The Kabbalist (2 page)

Y
aakov Ben Shlomo threw
open the doors of the synagogue and rushed inside. For a moment, he stood
mesmerized in front of the deserted Ark, his lips moving in desperate prayer.
He then shook himself free, as if awakening from a bad dream, and surveyed his
surroundings.

The synagogue was
empty.

Yaakov passed through a
side door and entered the adjacent area of the
Yeshiva
- the Rabbinical
Academy. He walked quickly through a narrow corridor with rooms on each side.
He opened the last door to the right and entered the room, which in ordinary
times served as his office and place of study. Yaakov was the treasurer and
administrative manager of the glorious Yeshiva of Acre, renowned for its great
rabbis.

The Yeshiva was founded
about thirty years before by the sage Rabbi Yechiel, who was famous for participating
in a big public debate in Paris, where he argued against Christian priests who
were advocating the burning of the
Talmud
^[ii]
.
When the trial ended, with the gentiles declaring themselves the winners and
with Talmud books being burned all over France, the disgusted Rabbi Yechiel
left Paris and made his home in Acre, the crusaders’ capital of the Kingdom of
Jerusalem. In 1266, Rabbi Yechiel passed away and was replaced as the head of
the Yeshiva by the legendary Rabbi Moshe Ben Nachman - The
Ramban
[iii]
.
The Ramban was a fugitive from the town of Girona in Catalonia, who, like
Rabbi Yechiel before him, was persecuted for having participated in a similar
debate in Barcelona.

Yaakov was acutely aware
of his position in the Yeshiva and in the community. He was well read in the
Bible and the Talmud, but was no prodigy. He never ranked with the great rabbis
and scholars, yet was universally respected for his organizational and
political skills, without which the big Yeshiva could not have survived in the
heart of a Christian and crusader stronghold.

Yaakov’s wife, Lea,
whom he still loved with all his heart, had passed away two years before. Lea
was an innocent victim of the riots facilitated by an army which had been
dispatched by the Pope to support Christian Acre and consisted of prisoners and
adventurers. The bored, no-good thugs began picking on peaceful
Saracen
[iv]
civilians,
aggravating tensions and destroying the fragile balance between Saracens and
Christians in the city. The ensuing riots cost many Saracen lives, as well as
the lives of a few bystanders like his unfortunate Lea. The two never had
children and when his beloved Lea died, the Yeshiva, the synagogue and the
community, became Yaakov’s entire world.

But right now, his
thoughts were focused on saving his life. Outside all hell was breaking loose.
As if the arrows and flaming missiles, which had been pouring like rain on the
city during the past week, were not enough, it now looked as if the Day of
Judgment had arrived. The Accursed Gate and the Gate of St. Nicholas fell that
very morning and the Saracens of the Mamluk Sultan Al-Ashraf Khalil raided the
city, wreaking havoc and leaving death and destruction in their wake. Yaakov saw
many of his community members massacred. Others scattered in all directions,
most fleeing to the port in a desperate attempt to board a ship and save their
lives and the lives of their families.

Yaakov was on his own
now. Every second counted. The port was his only hope, but he knew it would be
useless for a Jew to get there empty-handed. Yaakov always liked to plan ahead.

He made his way to the
corner of the room, put his bag on the floor and touched the wall, fumbling for
the hidden recess behind the library. A light push and a shift, and a tiny
opening appeared in the wall. With trembling hands, Yaakov pulled out a cash
box and swiftly moved its content into a small leather purse, which he shoved under
his coat. He was going to put the box back in its place and run away, when he
remembered something and his right hand reached again into the dark gaping
hole.

For a moment that
lasted forever he groped inside, until finally his fingers hit a hard object. Extending
his hand as far inside as he could, he managed to get a grip on it and pry it
out. He then looked at the object in his hand. It was a small, leather-bound
cylindrical package. Yaakov did not know what was inside but knew it was
valuable. It must have been, because a few years before, Rabbi Yitzhak Ben
Shmuel, pupil and follower of the great Ramban himself, made him swear to find
a safe hiding place for it and keep its existence a secret. He quickly shoved
the small package into his pants. Next, he proceeded to his desk, opened a
drawer and retrieved a cloth bag, which he tucked under his belt. He then rushed
back through the corridor to the synagogue. Breathing heavily, he flung open
the synagogue doors leading to the street, and his heart almost burst with
fright when he bumped into a bearded Saracen warrior who was standing outside.

Yaakov froze in his
place, paralyzed with fear.

The soldier, unnerved
by Yaakov’s sudden appearance in the empty alley, hesitated, perhaps initially
mistaking the bearded Jew for a Saracen. It took him a few seconds to regain
his senses before he raised his curved sword in the air and cried “
Alla Hu
Akbar!
” – “God is the greatest!”

Yaakov resigned himself
to his fate. He tried to cry out the traditional Jewish prayer ‘
Shema Yisrael!
’
– ‘Hear, oh Israel!’, however, the words refused to leave his mouth. He just
stared at the warrior and waited, numbed with terror, for the blow to land.

But what he now saw was
incomprehensible.

The Saracen’s arm,
which was making its way up, fist clutching sword, suddenly detached from its
body. The arm and sword completed a short arc on their way up, separated, and
then fell down slowly, landing on the cobblestones at Yaakov’s feet. The
Saracen’s face contorted, transformed into a horror mask. He turned his head to
stare at the stump, where his right arm used to be, and which now spurted blood
like a fountain. His mouth opened in a scream of ultimate pain.

But no sound came out.
At one stroke, the Saracen’s head disappeared, removed by a mighty blow of a
sword. The headless body collapsed onto the cobbled ground, and the bearded
head immediately followed, hitting the stone and rolling, until it stopped at
the feet of the terrified Yaakov, it finally resting next to the severed,
bleeding arm.

Yaakov thought he was
going to faint.

Only now he noticed the
huge knight towering over the lifeless corpse. The knight’s garments, visible
through his mail, had once been white, but were now soiled with blood. The man
though, looked calm and unafraid. Amidst the blood stains that covered the white
robe, Yaakov noticed the Red Cross of a Templar knight.

The knight was looking
straight at him. The probing gray-blue eyes burned into Yaakov’s brain, and he
knew he would never forget them, as long as he lived.

“Run away, Jew, save
yourself,” said the man in French. “You were just given your life back. If you
value it, run to the port and try to get out of here.”

The Templar retraced
his steps and disappeared into a crossing alley. A moment later he came back
running past Yaakov, who was still planted in his place, shocked and trembling.
The knight was now carrying upon his shoulders a dangling, lifeless body,
seemingly an injured comrade. He turned west and disappeared in another alley.

Yaakov stood there, still
shaken, for a few minutes longer, staring at the point where his savior had
disappeared. He then shook himself free of his paralysis and started running in
the opposite direction, towards the port.

*    *    *

The port was in chaos.
Throngs of people, most of them civilians, shoved and jostled their way onto
the docks, trying to secure a place for themselves and for their dearest on one
of the crowded vessels. Some ships belonged to the various Christian communities
of the city, and Yaakov knew he could not hope to board them, but there were
some ship owners who took the opportunity to make a profit and sold passage to
the highest bidders. On one of those ships, the ‘Sea Falcon’, Yaakov identified
Roger de Flor, a well-known character in Acre.

De Flor was a Sicilian
of dubious reputation, an adventurer and a hired captain in the Templars'
service. He was now standing at the entrance to the gangway of a small ship,
bargaining with a group of people. Yaakov had no time to wonder. Roger had
never been an owner of a ship of any kind, but he must have confiscated one of
the vessels at anchor, to seize a once-in-a-lifetime business opportunity. Many
men and women were already standing on the deck, having paid for their lives in
gold and jewelry. Yaakov pushed his way to the front of the line. The Sicilian
had just finished bargaining with the man before him and was now turning to
Yaakov.

De Flor looked at
Yaakov contemptuously. His eyes scanned him from head to toe. “What do you
want, Jew?” he growled. “The prices here are not something the likes of you can
afford.”

Yaakov pulled out the
small leather purse, opened it and showed its contents to Roger. The eyes of
the Sicilian widened in surprise and greed. He grinned. “Well, well… who would
have believed… a wretched, stinking Jew like you… but this is fine with me.
Money, my friend, has no smell.” Yaakov handed him the purse, and Roger stepped
back, clearing the passage to the gangway for him, while taking off his hat and
bowing mockingly. “Come aboard, Jew,” he said. “You will be my guest of honor.”

Many people were
already crowding the deck, anxiously eyeing each joining passenger. It was
becoming overcrowded, causing great discomfort on board. Even worse, the excess
weight was causing the ship to sink below its high waterline.

The ‘Sea Falcon’ was
dangerously overloaded.

C
avalry Captain Pascal
de Charney jumped off the saddle and entrusted the harness in the hands of good
old Georges. He ran up the stairway leading into the entrance of the big house,
skipping two steps at a time, and stormed inside. The familiar smell was
welcoming. ‘It is so good to be home again’, he thought, ’even if only for a
very short visit.’ Entering the large lobby, Pascal noticed from the corner of
his eye a small figure rushing down the big stairway descending from the upper
floor. In seconds, she was flying into his arms with screams of joy, and he
barely managed to catch her. With her little arms, she clung to his neck,
covering his face with her kisses.

“Pascal, I am so glad
you are here. You look amazing in uniform. I wore my new dress especially for you,
and I must show you Jacques, my new cat…”

Pascal burst into
laughter. His little sister was a force of nature and a never-ending source of
exploding energy. “Just a moment, Arlette, let me take a good look at you.” He
placed her gently on the floor and the eight-year-old instantly burst into a
short jig, which she ended by spinning on her toes like a ballet dancer. Having
concluded her piece, she bowed ceremoniously, putting a serious expression on
her pretty face.

“How cute you are…” he
started saying, but seeing the dark cloud descending on her face, he
immediately corrected himself. “I meant… how beautiful you are and how dazzling
this dress looks on you.”

The small face beamed
at him, and he stroked her head. She gripped his hand. “Papa is waiting for you
inside,” she said and promptly pulled him after her, running in the direction
of the main sitting room. “Papa, Papa, he has finally arrived. He is here!”

The man sitting in the armchair
with his back to them closed the book he was reading, laid it on the table and
rose to his feet. Roland de Charney was a tall, well-built, impressive man, with
penetrating gray-blue eyes, who looked older than his fifty-seven years. He
looked at Arlette, and a flicker of a smile appeared for a second in his otherwise
stern eyes. To be sure, his youngest daughter was a spoiled brat, but she was
also the most beautiful, most charming and smartest girl in the world, and he
absolutely adored her. She was the last gift he received from his beloved wife
who did not survive the difficult labor and died at birth, eight years before.
Little Arlette was a beam of light in the life of this taciturn man.

“Pascal, my son…”

“Papa…”

The two men embraced.
“Arlette, please leave us,” said Roland.

“But, Papa…”

“Arlette!”

The little girl sensed
the severity in his voice and with her well-tuned instincts knew better than to
challenge her Papa when he was like that. In a cheeky display of resentment,
she turned on her heels and left the room in thundering silence, holding her
head up high in defiance. The two men smiled and then took a long look at each
other.

“It is so good to see
you, Papa.”

“A cavalry officer in
the army of the Republic… I am proud of you, my son.”

Pascal was very pleased
to hear these words coming from his revered father, with whom words of praise
were a rare commodity. “How is Henry? Have you heard from him?” He asked. Henry
was his younger brother, who had joined the army the previous year.

“Henry is doing very
well at the Officers’ Academy,” said Roland proudly. “He finished third in his
class this year. He wants to be an artillery officer.”

“Just like my
commander, General Napoleon Bonaparte.” Pascal was smiling.

“Well, do tell me about
this young Corsican general. Have you met him?”

“Oh, Papa, he is a true
leader.” Pascal did not try to hide his admiration. “You should see how the
soldiers adore him, and the officers too. He is small in stature, but in this
small body lives the mind of a Caesar. The army will follow him through fire
and hell, I can tell you that.”

A spark flickered in
the gray-blue eyes of his father. “Caesar? May I remind you that we are proud
to be living in the Republic of France? You must remember that day, when we
went to Paris to see King Louis XVI lose his head in the town square. We sacrificed
a lot to liberate France from tyrants, and we had better honor this sacrifice.”
Roland de Charney was a republican at heart.

Pascal realized his
mistake. “Of course, Papa, what I meant was that Napoleon Bonaparte is the
Republic’s greatest general, perhaps the greatest the French people ever had,
and I am proud to serve under his command. And, yes, I did meet him once in
person. It was after a successful assault exercise I led at the head of my
cavalry company, which the general had been watching from a nearby hill. After
the exercise had ended, he rode down the hill and approached me. Papa, my knees
started wobbling, and I lost my tongue, but this great man simply smiled at me
and said: ‘Excellent performance, Captain de Charney; that was some mighty charge
you led there. With officers like you, I can ride confidently into battle.’
Papa, never in my life had I experienced such elation as I did at that moment!
I knew I would follow him anywhere. And to think this great man is twenty-nine
years old, only five years my senior! He had his first glorious victory over
the English in Toulon just five years ago, when he was my age, and since then
he managed to defeat the mighty Austrian empire and force the world to come to
terms with the French Republic and respect it! Papa, this man is already a
living legend, and he is a French citizen, who will lead the Republic to
greatness and glory.”

“We shall see about
that,” the older man shook his head skeptically. “History teaches us that
people in such powerful positions must be made of unique stuff, if they are not
to end up tyrants. Look at what happened to Robespierre, a man we all admired
and a personal friend of your general. Before long, he was transformed from a
champion of civil rights into a maniac and power-hungry mass murderer.”

“Papa, when you get to
know the general, you’ll understand we have a Frenchman of a new kind in him.”

“Frenchman, Pascal? The
fact that a Corsican now embodies the hopes of the New France must be a
manifestation of history’s strange sense of humor. Just thirty years ago, I was
a young major in the French army which invaded Corsica. The Corsicans never
considered themselves French. They fought like lions over their island, I will
give them that, but they were killing French soldiers. They were killing
my
soldiers! I was wounded in the battle of Ponte-Nuovo myself. I almost died
there!”

“Papa, France of today
is different from the France of thirty years ago. Today we are a republic of
freedom, equality and brotherhood. The fact that a Corsican can become a citizen
and a general is a tribute to this spirit and a demonstration of the great and
just principles of our revolution.”

The eyes of the old
lion fired up. Pascal’s words angered him. “Principles of our revolution,
indeed! Let me remind you, young man, that these principles were worded by a
bunch of secular men, with not one god-fearing man amongst them. Whoever coined
‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’
, forgot to refer to God and Christ. What
is the point of this display of humanly love and brotherhood, when it comes
with no recognition in the grace of God? It is no wonder that this revolution
has turned against its chief designers and sent them to the guillotine. Note my
words, my son; God will punish us for forsaking him.”

Pascal bowed his head
to avoid meeting his father’s ferocious glare. This recurring theme always came
up when they were discussing politics. Uttering such words in revolutionary
France was dangerous, sometimes even fatal, and only someone like Roland de
Charney could afford to speak like that. Pascal had long ago learned that his
father was different - a strange political creature in revolutionary France. To
be a devoted republican and a devout Christian was an improbability, if not a
contradiction, and yet, Roland de Charney was just that. Pascal still
remembered very well that day, January 21
^st
1793, or Flavius 2
^nd
of year 1 of the revolution, when his father took him to Paris to watch the
execution of Louis XVI, the hated monarch. The spectacle of the King mounting
the stage in front of the mocking masses was burned into his brain. A huge roar
erupted when the guillotine blade fell, and the naked head of the king rolled
into the basket. When the sordid, bloody object was displayed by the
executioner to the blood-thirsty crowd, the roar rose even higher, almost
deafening him. The whole scene left a profound impression on young Pascal.

At the time, he did not
feel joy or elation. If anything, he mostly fought the need to throw up. He was
also watching his father. Surrounded by a shouting, gloating mob, Papa kept
silent. He was a soldier and a revolutionary who never hesitated to shed blood,
his or others’, for a worthy cause. But the sight of blood and death never
brought him joy. Roland, who came from a noble family, was never really part of
the masses, and on that glorious day, he remained aloof amidst the sea of
cheering mob. Yet, Pascal saw great satisfaction in his eyes.

His father laid a hand
upon his shoulder. “Remember this moment, my son,” he said. “Many generations henceforth,
historians will still speak of it as one of the defining moments in the history
of mankind.” He paused to take a deep breath and Pascal was astonished to see
how excited his usually stoic father was. “It is not just the Republic and the
end of monarchy that we are celebrating here. Today a circle has been closed
and divine justice done. For this, I give praise to the Lord.”

Pascal admired him, but
he knew his father belonged to a different era. Modern Frenchmen did not look
approvingly upon religion, considering it a tool for suppressing the masses in
the service of monarchy and tyranny. The revolutionary ideology disapproved of
religion and, to a certain extent, tried to replace it. Churches were closed
down and a new calendar starting at the beginning of the revolution was
introduced, with no references to religious holidays. Roland could not accept
the attitude towards religion that the revolution had brought and never
bothered hiding his views. Pascal always feared that his father’s
unconventional views would one day prove to be his ruin in the combustible
political climate of revolutionary France. Pascal himself was brought up as a
Catholic, but the state of mind in the New France did not pass him by. He was
not sure anymore in his belief in God and Christ, but knowing his father he
never expressed his doubts.

Papa was definitely an
eccentric.

Even weirder was the
fact that Roland, a devout Catholic, had always detested the papacy. When Pope
Pious VI’s condemnation of the revolution was made public, the older de Charney
spoke openly against the pope. This earned him an excommunication from the
Church and eternal suffering in hell. Nevertheless, this did not seem to shake
the confidence of the tough old man in himself and in his faith.

Roland enjoyed a
well-respected standing as an ex-nobleman and a glorious ex-officer who, in
spite of his origin, had supported the Republic and the revolution from the
start. He did that by using family funds as well as organizing and leading the
revolutionary forces in Normandy. This was at a time when others with similar
background were fighting for the hated monarch or had fled the country. The
revolutionaries, who fondly dubbed him ‘The people’s nobleman’, honored him
like the hero that he was and allowed him to keep his property and estate.
Nevertheless, Roland rejected with contempt suggestions of some of his new
friends to hide his noble origin in order to be more identified with the common
people. “I am proud of who I am and of what I did for the revolution and for
the French people. However, I am also very proud of my ancestry,” he used to
say and no one would argue with the stiff-necked patriot.

*    *    *

Roland poured a big glass
of Bordeaux and offered it to his son. He then poured one for himself and sank
into his chair, pointing to the divan opposite him. Pascal seated himself, and
the two sipped their wine in silence.

“Pascal,” Roland put
down his glass. “I have my connections inside the
Directory
[v]
.
I know what is happening and where you are headed. I know that the little
Corsican is soon to sail at the head of an expeditionary force of 30,000
soldiers to Egypt, to seize it from the Muslim Mamluks.”

The Mamluks were originally
white slaves of Caucasian or Balkan descent, bought as children and trained by
the Egyptian rulers to serve them as soldiers. In time, they exceeded their
Arab masters in ability, industry and determination and took over the country.
The Mamluks were the ones who, at the end of the 13
^th
century, ended
the crusaders’ 200 year presence in the Holy Land. In the beginning of the 16
^th
century, the Mamluks surrendered to the Ottoman Turks, but lately, they had
risen to power again in Egypt and were treating their Turk masters with defying
disrespect.

“France will present
this as suppression of the rebels against the Sultan and as an act of
friendship towards the Turks. Talleyrand, our foxy foreign minister, will communicate
this message to the Sultan in person, but this is merely a smoke screen.
Everybody knows that the Ottoman Empire is crumbling. What we really intend to
do is transform Egypt into a French colony that will threaten the supply lines
to the east of our real enemy – the British.”

Pascal listened with
obvious interest. He was a young officer, eager to ride into battle for his
country. For weeks now, he had known the destination he would be sailing to
with the rest of the army under Napoleon Bonaparte, his idol general. But he
was no politician and had no idea about matters of state and national strategy.
What he was now hearing was new and exciting. It was a glimpse into the world
of chess masters to whom soldiers like him were just pawns in the bigger game.
It was a world he never knew. “Is the general party to all this?” he asked.