forks and knives. Lemmy had expected his father to admonish him, but not a word was uttered since they had left the synagogue after evening prayers.

Temimah served tea and cookies.

Rabbi Gerster recited the blessing after the meal, ending with, “ God shall give courage to His people and bless us with peace. ”

“Amen,” Temimah said.

“Father,” Lemmy said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me.” His father sighed. “The Nazis, their name be wiped from memory, they upset me.”

Temimah stood up but did not start to collect the plates.

“I have doubts,” Lemmy said. “I’m not sure I can accept what you said about obedience. My question about the Holocaust-”

The word Holocaust brought Rabbi Gerster’s hand pounding the table with such force that the teacups jumped and landed noisily. “You think you’re alone? Everyone has doubts about what happened. Everyone!” He pointed at Lemmy. “You are my son. When you speak, it’s like I’m speaking. You can’t say whatever comes to your mind. You have a responsibility, for God’s sake!”

“Abraham, please,” Temimah said softly, “he is only-”

“He’s not a child anymore!” Rabbi Gerster stood. “He can defend himself!”

“It’s good for him to express his doubts.”

He glared at her. “To express blasphemy?”

Temimah lowered her eyes.

“And you,” the rabbi turned back to Lemmy, “remember who you are! Our people need certainty, not misgivings. They look to us for answers, not for more questions. Do you understand?”

“I’m not a rabbi,” Lemmy said.

“Not yet! And if you don’t think before you speak, you’ll never be one!” He left the kitchen, and a moment later, the front door slammed behind him.

Lemmy collected the plates from the table and placed them in the left sink, which was dedicated for meat dishes. His mother turned on the faucet and soaped the sponge. “For people like us,” she said, “your father and me, the Holocaust is a demon. It’s a terrible monster that’s still haunting us.”

He knew they had both lost their entire families in the Holocaust. That’s why he didn’t have grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins. Temimah had survived a mass execution by pretending to be dead, dug herself out, and was taken in by a Catholic nun who hid her in the basement for four years. After the war and two more years in a displaced persons’ camp in Italy, she had arrived in Israel and found a distant relative in Neturay Karta, where a marriage was arranged with Abraham Gerster.

“And we’re too small to question God.” She caressed his cheek. “We have to accept His judgment, His decision to collect all those innocent souls to His paradise.” She sighed. “It’s a wonderful thing to know that I’ll meet my parents and siblings again. It makes me so happy to imagine our reunion.”

Watching his mother’s face, suddenly aglow with inner joy, he held his tongue. How could he argue with her about the meaning of the Nazis’ murder of those she had loved? How could he express doubts, when God’s powers provided his mother with hope?

“Go now,” Temimah said. “You should be with your father.”

Lemmy took his coat and hat and went to the synagogue for evening study. Many of the men were back, swaying over open books. Cigarette smoke swirled up to the ceiling. But there was no sign of his father.

E lie Weiss leaned against the wall by the entrance to the public restroom. The beggar’s cloak was not thick enough to deflect the bitterly cold wind, and he was shivering. Abraham had called for an emergency meeting-the first time ever.

He appeared out of the darkness in his long black coat and wide-brimmed hat. Elie led the way to his car. The alley was deserted, no children playing outside at this time of night. The dark interior of the car provided privacy against prying eyes. Elie considered turning on the engine for heat but gave up, not wanting to attract attention.

Abraham did not waste time. “Did you reach Tanya?”

“She’s a Mossad agent. I can’t just pick up the phone and call her.”

“Is she in touch with my son?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“He accompanied her home that Saturday, a couple of months ago. And now he’s talking about things he couldn’t possibly know from studying Talmud all day inside Neturay Karta. It occurred to me that he might be communicating with her, maybe even seeing her in secret.”

“Unlikely. Why would she waste time on an ultra-Orthodox kid?” Elie rubbed his hands. Abraham must not find out about his son’s relationship with Tanya. “I’ll sniff around my Mossad buddies. Maybe they’ll tell me how to reach her.”

“Do it!”

Elie had never seen him so anxious. “Still, a little exposure to the real world will give your son better tools as a leader.”