Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

Zigelnick smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just remember, you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

“Prove?”

“Your father is a famous man.”

Lemmy felt his face blush. How did Zigelnick find out? Pretending to watch the other soldiers load the gear into the canvas-covered back of the truck, he regained his composure. “He’s not my father anymore.”

Captain Zigelnick’s forehead creased.

“I’m dead to him.”

“Then you don’t have a reason to die again.” Zigelnick patted his shoulder. “I don’t care about your father. He can go on preaching nonsense. But I don’t want to see you showing off when bullets start flying. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the truck was loaded, Zigelnick jumped in the cabin next to the driver, and they began the long drive back to the camp in the hills south of Beersheba. Lemmy sat with the rest of the soldiers in the back of the truck, surrounded by piles of gear and backpacks.

As always, Sanani was the center of attention, drawing on his endless fountain of jokes. “Do you know why the black hats grow long payos?” Sanani paused for a moment then answered his own query. “So that when they walk down the street and see a sexy woman, they can cover their eyes with the payos but still see her tits through the hairs.”

The roaring laughter was louder than the constant humming of the truck.

“And why do they wear black hats and black coats?” Sanani looked around. “Because it makes them invisible when they prowl the parks at night to find a whore.”

Lemmy said, “Sanani could just go naked,” which caused even more laughter.

“And do you know why the Orthodox don’t turn on the lights on Friday nights?”

“Because they’re cheap,” suggested someone, to the cheers of the others.

“Also,” Sanani declared, “because they rather not see their ugly wives coming to bed!”

The soldiers booed. They despised the Orthodox for refusing to serve in the IDF and defend Israel like everybody else.

“And why don’t they take off the black coats even during the hot summer?”

Someone shouted from the other end, “Because they like to stink!”

“Because they can’t take it off. It’s stuck!”

The soldiers mimicked vomiting.

Sanani’s teeth showed against his dark skin. “And why do they pile shit in the corners of a black hat wedding-hall?”

No one had an answer to that.

“To keep the flies away from the bride!”

When the laughter calmed down, Lemmy said, “You’re wrong. That smelly brown stuff in the corner isn’t shit. It’s a bunch of Yemenite relatives!”

Sanani laughed with everybody else, taking no offense.

The soldiers were chronically sleep-deprived, and soon everyone was out. But Lemmy couldn’t sleep. This Passover would be the first holiday away from his parents. He thought of the intense preparations in Neturay Karta, the cleaning of apartments and scrubbing of pots and pans. Under his father’s supervision, every dish and tableware was dipped in the water of the mikvah to cleanse them of all remnants of bread or other leavened food. Bottles of wine and boxes of matzo were distributed to needy Neturay Karta families, and the women spent three days cooking for the Seder dinner. Lemmy thought of last year’s Passover, the room full of guests, singing praiseful melodies from the Hagadah of the Israelites’ exodus from Egyptian slavery. Would they miss him this year? Or next year? Would his parents ever forgive him, or agree to see him again? He imagined walking into Meah Shearim one day, many years ahead, dressed in his IDF general’s uniform, an Uzi slung from his shoulder. He would enter the synagogue, wearing a military cap rather than a black hat, and face Father, whose beard would be white, his back bent with years. And then what? A handshake? A hug? Or a cold shoulder?

The truck traveled along a dirt road, raising a storm of dust. When it slowed down to cross a dry stream, a dust cloud caught up, filling the back of the truck and covering his friends’ faces with a ghost-like white layer.

The day after Passover, Elie Weiss boarded a Swissair flight to Zurich. The plane was packed with well-to-do Israeli families fleeing the country-a recent phenomenon that demonstrated new cracks in the idealistic spirit that had typified most Israelis until the Eshkol government began to fumble indecisively while the Arabs prepared to attack. The children were oblivious to the tension, marveling at the airplane and its accoutrements, but the adults furtively glanced at each other in a camaraderie of shame.

Elie kept on his wool cap and sunglasses. He was travelling under the name of Rupert Danzig, a junior SS officer, who in January 1945 was raping a woman at her kitchen in a village near Munich while his comrades ransacked the house. Abraham pulled Danzig off the woman and held him while Elie clipped his vocal cords with a quick stab. They prodded him out the back door and deep into the forest, where they tied him to a tree, his pants still down at his knees.

Danzig eagerly answered Elie’s questions by nodding or shaking his head while air gurgled through his perforated vocal cords. With the war about to end, Danzig had planned to don civilian clothes and avoid capture by the approaching American forces. That explained the passport and cash in his pocket. After removing his identification tags, papers, and uniform, Elie used his shoykhet blade to peel off the rest of the Nazi’s identity. When he finished, Danzig had no face, only a mask of raw flesh, bare jaws exposing a perfect set of teeth, and lidless eyes glaring downward at the puddle of blood on the soft carpet of pine needles.

Since the war, Elie had maintained bank accounts and a tiny apartment in Paris under Rupert Danzig’s identity. He travelled to Europe often to continue his private hunt for SS veterans. The years had thinned out their ranks, but had also lowered their guard. He used them as cash cows, making them pay for their past sins and current freedom, making them work hard for money he then used to finance his SOD operations in Israel and Europe. And those who refused to pay, or ran out of money, were found dead. In most cases, no one ever detected the surgical entry point under the right ear, where Elie’s blade had severed the brainstem without external bleeding.

But this trip was different. By gaining control of the fortune Tanya’s Nazi lover had stashed in Zurich, Elie would no longer have to chase the aging small fish. Rather, he would put his energy into a revolutionary reversal of the global balance of power between the Jews and their enemies.

When the plane leveled off over the Mediterranean, Elie unzipped his leather briefcase and took out a bunch of envelopes held together with a rubber band. He had arranged with the IDF postmaster to stop all mail addressed to, or from, Private Jerusalem Gerster. Checking the stamps on the envelopes, Elie opened Temimah Gerster’s first letter, dated approximately six weeks earlier:

My dearest Jerusalem,

Your father gave me the address in the Zionist army and allowed me to write to you. With God’s help, after many weeks, I am recovering from the terrible shock. What you did is still incomprehensible to me. I know that young men sometimes desire to assert their independence, to rebel against authority. But why did you have to go to such extremes? And why didn’t you speak with us first, before stripping yourself of all that distinguishes a God-fearing member of our community? You defied your father, rejected our whole way of life, and broke God’s laws. I cannot understand it. I pray that you realize your error soon. I beg of you, my son, to think of what you have done. I plead and implore you to repent. It’s not too late-as the Talmud says, ‘He who repents and corrects his ways shall be treated with compassion.’ God will show you the way when you are ready to see it. Meanwhile, make sure to eat and sleep well, and say your prayers. I ask God every day for your safe return to us. May the Master of the Universe watch over you, my son. Please write back.