One Hundred Philistine Foreskins (58 page)

For me, at issue was never the absolute given that HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, would sooner or later emerge in messianic splendor but rather the delicate but crucial matter related to how to sell this radical idea in the public arena, not only the heretofore unimaginable concept of a woman messiah that provokes such cognitive dissonance, but also how to factor in commonly held notions relating to death. For to the uninitiated, Ima Temima during the stage prior to the concealment might
have looked like just another very sick and very decrepit and very out-of-it old lady in end-stage full-body systemic failure going the way of all flesh. On top of that, there was and remains the heavy business of what in polite circles some might term the resurrection thing, to put it even more bluntly, a second coming, for Jews an extremely sensitive subject, a real sore spot as it relates to a messiah figure. Even in a case that does not involve death, merely concealment, our holy mother's return nevertheless evokes the corrosive myths and madness of Christianity, one of the two of the three major Western religions that had ripped us off so brazenly and persecuted us so relentlessly for being the first, the originals, the chosen ones. Yet despite all that, we await the return, we believe.

In such a sensitive climate, therefore, my strategy was diplomatic—an abiding private faith coupled with working clandestinely behind the scenes to usher in the golden age over which HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, would preside as messiah. In a way, I was carrying out a disinformation campaign, for my public stance then was that of an anti-messianist with regard to our holy mother in order not to alert and put on guard the establishment rationalists and skeptics (and needless to say, also the sexists), but what I was in reality was an Ima Temima Messiah Marrano for my commitment to a more secret, undercover process through which I had no doubt the truth would inevitably be revealed on the day of the arrival so that nobody could ever again deny it. The nomad, on the other hand, the impresario of the coronation, pushed full speed ahead for a public in-your-face emanation in order to hasten the coming out of the closet of our holy mother as the messiah. On this matter, he and I were in violent disagreement.

T
HANK
G
OD
I was informed of the coronation stunt in time to raise my woman's naked voice in this emergency situation and shout out my
Tekhi!
It was at least a form of damage control, for it was critical that any influential cynic witnessing this coronation imposed upon us by the aboriginal Canaanite not conclude that our holy mother was just another messiah-syndrome victim from
breathing in the radioactive microbes of Jerusalem's supernatural air, or that the cloaked figure being drenched with oil making deflecting hand gestures in the wheelchair was actually stricken by the impostor syndrome, attributable to a disabling sense of fraudulence at being hailed the messiah. Moreover, the
Tekhi!
is exceptionally potent and healing, especially when combined with Temima, as in
Tekhi Temima!
, two words that in mystical Gematria numerology, each letter of the Hebrew alphabet possessing a numerical equivalent, together add up to 913, exactly the same sum as the very first word of the Torah,
Bereishit
, “In the Beginning.” All of this is so incredibly special, I cannot even begin to describe the comfort it afforded us during those dark days, for it confirmed for us how beginnings merge with endings, how inextricably bound up they are with each other, how what might seem like an end (for instance, what the unenlightened might call death) is actually a beginning (the advent of the messiah, the raising of the dead). And as an added bonus, if you flip over the 9, you get 613, corresponding to the number of mitzvot in the Torah, the sum total of negative and positive commandments, the don't-do's and the do's, from some of which we women are so patronizingly exempt. There are times when numbers speak more eloquently than words—mystically, not superstitiously, I hasten to add.

The numerical resonance of the
Tekhi Temima!
hinting at the imminent messianic age when we women will be liberated to fulfill
all
of the mitzvot is so meaningful words are inadequate to penetrate this territory, it requires the perfection, the absoluteness of numbers. Still, I was furious with the nomad for staging the travesty of the public anointment. It was at best age abuse, at worst blasphemy and sacrilege, and so the next day, Adar six, when I was summoned by the chronically grieving Rizpa toward evening to the private chambers of HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, I regret to report that I lost my cool entirely, I was powerless to manage my anger.

When I arrived in the inner sanctum our holy mother, unveiled and noticeably more frail, more shriveled and withered and mottled no doubt due to having been dragged out in the cold to
be displayed in the nomad's obscene circus, was in bed alongside the little mother Torah, the two wooden rollers of its scroll poking out from the covers like rabbit ears perked up at attention alert to danger. Aishet-Lot was sitting at the table under the window, not knitting this time but stitching together a garment of white linen, while Rizpa, compulsively bunching and stroking one of the clusters of ritual fringes at the corner of her apron like worry beads, remained standing humbly at the door not venturing to step more deeply into the room. The nomad was nowhere in sight I was relieved to find. Aishet-Lot set down her work and rose to hand me a folder containing full instructions regarding the reburial of the bleached bones of our holy mother's “sister,” Ketura, a'h, from their temporary resting place in Be'er LaHai Ro'i in the wilderness to the northern garden of our “leper” colony alongside our high priestess Aish-Zara, za'zal. Most importantly, the packet provided the information I needed as to whom to contact to expedite the transferral of the remains of Ima Temima's mother, Mrs. Rosalie Bavli, z'l, from her grave in the Old Montefiore Cemetery in Queens, New York, also to the northern garden of our “leper” colony, to be placed in the same bed in which our own holy mother soon planned to enter the concealment stage that precedes and heralds the revelation. “And I want my little stuffed animal in there with me too,” an ancient voice called out.

So unaccustomed had I grown to hearing that voice during this bleak period that it did not immediately register with me that it was truly our holy mother speaking, like the little boy Samuel in the Tabernacle at Shilo who did not realize he was being addressed by God Himself, that he was experiencing his first nocturnal prophecy. The consequence of this was that when I finally turned toward the source on the bed with the question writ large on my face as to what was this mystical entity our holy mother referred to as a “stuffed animal” and I saw Ima Temima's arm caressing in answer the little mother Torah in its worn, well-loved plush mantle now fully visible from top to bottom, and beneath it, pushing it up into view ever higher, rising from under the covers alongside our holy mother like the devil
from hell, I saw the fiendish face of the nomad grinning madly, swelling indecently, followed by the red blotches of his neck and shoulders, I was speechless, my woman's naked voice failed me, the sight totally blew my mind.

I have to admit that at this point I lost it completely. How dare he? I reached for the staff propped now against the wall, grabbed it, and began flailing wildly in the direction of the nomad. I was out of control, I was grunting like a savage, I never knew I was capable of such a violent, primitive outburst, I wanted nothing more than to smash him to pieces. Fortunately, he had the animal instinct to leap from the bed to save his own skin, which also spared me from God forbid accidentally striking our holy mother so close by, an innocent civilian caught up in a war zone (a calamity that would have driven me up to a mountaintop to throw myself off like his father, Abba Kadosh, a'h, was thrown), in the process flashing his entire body monstrous with ulcerations and excrescences, grabbing a cloth from the pile on the bed to cover his nakedness as he ran for safety and squatted against the wall snarling like a feral cat with eyes of crystal, reminding me as never before of his father before him who had been the glue connecting Ima Temima to me for which I shall always be indebted to him. At the same time, Aishet-Lot, all one hundred-plus kilos of that monumental prophetess of the past, threw herself on top of me despite the fact that I am her superior in the school for prophetesses deserving of her respect and pinned me to the floor. She detached the stick from my hands finger by finger as I wailed beneath her, and passed it to our holy mother.

HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, planted the staff on the floor beside the holy bed holding it erect with one arm extended supported by Rizpa through the night. What I saw with my prophetess's vision from under the pillar of salt that was Aishet-Lot was our holy mother's hand stroking the rod with tender encouragement all night long until the next morning when it budded, then blossomed, then bore fruit.

That was the morning of the seventh of Adar. I had been released early at dawn for good behavior from under my prophetess Aishet-Lot and had taken my place against the wall among
the others keeping vigil when the Hephzibah staff burst forth in full bloom and the ancient voice, beloved by all of us, was heard for the last time. “Bitter almonds for women—thorns and thistles for men. We have all been cursed, women and men alike. None of us has been spared. Where I am going no man will ever touch me again. I will miss that above all. In spite of everything, my desire is for him. For your salvation I had hoped, O Lord.”

As I said, this occurred on the seventh day of Adar, the birthday of Moses Our Teacher and also, it should be noted, the day on which, one hundred and twenty years later, he died by the kiss of God, which is fatal. To die on the same date as one's birth is a rare privilege of profound import, a sign of pure righteousness, a sign that the individual so set apart possesses godlike qualities, constantly being reborn and dying at the same time, the same moment even, eternal renewal, a perfect circle; such a person is immortal, it is an attribute of the messiah. The stunning truth, however, is that Ima Temima, though born on the seventh of Adar like Moses Our Teacher, did not as some deluded individuals may claim and superficial appearances might suggest also “die” on that date like Moses but rather entered a period of hiding from which we anticipate an imminent emergence in messianic glory.

What happens to the body is beside the point; despite the truism not everyone must die. Enoch, who walked with God and is no more—he did not die for God loved him and took him. Jacob, who might have had a glimpse into the end of days, merely let out a gasp, an agonized exhalation (the penultimate
va'yigvah
) and was collected to his fathers, the text does not in the usual close-the-book way explicitly add that he also died. And Elijah the Tishbite, who as everyone knows will return in the messianic period to answer all unresolved questions and dilemmas, made the most spectacular exit of all, ascending to heaven in a whirlwind in a chariot of fire drawn by blazing horses. Father! Father! Israel's chariot and horsemen! his disciple Elisha cried out.

And so, when on Adar seven, which is also our holy mother's birthday, Ima Temima's breathing grew more and more grating and wheezing, shallow and labored until it became manifest to
us that HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, had receded to the furthest end of a tunnel like a microscopic dot and entered the concealment space, we also raised our voices and cried out, Mother! Mother!—and spontaneously we joined hands and whirled in a circle raising our women's naked voices and singing joyously,
Tekhi! Tekhi! Tekhi!—
for we understood that our holy mother had merely moved on to the next station in the messianic journey that would soon lead back to us and nail down the redemption. Our universe is filled with all sorts of phenomena we do not see with our eyes but whose effects we experience, belowground and aboveground, surrounding us everywhere, atoms and electrons, for example, the invisibility of God Himself. In the same way, we would soon no longer see our holy mother, our holy mother would go underground as it were into hiding, it would be as if our holy mother were rendered invisible behind a curtain or screen, veiled by concealment as the physical container of Ima Temima had been veiled, but the power and mystery, the wisdom and benevolence of the unseen presence would still remain active and exert its force until the ultimate rising and revelation.

For this reason in this chronicle that I have been charged with keeping I do not now use a traditional honorific for our holy mother to denote a person who has God forbid “died,” such as a'h,
aleha ha'shalom
, peace be upon her, or z'l,
zikhrona li'vrakha
, may her memory be a blessing, or even za'zal,
zekher zaddeket li'vrakha,
may the memory of the righteous one be a blessing, which I attach regularly to the name of our beloved high priestess Aish-Zara, za'zal, for example, who has gone on to the next world, and for whose return we long every day with the raising of the dead that will accompany the coming of the queen the messiah. Rather, to the name of HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv I append and always shall append the acronym
shlita
, may She live on for many good long years (the only time, I might point out, that I permit myself to use for purposes of translation the pronoun in connection with our holy mother, which I regard as vaguely tainted with disrespect). This is because HaRav Temima Ba'alatOv, shlita, is not “dead.” Simple minds, based on the news of what is said to have transpired, may automatically file our holy
mother away, dismiss our holy mother, slap a “death” certificate on our holy mother and consider the case closed. Unfortunately for them, they are not gifted with the spiritual powers or vision to grasp the essence.