Zaddik, page 20
Alex’s voice had grown very grave. “You’ll sleep at my place tonight, Dov. What are you doing now?”
Taylor had told him that he intended to go directly to his home meeting in the basement of St. Vincent’s, and Alex had approved. “You want me to be there?” Alex asked, and Taylor had said no, assuring him that he’d be all right.
At the meeting he had received a lot of friendly, welcome attention. He told his fellow drunks and drug addicts about that second shot of Demerol and how he felt he could no longer say he had two years of sobriety. Jerry, an auto mechanic in his sixties who had been sober for about thirty years, reminded Taylor that no matter how much time someone had under their belt—two days, two months, two years or thirty—they still had to stay sober one day at a time. Don’t fall in love with your slip, Jerry had told him, and don’t forget about it, either. Just put it where it belongs—in the past.
After the meeting, Taylor ate a small dinner of linguine and clams with a tossed salad in one of his favorite Italian spots in SoHo, and when he had sat down in the rebbe’s crowded parlor at nine P.M., he had been feeling surprisingly good. Now, after falling asleep on the big leather chair, his legs ached, his arm throbbed, and his chest burned.
“I was feeling a whole lot better five hours ago,” Taylor said huffily, responding to Mayer’s question.
“The rebbe wanted to see you last,” Mayer explained apologetically. “He did not want to have to think about anything else, yes? Being last is an honor.”
“All right, all right. Lead on, Reb Mayer.”
Once again Taylor followed Mayer through the still, quiet house and up the broad, polished wooden staircase to the rebbe’s office. And when Mayer opened the door and ushered Taylor in, shutting the door quietly behind him, Taylor found the Satmarer rebbe much as he had left him just a week before, sitting in his black silk bekekher behind a vast desk piled high with books and papers, the only light in the room coming from a small desk lamp. But this time the rebbe was alone, and, on the desk in front of him, Taylor noticed a large ashtray, the size of a hubcap, piled high with butts.
Holding a Lucky Strike between his index finger and thumb, taking a deep drag, Rebbe Joel Teitel looked beat. His eyes were red, the dark bags beneath them black. But Taylor thought he detected a small smile of welcome as the rebbe nodded for him to sit down.
“You are feeling well, Dov Taylor?” asked the rebbe.
“I’ve felt a whole lot better, Rabbi,” Taylor said.
“To me, you look much better than before. You look more like a Jew. Would you like a cigarette?” The rebbe held out a crumpled pack. Taylor ignored them.
“I just got out of the hospital today. I was almost killed,” he said.
“I knew a pious man,” the rebbe said pleasantly, “who every day after he got home from his work would lie down in a hole in his garden and let the worms crawl over him. Then he would get up, give thanks, wash his hands, and eat dinner. Every day he did this.
“Tell me, Dov Taylor, when you were stabbed, what did you hear?”
“Excuse me, Rabbi, but how come you’re talking to me? Last time you said we couldn’t talk. You said you could smell blood on my hands. You talked to Hirsh Leib, remember?”
“Last time you were very far away. Last time you were a stranger. You frightened me. Now you are known to me. Now you have almost accomplished the teshuvah, the turning. The sefiros, the ten hidden attributes of the Holy One, blessed is He, have come close to you. Do you know what they are?”
“I’m not in the mood for a lesson, Rabbi. Maybe five hours ago, but not now.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. Every Jew does. We know them in our souls. You just don’t remember them. Keter,” the rebbe began, tapping the desk with his tobacco-stained index finger as he recited, “crown; khokhma, wisdom; bina, understanding; khesed, grace; g’vurah, strength; t’feres, beauty; netzakh, victory; hod, glory; yesod, foundation; malkhus, kingdom. All these things you have come closer to. Teshuvah. You are turning. Do you know what means shema?”
“It’s the beginning of the prayer Shema Yisroel. It means ‘Hear.’ ”
“Very good. You see? You are a Jew. And we say ‘shema’ because that is how we learn, through the ears. The Holy One in His Torah, may He be praised, has given us the words, and we learn through hearing them. We are not like the goyim with their pictures of the Jesus and their saints. We know we need khokhma, wisdom, and bina, understanding, to hear what is truly important, what is hidden. And g’vurah, strength, to bear it.
“Tell me, Dov Taylor, if a king has a treasure, where does he keep it?”
“What?” Taylor blinked. It was almost better, he thought, when the rebbe was talking to Hirsh Leib. It was less tiring, less confusing.
“When a king has a treasure, where does he keep it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do!” shouted the Satmarer rebbe, making Taylor jump. “You are not thinking. It is important for what we do here that you think. You are close, very close to the mystery, but you must think. You must use your heart, your ears, your brain. You must use khokhma, bina, and g’vurah.
“I ask you again. When a king has a treasure, where does he keep it?”
“In a safe place?”
“Yes, yes,” said Rebbe Teitel. “Of course. He keeps it hidden. Secret. He does not leave it out on the street for strangers to see and maybe to steal it. He guards it. And the more he hides it, the more men he employs to guard it, the bigger the treasure, yes?
“So, when you were stabbed, what did you hear?”
“What?”
“What did you hear? You heard a secret. Something hidden. What was it?”
“I heard a man. A Hasid. He held my hand and told me I was going to be all right.”
“And what else did he say?”
“I don’t know. He spoke Yiddish.”
“But you understood him.”
“I told you, he spoke Yiddish.”
“But you understood him. Don’t tell me what your brain tells you you heard. Tell me what your ears heard.”
“I heard him say that the same thing had happened to him. That’s what I heard. He said he had been stabbed and that he died, but that I was going to live. It’s nuts.”
“No, not at all. He told you that he was murdered, yes? He told you something, and you heard it with your ears. But you also heard it with bina, with understanding. Your heart is open now, and now you have heard Hirsh Leib himself. That was Hirsh Leib, may his blood be avenged, your great-great-grandfather, his spark, speaking to you. He called out to you; he warned you; he saved your life.”
“Rebbe,” said Taylor, shaking his head, “it’s too late for this. I’m too tired, and I don’t understand any of it. Please. Listen to me. Another man died because of your diamond. I almost died. I’m going to tell the police what I know about it, about the diamond. And if anyone is going to find the men who did it, if you’re ever going to get your diamond back, you’re going to have to tell me everything you know about it. Simply. No more riddles, no more stories.”
“Shush,” said the Satmarer rebbe. “Take a breath. Take a moment. Dov Taylor. You think I am a hard man, I know. Maybe you think I am crazy? A little crazy, yes?” The rebbe leaned forward, and his voice dropped. Taylor felt his eyes burning. It would be so sweet to close them.
“I know that you are in pain, Dov Taylor. How can it not be so? Eem poga, noga. If he touches, he is touched. Eem poga, noga. You understand? You have touched a mystery. You have touched a treasure. And the treasure is guarded. So you are touched, hurt.
“Has it not always been so? All your life, has it not been so? You have been in pain. Always you think there is something you should do, but you do not know what it is. So you have pain and you finish nothing. You go into the army to become an officer, but you do not become an officer. You get married, but you cut yourself off from your wife. You become a policeman, but then you run away. None of these things you do make you whole. They all leave you empty. So you pity yourself. You drink, or you think about not drinking. What is the difference? The drinking still holds you. It is all the same.
“But now things are changed. Now you could die from this running away. Yes, that is how dangerous this is. You understand? You could die from this.”
“Obviously,” said Taylor, his voice thick. “You don’t have to have mystic powers to see that.” Christ, he was tired.
“You refuse to understand,” said the rebbe. “You think I am talking about men with guns and knives, but I am not. Of course, they will be the servants that will bring you death, but they will be doing your will.
“But,” continued the rebbe, “you do not have to die. The teshuvah is happening. It is happening. I can see it. I can see the sign on your forehead. Those old thoughts of yours—running away, calling for policemen—they will not help you now. You must listen to Hirsh Leib.”
“Rebbe Teitel, you have to tell me what you know.”
“That is what I wish to do. So I will teach you a nigun, a tune, by Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav. After he died, may his memory be blessed, the Bratzlavers never chose another zaddik. This is why we call them the ‘dead Hasidim.’ This nigun of the Bratzlavers was one of Hirsh Leib’s favorites. He sang it at weddings, and he sang it whenever he wanted to clear his mind. I will start, and then you say after me. Da, da, dah, da, da-da-dah, da.”
“Please, Rabbi.”
“Listen, Dov Taylor, and say after me.”
Rebbe Teitel began singing the hypnotic, wordless nigun, composed over two hundred years ago by Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav, the Baal Shem Tov’s great-grandson. Taylor, exhausted, closed his eyes and gave up trying to follow or even understand Reb Teitel. This is not my world, thought Taylor, even as he began to sing along with the rebbe. Well, what of it? he thought. What’s so great about your world?
Taylor had no idea how many times he had repeated the simple melody of the nigun when he felt himself being shaken, felt the pain shooting down his left arm. He opened his eyes, expecting to see his grandmother. Rebecca. Had he fallen asleep? Had he been dreaming? The Satmarer rebbe was shaking his shoulders, his beard and bloodshot eyes not six inches from Taylor’s face. The rebbe was shouting the nigun faster and faster, spit flying from his lips.
“Get up, Dov Taylor, son of Luba, grandson of Rebecca, great-great-grandson of the Zaddik of Orlik, the blessed Hirsh Leib!” said the rebbe. “Dance!”
Taylor allowed the rebbe to drag him up from the chair. He stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the rebbe, his beard down to his waist, hopped up and down in front of him, singing the wordless nigun. Taylor was so tired that his head dropped forward even as he stood. He felt himself falling asleep or passing out, he could not tell which.
The rebbe suddenly stopped singing. The room was still. “Vu zent ir, Reb Leib?” he asked Dov Taylor in Yiddish. Where are you?
The nigun still echoed in Taylor’s head, but between the notes he heard Rebecca’s voice. “Zog im, Dovidl,” she said. “Tell him.” And words came unbidden to Taylor’s lips.
“Kh’bin in Lublin,” he said in Yiddish. I am in Lublin.
And at that moment, Dov Taylor began to disappear into his dream. The fears, the loves, the memories that were Taylor, contracted into a small point of light in a vast, dark universe, where they were greeted by another set of fears, loves, and memories, blazing brightly.
“Gut!” said the Satmarer rebbe, and it seemed to Taylor that his voice was far off, echoing between the notes of the nigun like Rebecca’s.
Maybe I’m dying, thought Taylor, frightened. Don’t worry, a voice in the vastness told him. You live, and I take nothing from you. And what was once Dov Taylor relaxed and, perhaps, slept.
“Tell me, master,” asked the Satmarer rebbe, “why the great Seer of Lublin was slaughtered on erev Simkhas Torah? Who was it, old friend, who murdered you? And what are those murderers doing now?”
An hour later, as the rising sun peeked through the drawn curtains, Rebbe Joel Teitel, for the first time in his adult life, skipped his morning prayers. And still, using Dov Taylor as his vessel, Rabbi Hirsh Leib, the Zaddik of Orlik, spoke, unfolding the story of the Seer of Lublin, his diamond, and the great conspiracy that he had masterminded unto his death.
Book Two
Chapter 34 Lublin, Poland
Tuesday, October 12
1814
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to think, impossible to form the simplest thought. The sounds, smells, sights, and sensations were too strange, too overwhelming. And then there were those other thoughts, alien yet somehow familiar, jumbling his own, drowning out his own mind, pushing him deeper into the dream.
But whose dream was it?
I am here, thought Hirsh Leib, in Lublin. The Lord be praised.
I am not here, thought Dov Taylor.
It is good, thought Hirsh Leib. My poor horse is very tired.
A horse? thought Dov Taylor, looking down, seeing the earth rushing past below him, feeling fear.
I pray the stables are not all filled, thought Hirsh Leib.
Hold on! thought Dov Taylor. Don’t let us fall!
Ah, the market, thought Hirsh Leib.
Look, thought Dov Taylor. Lublin!
We are here!
***
Hirsh Leib rode down the cobblestones of the King’s Road through Jew’s Gate into the city of Lublin. He was a tall, wiry man with a full black beard and strong, scarred hands unusual in a scholar.
But Hirsh Leib was an unusual man.
His father had been the best tinsmith in Orlik—indeed, he had even roofed the Polish church there—and his son had grown up speaking Polish as well as Yiddish and Hebrew, the holy tongue.
As a child, Hirsh Leib had learned from his father how to work tin, and Rabbi Aaron of Orlik had taught him Talmud, but he had taught himself the language of horses. Anyone who knew anything about those animals could see that just by the way Hirsh Leib sat in the saddle, barely touching the reins. All he ever had to say to his mount was, “Go, my friend, in the name of God,” and whatever horse he was riding fairly burst its heart to carry him wherever he willed.
Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, had just passed, and all through the shtot of Lublin (a shtot is a town bigger than a shtetl), people were busy building their sukkahs, the little thatched huts next to their homes in which they would sleep, eat, and perhaps make love during the eight days of Sukkos that climaxed in the joyous Simkhas Torah celebration. As it is written: “In booths ye shall dwell seven days so that your generations may know that I have made the children of Israel dwell in booths when I brought them forth from the land of Egypt.”
In the market square in the center of town, Hirsh Leib could see that the merchants were doing a brisk business selling esregim (citrons), lulav (palm branch), mirt (myrtle branch), and arava (willow branch) from the Holy Land, without which no man could properly celebrate the holiday. And today, Hirsh Leib knew, not only would the market be alive with the hum of commerce, it would also be filled with the buzz of rumor and speculation.
Why had Rebbe Yakov Yitzhak, the famous Seer of Lublin, invited all the Hasidim in the world to come celebrate this Simkhas Torah with him?
And Hirsh Leib knew what many people, both simple and wise, ignorant and learned, were thinking: The Messiah is coming.
Certainly times were hard—never had anyone living known them to be harder—and wasn’t it written that the Messiah would come when the suffering of His Chosen People had become unbearable? And what better time for the Messiah to come than on Simkhas Torah, when all Jews rejoiced in His law? And wouldn’t it be right for Him to arrive just after Yom Kippur, when Israel was clean, freshly atoned for its sins?
Well, perhaps they were right, thought Hirsh Leib, reaching into his saddlebag for the bottle of cherry brandy he had brought from Orlik. Perhaps the Messiah was coming, here, to Lublin.
Of course, as Hirsh Leib also knew, Lublin’s innkeepers, cobblers, tailors, and blacksmiths couldn’t have been happier even if the Messiah was truly on His way. This massive invasion of pilgrims meant business.
Well, may you all prosper, thought Hirsh Leib, taking a sip of the clear, fiery brandy.
He recorked the bottle, returned it to his saddlebag, and scanned the market. What a windfall for Lublin’s money grubbers! he thought. Already Hasidim were arriving from such Polish shtots as Pshiskhe and Lodz and from the shtetls of Khelm, Kotsk, Apt, and Ger. From the south, those wild, fanatic Hasidim were expected from Belz and Brod, from Lezhensk and Rimanov, and even from as far away as Satmar in Hungary. From the southwest, from Podolia, birthplace of the holy Baal Shem Tov, they were coming from the shtetls of Bratslav, Bar, and Mezhbizh. And they were coming from the north, scholars from Bialestok, Karlin, Minsk, and even from far away Vilne, where Hasidim were spat upon in the street and where the famous Gaon of Vilne, the foremost Talmudic scholar of the age, had not long ago declared all Hasidim to be heretics.
These pilgrims would have to sleep somewhere, thought Hirsh Leib. They all could not lay their bedrolls in the Seer’s hoyf, his courtyard, as he intended to do.
And these pilgrims would have to eat, yes? They all could not squeeze in at the rebbe’s table. Many, Hirsh Leib figured, would eat at Berel the drunkard’s tavern, where he himself had visited many times on previous trips to Lublin. Berel, it was true, was often too drunk to keep his place stocked with herring and vodka, but his wife, the long and loudly suffering Goldeh, had a good head for business. And in stocking the inn, she would bring business to the bakers, and to the butchers, and they to the shoykhetim, the slaughterers.
Of course, the clothes and shoes of the visitors would need mending after their long journeys, yes? They would want to look their best when they danced with the holy scrolls. That was good news for the tailors and cobblers.
And imagine all those horses. They would need to be fed, boarded, and shod, isn’t that true? So Yoyne the blacksmith would be busy.
