The Devil in Jerusalem (20 page)

“An hour later, she was already at my door. I begged her to let me take him to the emergency room. I asked her again how he'd gotten hurt. But she just shook her head, said it was her child and it wasn't my business. God help me if she didn't pull pants over those wounded legs and drag that child, limping, out of here. That was when I called social services.”

“How long was he with you?”

“Overnight and a few hours.”

“Why didn't you call the police right away, Rabbanit Toledano?”

She bit her lip. “Did I do something wrong?”

Bina thought about it. If not for this woman, who knows how long this situation would have continued, how many more of the Goodman children would have been fatally injured by whoever, and whatever, had injured the two youngest? Still, in a normal society, who agrees to take in a stranger's injured child? Was it an act of incredible generosity or spine-chilling dysfunction?

“Are you going to arrest me?” the woman asked.

Bina shook her head. “No, of course not. You meant well. But the next time, Rabbanit Toledano, for your own sake, you must call the police immediately.”

“If I call the police, even once, this clinic, it is closed. No one comes to me for help ever again. Are you going to close me down?”

Bina hadn't thought of that. “Are you paid for what you do?”

She shook her head, shocked at the thought. “Heaven forbid. But sometimes people bring me presents, out of gratitude. I don't want to offend them, so I take their gifts and give them my blessings.”

“What kind of remedies do you use?”

“Come, I'll show you.”

The “clinic” consisted of a small bedroom made up of shelves with old glass coffee jars holding all kind of herbs and liquids.

“How long have you been practicing, Rabbanit Toledano?”

She closed her eyes, thinking. “Fifty years,” she said.

“And has anyone ever been injured?”

“God forbid! If it doesn't help, I send them to the doctor straight away. But sometimes, the doctors send them to me.”

Bina thought about it. Maybe she should inform local police and shut her down. But people would only find another “healer,” and maybe the next one wouldn't have harmless herbs, send people off to doctors, and call social services when necessary. She took a deep breath. “Rabbanit Toledano, the real reason I am here is this: While he was with you, did the child say anything about who had done this to him?”

The woman shook her head sadly. “Believe me, I asked him, again and again. But he was terrified, as if he'd been threatened, warned, not to open his mouth.”

Don't talk, don't talk, don't talk, Bina suddenly thought, the words Morris had written up in his report, the words of Daniella Goodman in the hospital room.

“From your experience, Rabbanit, what do you think happened to him?”

She looked down, then suddenly she looked up, straight into Bina's eyes. “What do you know about the kabbalah?”

“What?”

“The kabbalah. You've heard of it?”

“Of course. Who hasn't?”

“Then, what do you know?”

“Nothing. Red strings and Madonna.”

“Madonna?”

“Never mind. But why are you asking me? What does kabbalah have to do with this?”

“That child … he had fifteen amulets around his neck, with secret kabbalistic formulas, some I've seen many times and some, handwritten, that I've never in my life seen before.”

Tikkun, Bina thought. “And you think … what?”

“The amulets were the work of someone who has delved into the forbidden. Practical kabbalah, or
kabbalah maasit
. Magic. Long ago, someone told me that sometimes, those who dabble in such magic use children in their ceremonies.”

Bina felt a tremor go up her spine. “Use?”

The woman shook her head. “I don't know anything more than that. And I don't want to know! You need to go to a kabbalah master, someone who delves into these things. But I'll tell you this: that child has been touched by real evil; Satan himself polluted that child.”

The words were chilling.

“Who is this Satan, Rabbanit Toledano?”

“Ask those who have met him,” she answered cryptically. “Ask the children.”

Bina felt suddenly weak, as if the breath had left her body.

“You look pale,” the woman said, concerned.

“No, really. I'm fine.” She reached into her pocket. “Here is my card; if you think of something, anything, please call me.”

The woman nodded, taking it. “You do God's work. May I give you a blessing?”

“Of course!” Playing along, she lowered her head, allowing the woman to place her hands over her scalp.

“May God watch over you and see that your next birth is smooth, healthy, and without any disruption.”

Bina looked up, stunned. How could she have known her last birth had been so traumatic?

Outside, she took a deep breath, placing a steadying hand against the side of the building to stop her trembling. I'm a young woman of childbearing age, she thought rationally. It was simply a good guess, completely random, nothing more. But somehow, she didn't quite believe that either, the way she could no longer believe that there was no such thing as the devil.

Her phone rang. It was Morris.

“Where are you?” His voice sounded strained.

“Interviewing Toledano.”

“Get anything?”

“A few real surprises. I'll talk to you when I get back.”

“Hurry. Put your siren on if you have to.”

Her jaw dropped. “What's up?”

“Eli, the four-year-old with the burns? He's started talking.”

 

16

They left like thieves in the night, Daniella thought, heartbroken. All those people who had been so kind to them—Yochanon and Essie!—all their newfound friends, their good neighbors! Instead of the hugs and kisses and exchange of phone numbers, there was a moving truck at midnight. While most of their neighbors' losses would be covered by insurance, still, she could not face them, feeling she had returned evil for good.

For even though nothing of what transpired had been her doing, she felt ultimately responsible. It had been her, after all, who flew off to America to satisfy her own selfish needs, leaving Shlomie behind to care for all the children. She beat herself up over it. How could she have done it? The accident (that's how she decided to view it, focusing solely on the watering incident, glossing over his choice to buy infected plants and distribute them) had no doubt come about from exhaustion as he tried to manage everything in her absence. If she had just been there, where she was supposed to be, where it was her responsibility to be, none of it would have happened. As his wife, she was his helpmate and partner. They were one. His failure was her failure. They were equally responsible. Humiliated and full of guilty regrets, all she wanted was to put the past behind her as quickly as possible.

They rented a large apartment in a luxurious building in central Jerusalem, then set about looking for a permanent place to live near good schools and enough yeshivoth to keep Shlomie happy. The house in Yahalom they would sell later, she thought. It should be easy enough, with new people arriving daily, and all those families still in caravans. She was heartbroken over the idea of another family moving into her dream house.

Shlomie himself went into a deep depression, hardly rising from bed except to say his morning, afternoon, and evening prayers. And then, one day, weeks later, out of the blue, he came into the kitchen, his eyes burning with excitement.

“I have the answer!” he told her ecstatically.

“What was the question?” she answered wearily.

He seemed taken aback. “What do you mean! The answer to why all these terrible things have happened to us.”

She was holding Shoshana with one hand, while with the other she kneaded the dough for the Sabbath challah. “I'm listening.”

“It's a punishment from God.”

She looked at him, stunned.

“We came to the Holy Land to be holy, to be close to God, right? And instead, what did we do? We abandoned learning Torah for digging in the dirt! Of course God is angry with us.”

Daniella listened to him halfheartedly, hearing only every other word. She was skeptical, especially since this explanation left no room for the natural consequences of stupid human choices. But she didn't tell him that. He'd been upset enough with himself. What did it matter anyway? You couldn't change the past.

“But God is merciful. That is why He has seen fit to give us this great blessing of financial security, so that we can return to doing the good we came here to do, so that I can bless our family by studying the holy texts, thereby bringing blessing upon us and our children. I promise, Daniella, this time, I won't fail.”

She nodded, handing him the baby and kneading the dough with both hands. She had no time to devote to philosophy. She had five small children to care for. All she wanted was for her husband to drag himself out of bed and help her.

She wasn't disappointed. His revelation banished the dark clouds that had kept him immobilized. He baby-sat, read to the children and played with them, giving them their nightly baths and helping them into their pajamas. He even helped out with the shopping, going to the
shuk
twice a week to bring back fresh fruits and vegetables.

But his main job—and that to which he devoted the majority of his time and energy—was seeking out exactly the right framework within which he could devote himself full-time to learning Torah. There were no shortages of such places in the Holy City of Jerusalem. As part of his exploration, he went to lectures of various kinds at a diverse range of institutions and with private study groups. Some took place in modern buildings and were given by beardless, Orthodox teachers who wore knitted skullcaps—places where students came in the evening after working full-time at well-paid jobs or studying for higher degrees in the university. Others, in contrast, were informal study groups that met in run-down synagogue buildings near the shuk or in the cramped living rooms of private homes, everyone crowded around dining room tables with hardly space to move. Those attending were an eclectic group of born-again Jews in various states of Hassidic dress, people who had part-time, low-paying jobs or no jobs at all.

He quickly decided that the formal, collegiate settings in Modern Orthodox institutions were not for him. “I feel it's too dry, too rote. There is nothing there that touches my soul,” he explained to Daniella. In truth, he found his educational background totally inadequate to meet the high levels of scholarship demanded at such places, and his fellow students intimidatingly clever and successful.

And so he narrowed his searches to the private study groups. Eventually, he found himself wandering the mysterious, winding alleyways of the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, whose crowded homes were always bathed in shadows. There, behind the ancient Old City walls, he found a plethora of groups that met behind closed doors to study everything from the Talmud to esoteric, sometimes forbidden books of Jewish mysticism.

At first, he studied Talmud. But before long, he was lured by his new friends and acquaintances to less intellectually rigorous and demanding pursuits. It was the kabbalah that entranced him most, with its promise of personal communion with God through mystical formulas.

“Most people live their lives like ants, pushed along by their bodily urges, their lusts. The holy kabbalah seeks to raise us up, to put us in control, so that we can be like Him. It's amazing, isn't it, that we, little ants, pieces of dust, who live on this earth for such a short time, running after food and sex and good times, who wither and die, can approach the everlasting, all-powerful God of Creation?”

The words, spoken by Reb Amos, a shaggy-haired blond guru with the large, white knitted cap of Breslov Hassidim, fascinated him. Amos was treated like a king by his followers, who stood up in awe of him when he entered and waited for his permission to sit back down. Yes, Shlomie thought, drinking in the words deeply. This is the truth I have been seeking!

Not all the students felt as Shlomie did. “What does it matter what we do then?” a student boldly challenged. “Why should we try to be like God if we are ants? Why can't we just enjoy being what God made us?”

Shlomie was shocked at the insolence. But Reb Amos was patient. “Because those who reach godliness never die. Their souls are eternal. Think of that! We have the potential for eternal life! Everyone, if they are honest, knows this is true, feels this is true.”

“I've never felt it,” challenged the same young man.

“Where is your will? Have you ever felt your will?” Reb Amos asked with a gentle smile.

The young man's arrogance faded. He looked confused.

“Call it God or nature, all Creation wants to give, and we want to receive. ‘Kabbalah' means
to receive.
If you don't feel that inside yourself, it's because that part of you is dormant. The purpose of our existence is to
awaken
that knowledge, to begin our journey back to the light that created us. Everyone and everything is part of God. And so when you eat, if you remember to bless God for your food before and after, if you remember that the food is simply there to nourish you as a servant of God, even the food you put into your mouth becomes elevated: the wheat that is ground into flour, the truck driver who brings the bags to the grocery store, the person who puts it on the shelves—all of them are elevated.”

“How do I know any of this is true?” another young man asked.

“I suspect you already know it's true—you feel it, don't you?”

The young man sat down. He said nothing.

Shlomie stared at Reb Amos. Yes, his heart was telling him: This is the truth! His mind didn't yet understand it, but his heart was one with this amazing revelation.