Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

“Excuse me?”

“What do you read to your kids at bedtime? Carl von Clausewitz?”

L emmy ran home. He wanted to get into his room, shut the door, and bury his face in his pillow. How could he live without Benjamin? For the first time, he understood the phrase he had read in one of Tanya’s books: A broken heart.

“Jerusalem?” His mother appeared from the kitchen, “What’s wrong?”

The way to his room blocked, Lemmy turned to the wall. He was still panting from the run home. He hid his face in the crook of his arm and burst out crying.

When he calmed down, his mother took him into the kitchen and made him sit down. She sat next to him and held his hand. Her hand was cold and moist, and an odor of dish-washing soap came from it. He looked away and saw the adjoining dining room, the Sabbath table ready for lunch, a white cloth, shining silverware, braided challah bread, and a bottle of sweet red wine. He thought about Redhead Dan’s young wife and the baby, waiting at the Sabbath table in the basement apartment, their year-long separation imminent.

“What happened?”

“Father took Benjamin away from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He hates me!”

Temimah sighed. “He doesn’t hate you. He is your father. It’s his duty to raise you to as a faithful, God-fearing Jew.”

“Then he’s doing a lousy job!”

“ Oy vey.” Temimah took a deep breath. “Your father is a strict man. I know my husband. But he is also strict with himself. And he means well.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Lemmy pushed her hand away.

“With time, you will understand the reasons-”

“He hates me, and the sooner I accept it the better!” Determined not to cry again in front of his mother, Lemmy rushed to his father’s study.

“Jerusalem!” She hurried after him. “Don’t!”

He shut the door in her face.

“Master of the Universe!” She sighed behind the closed door. “What am I to do?”

Sitting in his father’s chair, he grasped the carved lion heads. He looked for The Zohar, but couldn’t find it on the desk. He opened the first and second drawers, which contained pens, blank papers, and other office supplies. The bottom drawer refused to open. He searched for a key in the other drawers, taking out each bundle of papers and shaking it. Kneeling, he searched underneath the desktop. At the far corner, in the back, on the rail that supported the drawers, he felt the shape of a key. His pinkie edged it out.

It fit into the lock.

There were no papers in the bottom drawer, only a small case made of dark wood, about the size of a book. He took it out, placed it on the desk, and removed the top.

A handgun.

He took it out of the case and examined it closely, moving a finger along the barrel, which was cold and oily. The magazine bay seemed large enough to hold a pack of cigarettes. Between the trigger and the barrel, the model name was etched in the steel: Mauser Bolo 96

He aimed the gun. The tiny bump at the end of the muzzle moved along the shelved books across the room. The handle was warmer than steel, plated with a smooth, off-white material.

Along the steel barrel, tiny letters were engraved: K. v. K. 1943 Deutschland Uber Alles

He turned it. Along the other side of the barrel, a rougher carving had been forced into the steel. He rubbed it on his sleeve a few times until the Hebrew letters surfaced: Nekamah. Revenge.

“Jerusalem!” His mother knocked on the door. “Your father is coming!”

Lemmy replaced the box in the drawer and slammed the drawer shut. He knelt and stuck the key under the desktop.

Standing up, he realized he had forgotten to put the handgun back in the box. He shoved it under his belt in the back, the cold steel against his left buttock. He pulled his coat over it and slipped out of the study.

Rabbi Gerster entered the apartment. “Good Sabbath, Jerusalem.”

“Good Sabbath, Father.” Lemmy tried to keep his voice even. He felt the Mauser as big as a tree under his coat. The open window let in the neighbors’ singing of the Sabbath’s Zemiros.

The rabbi tugged at his long beard. “Your mother and I feel that we have done you wrong.” He glanced at Temimah. “When we married, two Holocaust survivors, alone in this world from large families, we didn’t expect much from life. Definitely not a child. You were a miracle-”

“An accident,” Lemmy said, shocked at his own chutzpah.

His father shrugged. “A gift perhaps, for which we were unprepared, but nevertheless grateful to the Master of the Universe.”

His mother’s face broke into a brief smile.

“It appears,” his father continued, “that we failed as Jewish parents by overindulging you.”

After the circuitous introduction, this was more in line with Lemmy’s expectations.

“We gave you everything on a silver platter. Your own room. Your own bed, bookshelves, and desk. Your own little universe of privacy, which you have recently begun to abuse.”

Lemmy opened his mouth to protest.

His father silenced him with an open hand. “All that is in the past. You’re grown now, a learned young man who can serve God. You’re ready to assume responsibility for others.”

“We’re very proud of you,” Temimah said.

“Proud of your capabilities,” his father clarified. “We have never asked anything of you, except what every Jewish parent hopes for: To see his child grow up to study Talmud, marry well, and do good deeds. Is it too much to ask, considering what we’ve given you? Your meals are prepared by your mother. Your clothes are washed. Your sheets and blankets are pressed. Your room is cleaned every day. Have we deprived you of anything?”

Lemmy shook his head.

“Our only expectation is that you continue on the path of our tradition, be studious and righteous as God expects of you, and over time assume the honor of leadership. Is that too much to ask?”

His urge to argue was stifled by his mother’s sad eyes.

“Do you think,” Rabbi Gerster asked, “that we want what’s bad for you?”

Lemmy shook his head.

“Do you think we want you to be unhappy?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you think we want you to have a bad life?”

“No.”

“Very well.” The rabbi put his hand on Lemmy’s shoulder. “It’s settled. Blessed be He, Master of the Universe.”

“Amen,” Temimah said. “Amen!”

“Now,” the rabbi clapped his hands, “I want you to know that I’ve given a great deal of thought to your future. I’ve decided that you need a mature study companion, a man whose wisdom and knowledge can help you navigate those perfectly natural doubts and occasional confusion.”

Lemmy held his breath. Was his father going to become his study companion? It would be hard work to keep up with Rabbi Gerster’s intellectual intensity, but the prospect of such daily closeness-

“Cantor Toiterlich has agreed to take you on as his protege, so to speak.” Rabbi Gerster glanced at Temimah, who was glowing with joy. “Which makes perfect sense considering that we’ll be family soon!”

“God willing,” Temimah said.

“You see,” the rabbi held his big hands together, fingers interwoven, “Cantor Toiterlich and his wife have given us their final consent to engage Sorkeh to you in marriage immediately. Therefore, tomorrow night, after the evening prayers, we will meet to celebrate your engagement-a wonderful, blessed union!”

His parents took turns hugging and kissing him, congratulating each other, “ Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov! ”

Lemmy knew he should insist that he didn’t want to become engaged yet, that he wanted time to think, to explore his feelings, to read more about the world and its marvels. But he remained silent, unable to speak up. In his mind, like a broken record, the words replayed: Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov!