The Kabbalist (6 page)

Jeanne picked up her
bag, fumbled inside and pulled out a brown envelope. “In this envelope I have
an English translation of a letter sent by Pascal de Charney to his father. It
will take a few minutes of your time, but I would like you to read it before we
continue our conversation.” She handed him the envelope.

Luria fished out a few
printed pages, leaned back in his chair and began reading.

H
anging on to a wooden
board and swinging among the waves, Yaakov was numb with terror. He heard
people screaming for help somewhere far away. Occasionally, when the board was
climbing up the waves, he could glimpse back to where the ship had gone down. Tiny
figures of people were scattered there, trying to cling to whatever they could
find, in order to prolong their miserable lives if only by a little while.

Not long after the ship
had left port, advancing slowly for lack of good wind, the deceiving sea
started raging in a frightful storm. The ship, which the greedy Sicilian had
packed beyond capacity, struggled a bit and then capsized, taking with it most
passengers and leaving the rest to suffer the terror of certain death by
drowning. No help could be expected. A ship or two, passing in the distance,
were too crowded to risk an extra load.

When the ship capsized,
Yaakov was thrown further away than most of the others. His head banged against
a big wooden board that was floating nearby, and he nearly passed out. The
board must have belonged to a piece of furniture or a bed, and had a few cleats
protruding from it. Yaakov climbed on it, untied his belt and tied himself to
one of those cleats. Next, he produced the cloth bag he still had on his body, pulled
out of it a prayer shawl – a
tallit
, rolled it and used it to fasten
himself to another cleat. He then raised his head and looked around.

He knew that under the circumstances
he should consider himself lucky, but he sure was not feeling lucky. Swept
uncontrollably in the water, he was scared to death. He was a pawn in the hands
of mighty forces, for which he, Yaakov, the little Jew from Acre, was but a
tiny wood shaving to play with.

The only thing he could
do now was to mumble some confused prayers to the Creator of the universe to
have mercy and save him from sinking into the abyss, like He did for Jonah in
his time. As the waves were swinging the wooden board up and down, Yaakov gazed
around him, trying to see through the water spray. Blood trickled from his forehead
into his eyes, and further blurred his vision. Through the blur, he suddenly
noticed something. He strained his eyes.

It was a human body.

Yaakov guessed it must
have been one of the unlucky drowned passengers, but as the body swept closer
he noticed movement.

The man was alive!

The man was still
trying to swim, but his strength was ebbing and Yaakov noticed that the water
around him was stained brown-red. He rowed with his hands and drew a bit
closer. For a moment, he hesitated what to do next but then, the man raised his
head and opened his eyes. Their gazes crossed, and Yaakov realized he knew this
pair of gray-blue eyes.

It was the Templar
who had saved his life just a few hours ago.

Yaakov was not sure
what to do. A Templar knight was not the sort of company a Jew could feel
comfortable with. However, Yaakov owed his life or whatever was left of it to
this man and, gentile or not, his heart did not permit him to abandon him to
die. He took hold of one of the cleats with his left hand and extended his
right. Somehow, the man managed to grasp it. It was an immensely trying ordeal
for both, and the heavy mail the knight was wearing under his garments did not
make any of it easier. The wooden board was on the verge of capsizing a few
times but eventually, in some inexplicable way, Yaakov found himself still on
it, with the oversized gentile, robbed of his last remains of vigor by the immense
effort, lying helplessly by his side.

The Knight’s tunic was
divided into two wings, which went from his waist down to his knees. Yaakov put
this design, originally meant to facilitate riding, to good use. He fastened
the knight by his tunic’s wings to two cleats protruding from each side of him,
thus hitching him safely onto the board. Having rolled the tunic back, Yaakov
could see the ugly gaping wound in his left thigh, with blood spurting from it.
Yaakov was no medic, but his life experience had taught him a thing or two
about taking care of the wounded, and he knew that if he did not stop the
bleeding, the man would soon hemorrhage to death; he had to act fast.

He pulled out again his
cloth bag, which was now almost empty without the tallit, and retrieved from it
two little leather boxes, each attached to long, narrow leather straps – his
tefillin
[xii]
,
which he got from his father for his Bar Mitzvah.

He put the part
intended to be worn across the forehead back in the bag and was left with the
part intended for the left hand. He proceeded to wrap the long strap around the
Templar’s thigh, just above the wound, and firmly tightened it. The knight
groaned in pain and lost consciousness. A few minutes later he came to. His
eyes drilled into Yaakov's, and his lips trembled.

“I know who you are,
Jew,” he whispered with great effort, his voice barely audible over the sound
of the waves. “I thank you. You are a good man. The Lord will repay you.”

“I owe you my life…” said
Yaakov.

The knight tried to
speak up but was finding it difficult. “Listen to me, Jew,” he whispered.
Yaakov brought his ear closer to the man’s mouth, so he would be able to hear
him above the roar of the sea. “I have a request from you…” moaned the Templar.
“I want you… to do something for me…”

He cried in pain, muttered
a few incoherent words, which Yaakov could not understand, and then closed his
eyes and lost consciousness again. Yaakov checked the improvised tourniquet. He
tightened the strap a bit more. The bleeding almost stopped now.

Long minutes passed,
with Yaakov doing his best to keep them both afloat on the small raft, which went
on swinging up and down the waves. He noted gratefully that the waves were
somewhat subsiding now.

Suddenly, the knight groaned
and Yaakov turned to look at him. Once again, he was staring into those eyes.

“What is your name,
Jew?”

“Yaakov.”

“Thank you, Yaakov.” The
man’s voice was fading away. “Please… by the name of God, do as I asked of
you…” his voice degenerated into a murmur.

Yaakov did not
understand. “What did you say?” he queried. “I did not hear… I do not know what
your request is…”

The man did not seem to
hear him at all. His lips were trembling, and he was trying to say something.
Yaakov bent over him, his ear touching the dying man’s mouth, but he heard
nothing. A full minute passed by.

“Strange are the ways
of the Lord,” said the Templar suddenly with great effort and then added in
Latin,
“
Non
nobis Domine, non nobis, sed nomine tuo, da gloriam.
[xiii]
"

He grew still but his
eyes remained open, staring at Yaakov.

*    *    *

It was just before dawn
when Yaakov woke up. He touched himself, groping anxiously. His entire body
felt bruised and wounded. He was aching in parts of his body he never knew existed,
his eyes burned and his head felt very heavy. He touched his forehead and let
out a cry of pain. He then sat up with an effort and looked around him. He was
sitting on a sea shore. The sea was still now. Stones, plunks and all sorts of
debris were scattered around chaotically.

Where am I?

Then, in a flash, the
events of the past day came rushing back. The synagogue, the Saracen, the
Templar, the port, the sinking ship…

Not far away he saw the
wooden board which had saved his life, and noticed a large object on the ground
next to it. Yaakov tried to stand up but found it too difficult. He crawled on all
four towards the board, and examined the object lying there. It was the Templar,
lying on his back with his face covered by the wings of his tunic. Yaakov
hesitated for a moment and then struggled with the cloth which covered the head
like a shroud, pried it loose and pulled hard at it. The knight’s head rose for
a second and immediately dropped, its back hitting the moist sand with a thud.
The gray-blue eyes were wide open and staring at Yaakov, but the man was not
moving. The Templar was dead.

Yaakov was surprised at
his emotions. He felt genuinely sorry for this stranger, with whom fate had
taken so much trouble in entangling his life, in such an odd way and within
such a short span of time. He retreated and sat upon the sand next to the dead
Templar, trying to assess his situation.

He did not know where
he was. It must have been north of Acre. Was he near Tyre? Sidon? He had no
idea. In any case, his chances of reaching a safe haven were slim. Where could
a Jew find shelter in this time and place? If he had some valuables with which
to buy help… but he had handed everything to that abominable Sicilian, de Flor.
A thought flashed through his head. He struggled with it for a while but soon
made up his mind. This was no time for vacillations.

He got up on his feet.
It hurt, but he was encouraged to find out that the pain was not intolerable.
For a while, he just stood there, swaying on his feet, until he managed to
stabilize himself and take a few steps forward. When he reached the body, he
got down on his knees and touched it, fighting an instinct which held him back.
Yaakov was a
Cohen
[xiv]
and
the dead were impure, untouchable for him. He fought to ignore that and
reminded himself that this was
Pikuach Neffesh
[xv]
.
Somehow strengthened by this thought, he proceeded to tear whatever was
left of the tunic and felt it with his hands, searching. When he was convinced
there was nothing of value there, he cast it aside and started groping the body
with both hands.

The dead man’s torso
was protected by his mail of small metal rings, which Yaakov found difficult to
remove. Fortunately, it had some slack, so he rolled it up as far as he could
and pushed his hands underneath it, feeling the garment under the mail. For
some time, he fumbled his way around, embracing the dead knight in the process,
with the effort exhausting and the whole scene sickening him. Eventually, he
felt something around the left armpit and managed to pry it out. He crawled a
few steps aside to examine it. It was a small, swollen leather bag. Yaakov
opened it. It was full of gold coins.

He crawled back to the
body, once more overcoming his nausea, and pushed his hands inside, now towards
the right armpit. His reasoning was immediately rewarded - there was some
swelling there too. After a short struggle, he managed to pry the object loose
and pull it out. He moved aside again and sat down to take a look at his booty.

It was a cylindrical
package, which somebody had taken real good care to wrap in treated, waterproof
leather. This reminded him of something. He put the package down on the sand,
rose to his feet and started searching on his own body until he found what he
was looking for. He pulled out the package he had been carrying since the
morning of the previous day and which, incredibly, was still there, and laid it
on the sand next to the other one. They were almost identical. Both packages
were cylindrical, of similar size, and both were carefully bound in waterproof
leather. This was not a good time to open them and he concealed both under his
wet clothes.

What should he do now?
How could he get to a safe place? Where would he find a Jewish community? He
was starting to comprehend the magnitude of the predicament he was in.

The sun now rose above the
horizon in the east, and suddenly Yaakov knew what he had to do. He returned to
the body, knelt down and untied the tourniquet from the dead man’s thigh.
‘These tefillin are defiled with the impurity of the dead,’ he thought. ‘God
forgive me.’

He rose to his feet and
took a short walk to distance himself from the corpse. He turned south
south-east, supposedly towards Jerusalem, and wrapped himself in his wet
tallit. He then pulled out of his bag the other part of the tefillin and
tightened it around his head. Next, he proceeded to wrap the blood soiled
ex-tourniquet, the strap of the tefillin of hand, around his left arm and hand.
He took care to end it by wrapping it through his fingers, creating a shape
similar to the Hebrew letter
‘Shin’
, standing for
‘Shaddai’
- one
of the names of God
,
with the small
black box positioned on the back of his hand.

When he finished, he
closed his eyes and prayed the Morning Prayer with the rising sun.

G
erminal 30
^th
,
Year 7 of the French Republic,

(April 17
^th
,
1799)

Tiberias.

*    *    *

Luria raised his head.
“What are these strange dates?” he wondered.

“The French
revolutionists introduced a new calendar, which started with the founding of
the Republic on September 22
^nd
, 1792,” said Jeanne. “In their
calendar they had twelve months of thirty days each, with every month divided
into three weeks of ten days. In my translation, I added the dates according to
the Gregorian calendar.”

“A ten-day week?”
Luria was amused. “That’s quite creative.”

*    *    *

Dear Papa,

The events that have
taken place here since the last time I wrote to you, could fill volumes.
Exactly one year has passed since the day we sat together in our warm, lovely
home in Normandy. I am a different person now, much changed from the boy who
sat opposite you that day. After what I have been through this year, I am
starting to understand your words about the significance of family and the
importance of faith… we will probably talk a lot about this when, God willing,
I am back home safe and sound.

I will now tell you in
brief of some of these events, and I will also dwell upon the specific subject
that is close to your heart.

On Germinal 8
^th
(March 28
^th
)
, the first assault upon the walls of Acre began.
The Cavalry, under the command of General Murat, was assigned peripheral security
tasks, so our part of the fighting was insignificant. However, from where I
stood I could see what was happening and with the accounts I later got from my
friends, Gaston, the Grenadiers officer, and Bernard, who is a staff officer at
the supreme commander’s headquarters, I have formed a clear picture of the
battle.

Papa, this was not a
day we would wish to remember.

Acre is commanded by
Ahmed al-Jazzar (meaning Ahmed the butcher), an old Mamluk with a reputation to
match his nickname. The city resides on a small peninsula and is protected by a
wall, surrounded by a dry, yet deep, moat.

The assault started at
first light with our guns shelling the northeastern corner of the wall. Ever
since the disaster at
Abukir
[xvi]
last
year, the British have had absolute control of the sea. Now, the damned British,
who had appeared from nowhere, captured the heavy guns which were on their way
to us by sea, and we were left with limited and ineffective artillery against
the defenders of the city. Now our guns were being used against us, and we also
suffered from the guns of the English ships, at anchor in Acre’s port.

You will be surprised
to know that the senior artillery officer of the British is a Frenchman! He is
Colonel Antoine de-Phelipoux, who, believe it or not, was a fellow student of
General Bonaparte in Paris’ military academy. Rumor has it that these two had
always been bitter rivals. This treacherous dog, who owes everything to our
beloved France, left for England to support our enemies against the revolution.
He is now using his French-earned skills to kill Frenchmen! I do hope he falls
into our hands alive.

But let us go back to
the story of the battle.

Around noon, our
bombardment started bearing some fruit. The tower on the northeastern corner
collapsed, creating a breach in the wall. The penetration force under Captain
de Chateau-Renault (a cousin of my friend Gaston, whom I have mentioned
earlier) charged forward to widen the breach and to enable the main force to
break through. Unfortunately, the moat was deeper than estimated and the
ladders they brought with them were too short. This bogged down the whole
operation, exposing the grenadiers to the deadly fire of the defenders. Only ten
men managed to cross the moat and reach the collapsed tower. Out of a force of
800 grenadiers who were to follow them, just a single platoon entered the moat
and all its men were immediately killed. The rest of the attackers got stuck at
the entry to the moat and were badly hit by the defenders’ fire and by the
cannons of the British ships. It was a disaster. Of the ten heroes who had made
it to the tower, six managed to retreat, and four, including Captain de
Chateau-Renault, were slain.

The first assault on
Acre was a total failure.

Two days later, on
Germinal 10
^th
(March 30
^th
)
, I left east toward
Safed under General Murat. It was obvious now that the siege of Acre would take
some time. General Bonaparte decided to wait for heavy artillery to arrive from
Cairo, and in the meantime we had to take control of the Galilee and of the
Jordan bridges, to avoid surprises from the local villages and from the Turks
in Damascus. General Murat was assigned this task.

But before I proceed to
describe the events of this journey, I want to share with you a report that we
have just received and which illustrates the nature of our enemies - a bunch of
savages with no dignity and honor, exactly as they were 500 years ago, when our
ancestor Philippe de Charney was fighting here.

*    *    *

“Who is Philippe de
Charney?” asked Luria.

“He was a Templar
knight who fought at the battle of Acre in 1291. Our family has some Templar
history too. I’ll tell you about it later.”

*    *    *

A few days after we had
left, some soldiers working on the beach, east of the besieged city, saw dozens
of big crates, like those used for packing rice and coffee, being swept across
the waves towards the beach. The soldiers alerted their officers, including
Gaston, my friend. The crates smelt bad and when the soldiers opened them, they
were horrified. The crates contained human bodies, mostly of Christian citizens
of Acre who had been executed upon the orders of Jazzar the butcher. Crate by
crate was opened, each revealing its cargo of gore. In one of the crates, my
friend Gaston faced a terrible surprise. You may remember from a previous
letter that a few months ago General Bonaparte dispatched an emissary to Jazzar
to propose an arrangement and that the emissary never returned. Well, Gaston
found in one of the crates the butchered corpse of this emissary. It was his
cousin, Captain de Chateau-Renault, brother of the other Captain de Chateau-Renault,
who had died at the head of his elite unit during the assault on the Acre wall.
These two heroic brothers died almost at the same time and at the same place –
how terrible. My friend Gaston was much affected and swore to avenge his
beloved cousins.

Well, back to me now. Our
orders called for conquering Safed, that Galilean town high in the mountains,
overlooking the Sea of Galilee. We left east with 200 cavalry and 500 infantry,
led by a local Sheik, a bitter opponent of Jazzar, who had joined us with his
men and was offered by General Bonaparte the office of Civilian Governor of
Safed, once taken.

In the beginning, we
made fast progress. We were traveling in a long valley, which divides the
Galilee in two. Soon, low ridges of mountains appeared to our right and high
ridges to our left. After a village called Rameh, we turned north and started
climbing the higher ridge. The road soon became a hazardous trail, and progress
was difficult. In the afternoon, we arrived at Safed. There was only a small
garrison of Arabs stationed there and they all ran away without a fight,
leaving in our hands their commander, a pathetic old man, whom we took
prisoner.

Safed is built around a
fortress, which had been constructed by the Templar crusaders, and fell to the
Mamluks in the 13
^th
century, twenty five years before Acre did. The
sheik told us that the Mamluks butchered all 700 Templars and mounted their
heads on spikes, just like the savages did one month ago in Jaffa to our
emissaries, who had approached them under a white flag.

Most of the people of
Safed chose to hide in their homes, but some of them, mostly Jews (the
population is half Muslim and half Jewish), came out. They gave us a nice
welcome and served bread and wine to the soldiers. Most Jewish men we saw were
good looking, neatly dressed in clean garments and much more agreeable than the
Arabs we had met in Egypt. I, together with an infantry captain named Simon,
met with a delegation of Jews who came to welcome us, to see whether we could
be assisted by them in any way.

The Jewish women stayed
inside their homes, but there was a young Jewish woman named Rivka, who was
part of the delegation, thanks to her excellent command of French. She was
dressed very modestly, but her beauty shone through and could not be ignored.
Papa, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her French was indeed excellent,
and she translated and mediated between us and her people. During the
conversation, I realized that her intelligence and wit matched her beauty. Something
in my heart went out to her, and I knew my feelings were reciprocated.

On Germinal 14
^th
(April 3
^rd
)
, having concluded a survey of the area, General
Murat returned with most of the force to Acre, leaving in Safed 200 soldiers
under Captain Simon. I was ordered to stay and support him with a few of my
cavalry. During the days which followed, I realized I had been right in
assessing the feelings of Rivka, the Jewish girl, towards me. Using various
excuses and her full cooperation, we found ways to outsmart her escorts, who
tried never to leave her alone, and we managed to meet a few times all by
ourselves.

Papa, for the first
time in my life I found in myself real feelings for a woman, not just the
infatuations I had experienced before. And of all women, a Jewish one… how
strange! The week that ended on Germinal 17
^th
(April 6
^th
)
,
was the happiest of my life.

On Germinal 16
^th
(April 5
^th
)
, we received news by a mounted courier that
thousands of Turkish cavalry and infantry had arrived from Damascus and were
now crossing the Bnot-Yaakov Bridge on the Jordan River, only a day’s walk from
Safed. We had very little time to prepare for battle. It was obvious that we
could not defend the whole city with 200 soldiers and a few cavalry, so Captain
Simon decided to retreat to the old fort and prepare for a siege. Panic spread
among the inhabitants, as we could not guarantee their safety.

However, I was true to
my word and made sure that my Rivka’s family, along with some other local
inhabitants, retreated with us to the fort. We probably saved them from a woeful
fate. These Jews are still paying for their ancient sins, and it seems they are
destined to live forever between the hammer and anvil.

The Turks arrived in
Safed on Germinal 17
^th
(April 6
^th
)
. They outnumbered
us by far – thousands against our 200, but we were well organized in the fort,
and they could not touch us. They tried to mount the walls a few times, but we
always managed to repel and inflict heavy casualties upon them. The Turks,
crazed with rage, ran wild in the city and set fire to parts of it, but we were
safely entrenched in the fort. Eventually, the Turks gave up.

On Germinal 24
^th
(April 13
^th
)
, a farmer sent by General Murat, somehow found
his way to us with orders for Captain Simon. The orders said that General Murat
would be passing near Safed on his way east. Captain Simon was to storm out of
the fort, attack what was left of the besieging Turks and, with the help of a
part of General Murat’s force, drive them out of Safed. There was also a personal
message for me. After this battle, I was to leave Safed with my men and join
the General’s main force. It turned out that the Turks besieging us were part
of a bigger force, which was coming down from Damascus via the Bnot-Yaakov
Bridge. The major part of this army was on its way to join forces with an Arab
force in Jenin, from where they planned to move on Acre and engage our army.

In the morning hours of
Germinal 26
^th
(April 15
^th
)
, we left Safed’s fort
under Captain Simon (a brilliant commander to whom I foresee a bright future)
and engaged the Turks, who were utterly surprised and displayed pathetic
soldiery. I realized quickly that with such a wretched enemy we had nothing to
fear. Within two hours, we scared them away with minor casualties on our side.
I, then, took my farewell from Captain Simon and rode to report to my
commander, General Murat, who was on his way to the Jordan River. I assumed my
place at the head of my cavalry company and was cheered by my men, whom I had
really missed.

Here, too, we won a
huge victory.

General Murat’s
infantry had two battalions and as exercised so many times before, each
arranged itself in a shape of a square. The two squares then moved rapidly
towards the Jordan River to capture the Bnot-Yaakov Bridge. The Turkish cavalry
made an attempt to attack us, but the small perimeter of the squares prevented
the Turks from putting their advantage in numbers into effect. Their offensive
was promptly broken, and they ran back into their camps. What now happened was
unbelievable. The retreating cavalry caused panic throughout the huge camp and
thousands of Turkish and Arab soldiers scattered away in a chaotic rout,
running for their lives rather than face 1,000 Frenchmen – a smashing victory
indeed! The whole splendid camp of the enemy with its entire equipment fell
into our hands, and the soldiers celebrated all night by singing, dancing and
gorging themselves.

The following day, we
moved on southwards and on Germinal 28
^th
(April 17
^th
)
,
we reached Tiberias. Tiberias is surrounded by high walls and since we had no
artillery, we would have faced difficulties capturing it. Here again, the
cowardly Turks, having heard how their brothers had been defeated on the
previous day, simply deserted their positions and ran away before we even got
there. In the city we found storehouses full of provisions. We found here a big
Jewish community, and they gave us a warm welcome. However, by now my work is done,
and I will not need them.