of Norwegian and Indian soldiers in blue caps. Tanya stayed close to the buildings, whose walls were pockmarked with shrapnel and bullet holes, left untended since 1948. Lemmy wondered if she knew about the Jordanian sniper’s attempt on his father’s life the day before.
He stole a quick glance at Tanya, who seemed oblivious to his presence. It was hard to guess her age. Thirty? Forty?
They reached a scarred, one-story house made of uncut stone. The east section was reduced to rubble, and two formerly internal doorways were sealed with bare bricks. Rusty metal shutters covered all the windows, shedding off dry flakes of turquoise paint. A wall of sandbags shielded the front door. The border was a stone-throw away, and he wondered why Tanya lived in such a perilous location.
She unlocked the door. “What’s your name?”
“Lemmy,” he said. “It’s short for Jerusalem.”
“How inspiring.” Her sudden smile revealed a perfect set of white teeth. “Do you have any siblings?”
“None.”
She went inside, leaving the door open, and reappeared with a book. “Here. A reward for your gallantry.”
He looked at the cover. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. “Thanks, but I don’t read such books.”
“Why?”
“A good Jew devotes all his time to studying Talmud.”
“Does Talmud forbid reading Ayn Rand?”
“Not specifically, but-”
“Aren’t we supposed to be a guiding light for the Gentiles?”
He nodded.
“How could Jerusalem Gerster be a guiding light to the Goyim if he’s not allowed to become acquainted with their way of life?”
Embarrassed to keep staring at her, Lemmy examined the photo on the back of the book. “Is she a Gentile?”
“Ayn Rand?” Tanya laughed. “Actually, I think she’s Jewish.”
“Oh. Then I can read it.”
“Bring the book back when you’re done. I’d like to hear your impressions.”
Lemmy stuffed The Fountainhead in the pocket of his black coat and headed back to Meah Shearim.
E lie Weiss sat in his gray Citroen Deux Chevaux, parked up the street from Tanya’s house. He drew on his cigarette, watching Abraham’s son. The black-garbed youth walked fast, his payos angled back in the wind like a girl’s braids. Elie held up a black-and-white photograph that showed Jerusalem Gerster, his hand raised in emphasis of a Talmudic argument, while his study companion buried his face in his hands in mock desperation.
The second photo in Elie’s hand was smaller, its edges fraying, yellow with age. He had taken this photo during the war with a camera that had previously hung from the neck of a Nazi officer. Abraham had twisted the leather strap tighter and tighter until the German’s tongue grew out of his mouth like a baby eggplant and his black boots stopped twitching. In the photo, Abraham was already wearing the boots, which had fit him perfectly.
Elie held the two photos together, the face of young Abraham in 1945 next to the face of his son in last week’s photo, which Elie had taken from a rooftop near Meah Shearim. The resemblance was astonishing, which meant Tanya was now very confused.
He dropped the photos on the passenger seat, drew once more from his Lucky Strike, and tossed it out the window. A gust of wind blew smoke back in his face, and his eyes moistened. He closed the window and latched it in place. Pressing the lever into first gear, he made a U-turn and drove away, leaving behind a wake of blue engine fumes.
Chapter 6
Lemmy had memorized the landmarks along the way, which he now followed in reverse order. He thought of Tanya’s sculpted face, one moment serious, the next smiling. The Fountainhead, in his coat pocket, banged against his thigh with every step. Should he read it? Should he know more about the Goyim, as Tanya had argued? Father had once said that Talmud contained all the knowledge a man needed. But that obviously wasn’t accurate. Electric lights, for example, weren’t mentioned anywhere in the thousands of pages of Talmud. Perhaps The Fountainhead would also illuminate things that were not mentioned in the Talmud? He reached into his pocket and touched the book, feeling a quiver of excitement. He remembered a Yiddish idiom: Stolen water is so much sweeter.
Along the way he passed through a secular neighborhood. A group of teenage boys and girls played soccer in an empty lot. They wore short-sleeved shirts, three-quarter pants, and leather sandals. The girls wore ponytails, but the boys’ hair was short, even where their payos should have been left untouched according to Jewish law. He stood at a distance, intrigued by the ease with which they played together, the girls as aggressive as the boys. The ball found its way into the goal, marked by two rocks, and the scoring team cheered and hugged. A girl locked her arms around a boy’s torso and hoisted him up in the air.
They noticed Lemmy and stopped playing. He tipped his black hat and resumed walking. One of them started imitating the calls of a crow. Several others joined in, and a choir of crows sounded behind him.
Lemmy paused and turned. He stretched his arms sideways like wings and mimicked a flying bird. They laughed, and the crowing ceased. A girl put her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Good Sabbath!”
He waved. “Good Sabbath to you.”
T wenty minutes later, Lemmy turned the corner on Shivtay Israel Street. He stopped and stared. What he saw seemed unreal. The gate leading into Meah Shearim was closed. Chairs and tables were piled against it from within. The metal shades had been shut over all the windows in the outer walls. A crowd of Neturay Karta men in black coats and red faces filled the alley behind the gate. Someone shouted, “The rabbi’s son!” Others yelled at him to run away.
A bunch of policemen in riot gear hid behind their vehicles from a steady shower of eggs and vegetables. One of them ran toward Lemmy. Brass fig leaves adorned his shoulders, and egg yolk smeared his chest. He raised his club, his eyes wide under the gray helmet, and shouted in Hebrew, “Where are you going?”
Lemmy pointed to the gate.
The officer grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a police van. “You’re under arrest!”
Angry protests sounded from the gate.
A policeman aimed a shotgun, and his colleague slipped a cylindrical grenade into the open end of the barrel.
“Don’t!” Lemmy struggled to get free.
The policeman pressed the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder.
Lemmy wriggled free, sprinted at the policeman, and knocked him down. An explosion slapped a wave of heat at his face, and the world turned dark.
E lie Weiss entered the police compound at the Russian Yard and headed downstairs. The operations center, a beehive of activity during the week, was manned by a single policewoman. Her feet were on the table, and she was humming Jerusalem of Gold along with Shuli Natan on the radio.
She gave him a casual salute. “What’s happening?”
“You tell me.”
“Major Buskilah is in Meah Shearim, making an arrest.”
“ Trying to make an arrest.”
“Whatever.”
“Has he called for reinforcement yet?”
“On a Sabbath? I don’t have anyone to send there.” She took her feet off the table. “You want Buskilah on the wireless?”
“I have a feeling he’ll call us soon.” Elie sat down and lit a cigarette.
W hen Lemmy’s vision recovered, he saw the grenade spewing teargas under a truck. The policeman, shotgun still in hand, struggled to get up. Where’s the officer? Lemmy turned his head in time to see the club
