Elie placed the note on the passenger seat. The situation presented a delicate challenge. If Tanya knew that Abraham decided to join her, yet his freedom depended on his son’s staying in-and leading! — Neturay Karta, she would call off the deal. But Abraham was fooling himself. That boy was already lost to fundamentalism. In a contest between 3,000 years of glorious Jewish heritage and the beauty of Tanya Galinski, there was no question who would win Jerusalem Gerster’s soul.
He turned on the ignition, and the car shuddered before it coughed out a blue cloud and rumbled up the narrow street. The kids in the rearview mirror watched as he made a left turn onto King George Street and headed to Rehavia.
Chapter 14
It took them an hour to walk back to Meah Shearim. Lemmy carried the sack of clothes on his shoulder, keeping pace with his father. They spoke of the Talmud page Lemmy was studying with Benjamin, involving a dispute between two men who found a prayer shawl in the street. “What’s the logic,” Rabbi Gerster asked, “of giving them both equal ownership shares? They can’t split the tallis in half, right?”
“Maybe it’s a metaphor.”
“For what?”
“A person?”
“What kind of a person?”
“A child?”
Rabbi Gerster nodded. “Explain.”
“A baby is like a sacred thing, a gift from God to two people. But as with a prayer shawl, a child cannot be divided in two. The parents must enjoy the child in partnership.”
“Or have more children?”
“Right.” He glanced at his father.
“Are you worried about your mother?”
Lemmy nodded.
“You shouldn’t worry. These things are in God’s hand.”
“She’s very sad.”
Rabbi Gerster was quiet for a moment. “My Temimah is a righteous woman. The Master of the Universe is not giving her more children, and we accept His judgment. We shall continue to pray that He grants her renewed fertility and more children.”
“Amen.”
“Or grandchildren.”
Lemmy didn’t say Amen to that. Fortunately, they had arrived back at the synagogue, which welcomed them with the noise of Talmudic arguments and the sting of cigarette smoke. Rabbi Gerster walked down the aisle to his elevated seat up front, and Lemmy headed to the rear. He threw the sack on the floor by the bench.
Benjamin asked, “Anything for sale?”
“Your mother’s underwear.”
“ Shush!” Benjamin laughed. “You’re disgusting!”
“Let’s study.”
They began reading the Talmud page. All around, men argued with each other. Some sat, some stood, swaying back and forth in a meditative motion. A few still wore their tefillin, and those who were married also had their prayer shawls draped around their shoulders, fringes darting about.
The crystal chandelier hung above the bimah, the center dais, like a giant cluster of glassy stars. It was the only item of splendor in Meah Shearim, a community sewn together with threads of frugality and modesty. Lemmy had heard the story many times, how his father had appeared one day with a horse-drawn cart. It took seven men to unload, and when Rabbi Gerster pried open the crate, each of the tiny crystal leaves was individually wrapped in vinegar-soaked cotton. Nothing like that had ever been seen in Neturay Karta, and a debate erupted on whether such extravagance should be allowed. But Rabbi Gerster explained that the chandelier had once hung in his father’s synagogue in the eastern reaches of Germany. The elders of Neturay Karta decided that the chandelier was a Holocaust survivor from an extinct Jewish congregation, just like Abraham Gerster himself, and therefore should be accepted. And so, as it had once lit the faithful faces of Jews in Germany, it was shining again in Jerusalem-but only on Sabbath and holidays. On regular days, its tiny leaves merely glittered in the natural rays of the sun or the long fluorescent lamps that lined the ceiling.
The men prepared for Rabbi Gerster’s lecture by analyzing the designated page of Talmud, debating each point with their study companion. Lemmy’s Talmud volume was open before him on the slanted shelf attached to the back of the next bench.
Benjamin stood, embracing a Talmud volume to his chest, his face creased in concentration. “Two men hold a prayer shawl,” he recited. “David says, I found it, it’s mine. Jonathan says, I found it, it’s mine. Each will swear that he owns at least half, and they will share it.”
Lemmy threw his hands up. “One of them must be lying, which makes the solution unjust! The truthful owner is losing half of his property.”
“But they’re both honest!” Benjamin raised his voice over the noise of the surrounding scholars. “They’re two pedestrians who simultaneously noticed a tallis lost in the street. They grabbed it at the same time, and each of them honestly believes he was the first to reach it. Partition is fair!”
“Fair, but impractical. How do you share a prayer shawl? Alternate days?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s too simplistic,” Lemmy said. “Talmud must have another layer of meaning here.” He leaned over the page. His fingers followed the lines of text. The aging, wrinkled page felt coarse. This was only one out of thousands of pages in many volumes of Talmud, written down by the sages in the Babylonian exile more than a thousand years ago. The main text appeared in the center of each page, discussing sins and good deeds, prayers, holidays, repentance, business rules and ethical theories, and even astronomy and geography, governance of the kingdom, and trade with the Gentiles. Printed in the margins were notations of later scholars.
Lemmy sat back and gazed at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand until tears surfaced.
Benjamin rapped the bench with his hand. “Wake up!”
“It’s the damn smoke.” Lemmy waved at the full synagogue. “Bunch of hypocrites!”
“Are you crazy?”
He tugged on his earlobe. “Why is it forbidden to pierce your ear?”
“The sanctity of our body.” Benjamin scratched his head through the large black yarmulke. “We’re created in God’s image, as written in the-”
“Aren’t lungs part of the sacred body too?” Lemmy pointed in a circle. “Look at them, hundreds of supposedly God-fearing Talmudists, destroying the lungs God gave them.”
“ Shush!” Benjamin pulled him down.
“They should hear!” Looking around, he saw they were all too involved in Talmudic discussions to notice his outburst. He punched Benjamin’s shoulder. “Even you don’t hear me!”
“I do. The answer is simple. Smoking is allowed because it keeps the mind sharp and alert, so that you can study Talmud all day, which is the most important mitzvah of all.”
“Another Talmudic hoop.”
“Right.” Benjamin’s white teeth flashed. “Now, do you agree with my explanation, that because each of them honestly believes he was the first to reach it, they share it?”
“What would you do with half of a prayer shawl? Drape it around one shoulder?”
Benjamin threaded his finger through his cylindrical side lock, pulling and releasing it like a spring. “Maybe sell it and split the money?”
“That makes sense. But Talmud still avoids the real issue. What if each of them claims to be the original owner, who had lost it and came back to pick it up? What do we do when it’s clear that one of them is a liar?”
