The Devil in Jerusalem (23 page)

“What are we going to do?” Shlomie asked her.

“He's not going to marry our daughter. Certainly not our twelve-year-old daughter!” Daniella said emphatically, her former self breaking through the shell of enchantment, asserting itself.

“But if we refuse, we are risking a terrible tragedy befalling our family. He hinted there would be a death of a very young person.”

Her face went white as her mind retreated, cowering, as she tried to assimilate this information. In saving their daughter, would they be sacrificing another of their children? Oh, the horror of such a choice! She was suddenly confused, her certainty and determination fleeing under her terrible fear.

“Before we do anything, we need to be sure,” she said cautiously.

“Of what, Daniella?”

“That what Reb Amos is telling us is true. That he is truly a saint and what he says truly comes from God.”

“Yes, we must be sure. But how?”

“You have to investigate. Find someone that is on the highest level possible, someone everyone you speak to agrees truly speaks to God. Let him investigate Reb Amos, to see if his words are true, if the source is from behind the curtain,” she said, using the familiar euphemism for contact with the spirit of holiness. In the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem, where God dwelled among His earthly creatures, there was such a curtain.

“Yes, yes,” Shlomie said, slowly nodding in agreement, his eyes glazed over in wonder at such a remarkable solution. Before making such a decision, they must be sure.

He continued his classes with Reb Amos. And Reb Amos continued to come to the house, only now Daniella was careful that Amalya was not there at the same time.

“He has spoken to me again. He wants to know our answer,” Shlomie whispered to her a month later.

“Then tell him we are still thinking,” she advised him. “Tell him to wait.”

“He says there is another way.”

She looked up at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

“He says that he could marry you instead.”

“What? What are you saying?” Revulsion, mixed with fear, choked her. “You're my husband, Shlomie!”

He shrugged helplessly. “But what can I do? If it is ordained…?”

She looked into her husband's frightened eyes, but they refused to meet hers. He was going to be no help at all in this, she realized, disgusted. He was going to go along with all of it, unless he became convinced his mentor was a charlatan. She felt helpless. “Shlomie, you have to investigate. You have to find someone to tell us what we must do!”

“You're right, you're right. I will.” His voice trembled.

They lived in a state of suspended animation, not really living even as outwardly they made an effort for the sake of the children to seem as if they were going on with their normal lives, while all the time this horror hung over them. It was like that Edgar Allan Poe story, Daniella thought
,
“The Pit and the Pendulum.” They were flattened against the bottom of a hole as a sharp blade swung over them, getting lower and lower as they crouched in the darkness, wondering how to stop it, how to escape.

Both of them understood it wasn't from Reb Amos they needed to run. If what he was saying was truly ordained, then there was no escape. Their fate would follow them, no matter what. The only question was whether or not he had truly gotten this information from God—if God, or the angels, had spoken to him, and if the remedy he offered was truly the only way out for them.

Shlomie spent his days feverishly discussing this with everyone he knew that was a student or master of the hidden wisdom. And one name came up again and again and again. Reb Menachem Shem Tov. People whispered it with a kind of adoration mixed with awe and fear that bordered on worship. He was young, but everyone had heard the stories about him. He was a genuine, undisputed Master of the Good Name, with particular expertise in practical kabbalah. Stories of his wondrous deeds flowed in abundance from the astonished lips of those who whispered into Shlomie Goodman's ears.

But he was hard to approach, they warned him. He chose you, not the other way around. You couldn't just walk into one of his classes. And he deliberately kept his Hassidim to a minimum. Unlike other masters, he refused to have a court of hundreds. He had perhaps ten followers at any given time, even less.

“But I'm desperate. Isn't there a way?” he pleaded with those same friends.

“He goes to pray with his Hassidim at the Tomb of Samuel the Prophet at midnight every Thursday. You must be there. See if you can talk to one of his Hassidim. They might be able to arrange a meeting.” Shlomie thanked them profusely.

He didn't tell Daniella, only hinting that they might have an answer soon. The worry and tension were bringing them both close to the breaking point. They couldn't go on much longer like this, they realized, frightened. Without telling his wife anything, the following Thursday, Shlomie drove out to Ramot in northern Jerusalem, turning off the highway to where an unpaved road led to the Tomb of Samuel the Prophet. A former mosque, it was still the highest spot in the entire area, considered a landmark for nineteenth-century wayfarers, a place where they might view the Holy City of Jerusalem in its entirety.

The time was close to midnight. It was pitch-black, with only a ribbon of faint light coming from the headlights of random cars moving down the faraway Jerusalem–Tel Aviv highway and the single lightbulb illuminating the tomb itself.

Shlomie kept walking. While he saw no one, he had the strange sense that he was being followed. He kept looking over his shoulder, listening to the rustle of the branches swaying in the wind. He felt surrounded by spirits, both good and evil. Finally, a shaft of moonlight escaped from a thick cloud, revealing a group of black-garbed Hassidim in the forest. As he drew closer, he heard them howling in prayer at the moon, shaking their bodies in ecstasy. Noticing him, one of them detached himself from the group, walking toward him.

“Who are you and what do you want, brother?” he asked belligerently.

Shlomie took a step back. “I'm seeking godly advice and solace from Rebbe Shem Tov. I have heard wondrous things about him, brother.”

The stranger nodded. “Come.”

Shlomie blended into the group, taking out his prayer book and silently reciting psalms. But he could not concentrate. He had never in his life heard people pray this way. It was as if they were liquefying their hearts and stomachs and pouring them out in words. Their cries shattered the indifferent face of the night. He felt pure elation, as if the silent mystery of heaven had been slashed wide open, allowing him to enter. His eyes closed as he began to shout the words, letting all his fear, pain, and frustration drain like pus from his soul. He thought: They will think I'm a madman. But when finally he opened his eyes, he saw everyone smiling at him, nodding in approval.

“Reb Menachem has heard your prayer, brother. He asks you to approach.”

Shlomie was thrilled.

The rebbe was a short, dark man with long payot and black glasses. “Rebbe—”

But the man motioned for him to stop speaking. “I already know your question,” he said. “And the answer is yes.”

“Yes?” Shlomie felt as if his heart had been pummeled with a hammer by someone intent on killing him. What did that mean? Yes to a marriage between Reb Amos and his little daughter or his wife? Yes, Reb Amos was telling the truth as he had heard it from God?

Reb Menachem seemed to understand this. “Yes, I will help you.”

Relief as swift and wide as a river sent its healing solace through Shlomie's soul. He felt his breath once more move the tiny hairs in his nostrils, filling his lungs.

Menachem Shem Tov stared at him, pleased. Even in the darkness, cold moonlight gleamed from his eyes.

 

Part Two

 

20

Shlomie said nothing to Daniella about Menachem Shem Tov. First, he had to arrange a meeting between Shem Tov and Amos. Only then—or better yet, when he had Shem Tov's opinion of the matter—did he think it would be wise to reveal what he had done to his distraught wife. He did this out of kindness, the desire to spare Daniella the terrible tension and suffering he, himself, was experiencing preceding this potentially life altering encounter.

He tried not to think what would happen if Shem Tov confirmed that Reb Amos's demands were indeed the will of heaven. The mere possibility weighed on him with nightmarish intensity. If it did prove to be the will of God, he knew they could not stand against it. Like Abraham with Isaac, they would need to bind their child and bring her to the altar. Or send Daniella in her place.

Through one of Shem Tov's Hassidim, Shlomie invited the
rav
to meet Amos during his regular weekly lecture at the Goodman home. Shlomie had no idea if Shem Tov would actually show up. As usual, their living and dining rooms were packed with Reb Amos's Hassidim. There was no sign of Shem Tov. But just as Reb Amos stood up to speak, there was a knock at the door. Daniella opened it. A group of unknown Hassidim stood in her doorway, led by a short, stocky man with very black hair and extravagant payot that fell past his shoulders. He wore a large black hat and a black satin Hassidic waistcoat. There was something patchy about his beard, Daniella noticed, betraying a youth inappropriate to the stature his arrogant stance seemed to claim. His obsidian eyes met hers boldly, a look that did not befit a Torah scholar facing a strange woman, she thought. That, and something about the eerily tenebrous quality of the light in his eyes made her stumble as she bent her head. But there was no time to process her feelings as Shlomie soon appeared by her side, ushering her out of the way.

“
Kavod Harav
, welcome to our home,” Shlomie said, his entire body bent obsequiously, his voice deepening with awe and respect. “Please, come in.”

Shem Tov nodded briefly in acknowledgment, striding into the large, elegant living room, his calculating eyes taking in the massive china closet with its ornate silver candelabra, wine cups, and other ritual objects; the expensive custom-made drapes and matching upholstery; the fine rugs and original works of art. Behind his eyeglasses, under lowered lashes, he studied Daniella Goodman's youthful figure, her large breasts and tiny waist.

Shlomie approached Amos, whispering in his ear. Amos's head shot up, staring in the direction of Shem Tov. For a moment, the two men's eyes locked, each taking the other's measure as if they were prizefighters just about to climb into the ring. Amos stood up respectfully. “This is an honor, Reb Shem Tov,” he said, nodding with a pleasant smile. “I have heard many wonderful stories about you.”

“And I have never heard of you at all,” replied Shem Tov brazenly.

Everyone froze.

“Please, Reb Amos,” Shlomie said, almost physically shrinking before both these titans, “Reb Shem Tov asks to speak with you privately before we begin.”

“With pleasure,” said a now unsmiling Amos through gritted teeth.

Shlomie gestured humbly to both men to follow him, leading them into a study just off the living room and closing the door behind him.

“What is going on?” Daniella whispered hotly when he returned, confused and more than a little frightened.

“I did what you asked. I found the greatest Master of the Good Name in the Holy City. He will now tell us whether or not Reb Amos's words have come from behind the curtain.”

For a split second, it occurred to her that she and Shlomie were now preparing to relinquish sovereignty over their fate and that of their children to strangers, allowing them to decide. But before she was able to comprehend fully the enormity of such a monstrous idea in all its abhorrent gravity, she found it had already slipped past her like wind, muffled by another voice, another idea that hugged her with fatherly comfort, erasing her fears. She was doing no such thing, the voice comforted. No, it was not these men deciding her fate, but God. The men had no power other than to reveal His will. She trembled, the small hairs on her arms standing on end, magnetized and electric as she waited to hear the judgment of heaven.

 

21

It didn't take long. The door opened and Shem Tov came out, his face blank, his dark eyes inscrutable. Amos soon followed. Without saying a word to anyone, he went straight to the front door, unlocking it and exiting. His shocked Hassidim abruptly pushed back their chairs, hurrying after him.

“I have looked behind the curtain,” Shem Tov announced to a room of startled faces, including Shlomie's and Daniella's. “The person who calls himself Reb Amos is a fake! A charlatan! One who preys on the innocent and naïve. There is no holiness in him. He is not a rav or even a scholar. Nothing he has told you is true. All of it is lies.”

Daniella felt her knees buckle beneath her. Shlomie caught her, carrying her to the sofa, where he laid her down, adjusting her dress modestly over her legs. Menachem Shem Tov took it all in: the guileless husband and the slim, young woman who lay prone on the expensive American sofa. He memorized every nuance, every detail, storing whatever could be of use to him.

*   *   *

The Goodmans' relief and gratitude to Menachem Shem Tov knew no bounds. Shlomie quickly switched allegiances and was welcomed warmly into the small inner circle of Shem Tov's Hassidim. He was enormously flattered, feeling a real sense of accomplishment, convinced that his acceptance by the great Master was a sign of his own spiritual growth.

Daniella felt the opposite, her self-worth and confidence all but destroyed. How had she allowed herself to trust such an obvious fake? How had she not been wise enough to see through his trickery, his flaws, his monstrous character, to the extent that she had even given thought to the idea of sacrificing her pure, lovely Amalya to his perversions? Or herself? Her trust in her own ability to make intelligent, reasonable decisions was shattered.