The Righteous Men (2006) (36 page)

I don’t believe in Beatles. I just believe in me, Yoko and me, and
that’s reality.’

He had never heard it before, but it made his throat dry.

It was as if Beth herself were speaking to him, as if she had, at last,
smuggled a message out of her cell. The yearning that Will felt for his wife at
that moment was so great, it was as if he was made of nothing else.

Finally, TC gave the signal to get out of the car. They paid the driver and
walked towards the house. Will adjusted his skullcap. Again. TC knocked on the
door. It took a while, but Will could hear activity. A slow shuffle to the door
and then a hunched, grey-bearded old man. He could have been no younger than
eighty.

‘Rabbi Mandelbaum, it’s Tova Chaya Lieberman. Your pupil. I’ve
come back.’

The eyes spoke first, brightening and moistening in an instant. He looked
and looked, without uttering a word. Then he nodded gently and waved them in.
He walked ahead of them, allowing his left arm to lift up as he passed the door
to the dining room: his way of saying, Go in there. He carried on in the
direction of the kitchen.

Will was hit immediately by the smell of old books: the room was crammed
from floor to ceiling with the leather bound, gilt-edged volumes he had seen in
the interrogation room on Friday night. Holy texts. The surface of the dining room
table was invisible: covered first by a tablecloth, then a plastic sheet and
finally dozens of open books. It was hard to see; the room was lit by one weak
electric light. But even with a cursory scan, Will could tell: barely a word
was in English.

There were no paintings on the wall, only photographs. Perhaps a dozen of
them, maybe more, all displaying a single subject. The Rebbe. Dead more than
two years, he stared out from every angle, sometimes smiling, sometimes with an
arm aloft, but always gazing intently. In one photograph the Rebbe stood with
Rabbi Mandelbaum in a group. The others seemed to be commercially produced,
specially mounted on tacky, log style slices of fake wood. It reminded Will of
the souvenirs you could buy in small Italian villages, depicting the local
saint.

Rabbi Mandelbaum was back, holding an unsteady tray with a single glass of
water.

‘Sit, sit,’ he insisted, as he offered the tray to Will. He was puzzled.
Why was he the only one to have anything to drink? TC leaned over and
whispered: ‘Yom Kippur has already begun. This evening. No food or drink.’

‘So why has he given me water?’

‘He’s a smart guy.’

TC had positioned herself facing her old teacher.

‘Mrs Mandelbaum?’ she said in a voice at once hesitant and
gentle.

‘Haya Hindel Rachel, aleyha hosholom.’

‘I’m sorry.
HaMakom y’nachem oscha b’soch sh’ar
aveilei Tzion v’Yerushalayim
.’ May the Lord comfort you amongst
all those who are mourning for Zion and Jerusalem.

Will could only watch and listen, but he knew enough body language to know TC
was giving condolences.

‘Rabbi Mandelbaum, I’ve come here after all these years on a
matter of life and death. I believe there is a
sakono fur diegantseh breeye
.’
A risk to the whole of creation. She paused, before remembering herself.

‘This is my friend, William Monroe.’ The rabbi made the slightest
movement with his eyebrow, a tiny reflex that said, ‘Don’t think I’m
naive young lady. I understand the ways of the world. I understand that a man
named William Monroe is not a Jew, no matter how he is dressed. And I also
understand that a word like “friend” has multiple meanings.’

‘His wife has been kidnapped. She is held hostage, here in Crown
Heights. Will has spoken to a rabbi — I believe it must be Rabbi
Freilich.’ She glanced over at Will, who was glaring at her in surprise:
Why
didn’t you tell me you knew his name
? She carried on. ‘He doesn’t
deny that he has taken her. But he has never explained why.’ No shock
registered on Mandelbaum’s face. He just nodded, encouraging TC to
continue.

‘We have been getting various messages, delivered by telephone.

Text messages.’ She enunciated the phrase, as if it might be
unfamiliar to the aged rabbi. But he did not seem fazed by it.

‘We do not know who these messages are from. But they do seem to
indicate some kind of explanation for events here and beyond. I can’t be
sure what they mean. But I have an idea. Which is why we’re here.’

‘Fregt mich a shale.’
Ask your question.

‘Rabbi Mandelbaum, will you explain to Will the idea of a
tzaddik
.’

For the first time, the rabbi conveyed an emotion. He looked quizzically at TC,
as if wondering what he was about to get into.

‘Tova Chaya, you know well what is a
tzaddik
. This much we
learned together already. For this you came back?’

‘I want him to hear it from you. Will you tell him?’

The rabbi stared hard at TC, as if trying to work out her motives. Finally
and hesitantly, he turned to Will and began.

‘Mr Monroe, a
tzaddik
is a righteous man. The root of the word
is
tzedek
, which is justice. A
tzaddik
is not just wise or learned.
For that we have different words. A
tzaddik
is a man of special wisdom.
He embodies justice itself. The English word “righteous” is the
closest you have.’

William had never heard a voice like it. The rabbi who had interrogated him
so forcefully — whom he now discovered was called Freilich — had
spoken with an unusual intonation, a musical lilt that bobbed up and down. But
it was still a recognizably American accent. This was something else. Not German,
not Eastern European exactly, perhaps a blend of the two. Was it the accent of
Mittel
Europe
Or was it, in fact, the voice of a place that no longer existed
— the voice of Jewish Europe? In that sound, Will could recognize the pictures
he had studied in history books of the second world war: the Jews of Poland or
Hungary or Russia, their dark eyes staring out of black-and-white photographs,
on the brink of a terrible fate they did not know. He heard the sorrowful, wry
violins of the klezmer music he had occasionally caught on New York radio. In
this one man’s voice, Will Monroe imagined he could hear a lost
civilization.

He pulled himself back into the present, determinedly concentrating on what
the rabbi was saying.

‘Our tradition speaks of two kinds of
tzaddikim
, those who are
known and those who are hidden. The hidden are understood to be on a higher
plane than those whose holiness is public. They are righteous and yet they seek
no fame or glory. They have none of the conceit that comes with public life. Even
their closest neighbours have no idea of their true nature. Often they are
poor. Tova Chaya will remember the folk stories she read as a child:
tzaddikim
who lived as if in secret, working with their hands. They might be poor or do
very humble jobs. In folk tales, they are often blacksmiths or cobblers; maybe
a janitor. And yet, these men perform deeds of the highest goodness. Holy
deeds.’

‘But no one knows who they are?’ The question just popped out of
Will’s mouth.

‘Precisely. Indeed,’ and at this the rabbi allowed himself a smile,
‘the
tzaddik
will often go to great lengths to put people off the
trail, so to speak. Our writings are full of stories of tremendous paradox: the
holiest men, found in the unholiest places. It’s deliberate: they want to
conceal their true nature behind a mask, so they disguise themselves as crude,
even unpleasant men. Tova Chaya might remember the story of Rabbi Levi Yitzhok
of Berditchev?’

‘God’s Drunkard.’

I’m glad. You have not forgotten all we studied together.
God’s
Drunkard
is indeed the story I have in mind. In that story, the holy Rabbi
Levi Yitzhok finds that when it comes to divine grace, he is outshone by Chaim
the Watercarrier an ignoramus who is
shicker
from morning till night.’
TC and the rabbi chuckled together.

‘So some of the most righteous men appear in the very opposite form?’

‘Yes. Consider it a kind of divine joke. Or proof that Judaism is a
profoundly democratic philosophy. The holiest are not those who know the most,
or who have the most letters after their name. Nor is this group made up of
those who pray most energetically, fast most assiduously or observe the commandments
most diligently. The measure of holiness is the just and generous treatment of
our fellow human beings.’

‘So this man, this drunkard, he was good to his fellow man?’

‘He must have been very good.’ The three of them sat in a brief
silence, punctuated by the sound of the old man breathing noisily.

‘There is a story. One of the oldest.’ Again the beginning of a
smile was playing on his lips. Will suddenly saw behind the beard and the
accent; he saw a rather charming man.

Now elderly and hunched, in his youth he would, Will realized, have been
quite a charismatic teacher.

Rabbi Mandelbaum was out of his chair, shuffling around the table to reach
the bookshelf just behind Will’s head. ‘Here, this is from
Talmud
Yerushalmi
, from the tractate dealing with fast days. Tova Chaya, did we
study this together?’

Will was getting lost. ‘Sorry, where is this from?’

TC stepped in. ‘It’s from what’s known as the Palestinian Talmud:
the book of rabbinic commentary written in Jerusalem.’

‘When?’

Rabbi Mandelbaum, now back in his seat and flicking through pages, answered
without looking up. ‘This story comes from the third century of the
common era.’
The common era
. A euphemism for ‘anno domini’,
the year of our lord, referring to Jesus Christ — a phrase no believing
Jew could use. ‘This is probably the oldest story of its kind.’ His
eyes were scanning the text. ‘OK, so we don’t need all the details but
in this story, Rabbi Abbahu notices that when a certain man is in the
congregation, the community’s prayer for rain gets answered. When he’s
not there, no rain. Anyway, it turns out this man works in, of all places, a
whorehouse! Excuse me Tova Chaya, to speak of such things.’

‘You mean,’ said Will, ‘he’s a pimp? And yet he is
one of the righteous men?’

That’s what the Talmud says.’

Will felt an ice shard slide down his back. He shuddered, his shoulders
trembling. He could not hear what TC or the rabbi were saying. In his head
there was room for only one voice. It belonged to Letitia, the woman he had met
in Brownsville. He could hear her words loud and clear.
The man they killed
last night may have sinned every day of his God-given life — but he was the
most righteous man I have ever known
. She had said that about Howard Macrae
who, like the man in that third-century congregation, earned his living as a
pimp.

‘… the stories almost seem to delight in this kind of paradox,’
the rabbi was saying. ‘Good men disguised as humble men or even as great
sinners.’

Will’s head was throbbing. Pat Baxter, the militia crazy mixing with
gun-toting fanatics, yet who had never been arrested and had given one of his
own organs to a total stranger. Gavin Curtis, despised as a corrupt politician,
yet funnelling money to the world’s poorest people. Samak Sangsuk, just
another high-rolling Thai businessman, yet quietly ensuring that the Bangkok
underclass found dignity in death.

Will could hardly keep up with his own thoughts. He remembered Curtis’s
curiously humble car as he fled the press ruck. And what had Genevieve Huntley
said about the kidney donor?
Mr Baxter’s greatest request was
anonymity. That was the one thing he asked of me in return for what he did
.
All of these man had done noble deeds — and all had done them
in
secret
.

‘How many of these righteous men are there?’

The rabbi instantly looked at TC. ‘This you don’t know?

This you’ve forgotten?’

‘I didn’t forget, Rabbi Mandelbaum. But I wanted Will to hear it
from you. To hear it all.’

‘There are thirty-six
tzaddikim
in each generation. You know perhaps
that in Hebrew, each letter also has a numerical value? In Hebrew, thirty-six
is expressed by the Hebrew characters
lamad
, which is like an English
l
and
vav
, which is equivalent to the letter
v
in English.
Lamad
is thirty and
vav
is six. In Yiddish, these righteous men are known as
the
lamadvavniks
: the thirty-six just men who uphold the world.’

Will jolted, his antennae twitching the way they did when he heard the words
that would make a news story.

‘Excuse me, what do you mean by “uphold the world”?’
He saw TC was nodding, a half-smile on her lips that seemed to say,
At last
we’re getting to the heart of the matter
.

‘Ah, well this is the whole point of the story. I am sorry Mr Monroe,
I’m getting old. I should have mentioned this at the start. Please, let
me get past.’ The rabbi was reaching for yet another book; one of the few
in the room in English.
The Messianic Idea in Judaism
by Gershom
Scholem. ‘Someone gave this to the seminary. I think it tries to explain
these matters to the general reader—’

Will was almost scratching at his own skin in frustration. He nodded
politely, his eyes wide, doing all he could to encourage the rabbi to cut the
academic footnotes and get on with it.

‘Ah yes, here we are. Scholem says that Jewish tradition “speaks
of thirty-six
tzaddikim
, or just men, on whom — though they are
unknown or hidden — rests the fate of the world”.’ He was
skim-reading further down the page. ‘“Already in the biblical
Proverbs of Solomon, we find the saying that the just man is the foundation of
the world and therefore, as it were, supports it”.’

‘Hold on, Rabbi Mandelbaum.’ It was TC, suddenly on the edge of
her seat. ‘Where in Proverbs is that reference?’