The Righteous Men (2006) (16 page)

‘Besides, I’m not Jewish. I didn’t think, you know, that
these rules applied to me.’ That sounded much more lame out loud than it
had in Will’s head. It sounded like schoolboy special pleading: the dog
ate my homework. But it was the truth.

Sure, he should be respectful to others while he was in their community, but
this was crazy. They could not be this angry about a Sabbath infraction, could
they? He was almost relieved: if this was the charge, it meant the Rebbe had
found nothing to pursue in the notebook.

‘You’re not Jewish?’

‘No, I told Sandy, Shimon that already. I’m not Jewish. I’m
just a reporter.’

‘Now that surprises me. I’ve got to admit, that I did not expect.’

Will was baffled, but also distracted. Redbeard had vanished.

Will’s sole custodian was now this Israeli: he looked young.

The
Times
magazine had run a piece about the Israeli army only a
couple of weeks back. With a half-memory of that as his source, Will knew that
an Israeli man needed only to be aged twenty-one to have done a full three
years in the Israel Defence Forces. God knows what he had learned there: this guy
might look like a kid, but chances were he had steel in his veins. Why else had
the Rebbe picked him to turn the screws on Will? He vaguely remembered from the
same piece that many ultra-orthodox eighteen-year-olds were given exemption
from army service so that they could devote their lives to studying the Torah.
But not all of them: something told him this was one of the guys who swapped
his prayer book for a rifle.

‘You know, Mr Mitchell — or should I call you Tom? — I’m
not sure we’re making that much progress here. Something is missing from
this encounter.’

There it was again, that sardonic, world-weary inflection, as if there was
humour in every situation, even this one. Will could not get the measure of
this man at all: his voice was warm, avuncular even. Yet the room was humid
with menace and it was all coming from him, from behind Will’s back.

‘I propose that we relocate.’

Clearly he had given some kind of nod, because the Israeli swiftly placed a
blindfold on Will; not like the childhood variety, where some light always
leaks through, but a complete cover, one that seemed to choke the eyelids,
stopping them breathing. He felt himself being yanked upward again, out of the
chair. Except this time it was not for another standing search, but to be led
away.

Will decided he would not panic. He would not give in to the feeling that,
with each step, he was leaning into a dark, empty space, plunging off a cliff
into an abyss. He would focus on the ground beneath his feet; each time he
lifted one leg, he would remember how near the ground remained. Perhaps he
should scrape his shoes along, to maintain constant contact? Maybe that was why
you always saw handcuffed prisoners shuffling: it was not because they were
depressed, but because they needed the reassurance that the earth was still
there, right under their shoes.

He was aware of passing through another corridor, getting further away from
the clamour of the synagogue which, Will realized, had begun to fade into a
loud hubbub a while back.

He chided himself for not having noticed exactly when; that detail was
surely important in tracking the Rebbe’s movements.

What was truly strange, though, was the feeling of dependency on the Israeli
now gripping his right arm with painful force. Will was relying on him as a
guide, aware that he must now look the way blind men always look: Stevie Wonder
or Ray Charles, his head moving randomly, untethered to logic.

This man was his captor but, Will thought, he was also his carer.

Now he felt the cold. They had moved outside, but only for a few steps. He
heard the creak of a swing door, like a garden gate, and then felt the change
of temperature. As if they were in an enclosed space, though not quite outdoors.

There was an echo.

‘No one likes this, I’m afraid, Mr Mitchell. Tom. But I’m going
to have to take a look at you.’

It was in the next few seconds that Will decided that this was not some
ghastly incident that would soon resolve itself, but actually something rather
terrifying. until now, he had clung to the idea that this might be an error or
even an ironic send-up of the interrogation scene from a thousand movies.

He had been hoping that it would all be revealed as a hideous mistake; or
that, at least, he would soon know the identity of his inquisitor; or that he
would make progress; or that this would simply stop. Now he felt sure these
strange people who had stolen his wife were about to torture and kill him, probably
in a way so sadistic as to chill the blood. Worse than that, and this thought
turned his bowels to mush, they had doubtless already done whatever they were
going to do, or worse, to Beth.

‘No!’ Will shouted, but it was too late. He felt his arms being
pinned back while someone unbuckled his trousers.

There was a hand over his mouth, too. This could not be the work of the
Israeli, all alone. But where were these extra hands coming from? Who did they
belong to? And then, without warning, his underpants were down.

‘Stop.’ He heard the word and was shocked to discover the voice
was not his own. The Rebbe had spoken. ‘You’re telling the truth.
You’re not Jewish.’

Will could only guess what was happening: the Rebbe must have been standing
in front of him, looking at his penis and concluding, rightly, that it was not
circumcised.

‘You’re not Jewish,’ the Rebbe repeated. And then, to his assistant
or assistants: ‘Cover him up.’ A pause. ‘Well, this is good
news, Mr Mitchell. I now believe that you are not a federal agent or a law
enforcement official. I suspected you were, prowling around with all your
questions. But I know those people and, first, they would have had you wired
and, second, they would have sent a Jew. Not only that, but they would have
considered themselves very smart for doing that.

Oh, yes, regular geniuses for giving Agent Goldberg a call and saying “This
is a job with your name on it.” That’s how they think. Send an Arab
to infiltrate a Muslim terrorist gang, send a Jew to us. But you’re not a
Jew, so you’re not working for them. That I now believe.’

Will’s trousers were back on, his belt was buckled up and he was off a
hook if not the hook: he was not an undercover federal agent. All that combined
to reduce the terror of a few moments ago. His body, the pounding of his heart,
the moisture on his palms was at code orange, rather than red, where it had
been seconds earlier.

‘You look relieved, Mr Mitchell. I’m glad. The trouble is, if
you’re not a fed, you must be working for someone else. And that, I fear,
is infinitely more serious.’

H
e did not have long to be
confused. After the Rebbe had spoken, perhaps a beat passed before Will felt
his back pushed forward, making him buckle at the waist. His arms were now gripped
like levers, pushing his head and shoulders down and forward.

His nose felt it first, as it filled with water; then his scalp, as it
shrank from the cold. His throat gurgled and gagged. He was choking and gasping
at the same time.

Will’s head and neck had just been submerged in freezing cold water,
the blindfold still on. He could feel his chest contract with the shock of it,
his heart racing. He had been shoved with some force, in the darkness and
therefore without warning, into that icy liquid. He was there for five or six seconds,
his shoulders held down to prevent him coming up for air. It was long enough to
fill his nostrils, for the water to travel down his sinuses and into his brain.
Or that’s how it felt — like asphyxiation.

Once out, he gulped in air even as he coughed, a double reflex like
vomiting. But then the hands were pushing again and he was under once more.

This time it was the temperature. His eyes seemed to shrivel in their
sockets, recoiling from the cold; he was sure he could hear his whole system,
veins, arteries and blood vessels, screaming with the trauma of the sudden
radical change in temperature.

What was this? A pond? An icebox? The edge of a river? A toilet? The
blindfold was soaked but not loosening; if anything it seemed now to be welding
itself onto Will’s eyelids, sealed in by ice.

‘Now, Tom,’ the voice was saying, its timbre distorted by the frozen
water in Will’s ears. ‘Shall we start talking honestly?’

By way of response, Will spat out a mouthful of the water, emptying himself
for the next, inevitable dunk.

‘I believe this is your second time at the
mikve
today. You’re
becoming a regular
frummie
, aren’t you Tom? And I’m sure Shimon
Shmuel explained to you the purpose, the meaning of the
mikve
. This is a
place of purification, a place of sanctification. We enter coated in the sins
of our regular lives and emerge
tahoor
, pure. And in this state we are untainted
by any sins, be they lies or deceits. Do you follow me, Tom?’

Will was now shivering. His shirt was soaked and he could feel rivulets of
liquid chill running down his back and chest. His teeth were about to start
chattering.

‘What I am saying is that I now insist on the truth. And if two or
three dips in this outdoor
mikve
, filled only by purest rainwater,
cannot find the truth in you then maybe four or five or six or seven
submersions will. We are patient men. We will keep plunging you into that water
until you deal with us plainly and straightforwardly. Do you understand?’

There must have been a silent nod, because down Will went again. The cold
was now biting into him, seeping below his skin and into his bones. They too
seemed to contract, as if they could hide from the cold by making themselves
smaller.

‘Who do you work for, Tom? Who sent you here?’

‘I’m a journalist,’ was all Will could manage, in a voice
he hardly recognized, querulous with cold.

‘You’ve said that, but who wants you here? Why are you here?’

I’ve told you.’

And down he went again, this time shoved so that his whole upper body was
submerged. He felt the water travel below his waist, trickling into his shorts,
spreading an icy damp around his groin.

He had no idea what to say. He wanted desperately for this to end, but what
could he do? If he told the truth, he would endanger himself and Beth. The
kidnappers had been clear: no involvement of the police. That surely extended
to vigilante rescue missions as well. These were serious, violent people and he
would be admitting he had defied their instructions.

He would also be confessing that he had indeed been lying. As for Beth, they
had kidnapped her for some purpose — which he could not fathom — but
one thing he knew: his presence here was not part of their plan. If they had
not already done great harm to her, his appearance would all but guarantee it.

Yet to carry on insisting that he was Tom Mitchell seemed doomed. He could
not give them any more information because there was no more; Mitchell was a
fiction. On this the Rebbe’s instincts were right. Even if Will had the
strength to withstand this weight, he would eventually crack because his story
would crack: it had to. These were his thoughts as the weight on his hands and
shoulders came again, plunging his body deep into the cold.

‘Enough,’ Will said. ‘No more.’

‘Maybe I need to explain a little about Judaism,’ the voice was
saying as he was finally allowed back up for air.

He could hardly make out the words, so loud was the explosion generated by
his own lungs as he gulped for oxygen.

‘Judaism holds the harshest possible view of murder. “Thou shalt
not kill” is the sixth commandment. It means that murder is never
allowed.’ There was a long pause, as if the Rebbe expected Will to react.
Will could not; he was still drawing in loud, urgent breaths.

‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with one of our most
famous teachings, Mr Mitchell. “To save a single life is to save the whole
world.” Really, the whole world. That’s how much each life matters
to HaShem. In each individual person is contained the whole world. Because we
are all created in God’s image. This is the meaning behind the phrase “sanctity
of life”, Mr Mitchell. Now it is a cliche. People just say it without
even thinking. But what do those words really mean?’ The voice had a hint
of the music he had heard before, back in the synagogue — that sing-song,
up-and-down rhythm, by turns questioning and answering, all in a single monologue.
‘They mean that life is sacred, because it is part of the divine. To kill
a human being is to kill an aspect of the Almighty. Which is why we are
forbidden to kill. Except in the most exceptional circumstances.’

Will felt the cold bite deeper into his flesh.

‘Self-defence is the obvious example, but it is not the only one. You
see, in Judaism we have a beautiful concept known as
pikuach nefesh
.
This refers to the saving of a soul. Now, there is no more sacred duty than
pikuach
nefesh
: almost anything is allowed if it will save a soul. Rabbis are often
asked, “Can a Jew ever eat pork?” The answer is yes! Of course he
can! If he is on a desert island and the only means to survive is to slay a pig
and eat it, then not only is the Jew allowed to do that, he must do it! He
must. It is a religious commandment: he must save his own life.
Pikuach
nefesh
.

‘Let’s take a more difficult case.’ The man was speaking
as if this was a tutorial at Balliol College, a one-to-one class with Will as
his pupil. The fact that Will was kneeling, his hands now tied, his body drenched
and frozen, barely broke his stride.

‘Would we be allowed to kill, if that would save a life? No. The rules
of
pikuach nefesh
prohibit murder, idolatry and sexual immorality even
to save a life. If someone tells you to commit murder, just to save your own
skin, you cannot do it. But let’s say a known killer is on the loose. He
is on his way to murder a family of innocents. We know that if we kill him,
their lives will be saved. Is it right to kill in that situation? Yes, because
such a man is what we call a
rodef
. If there is no other way to stop
him, he can be killed with impunity.