"I want to ask you, how do I tell them everything else that I’ve never told them?"

My friend Rabbi Chacham-Tzedek hadn’t sent any clients my way in all the years I’d known him, but that was understandable. His beit knesset was comprised of a few extravagantly wealthy European and Persian families, who, as a general rule, were somewhat mistrustful of the mental-health field. And even in a situation where intervention could be helpful, they would never go to a local psychiatrist on the outside chance that they might run into a familiar face on the way to an appointment. Generally, when Rabbi Chacham-Tzedek consulted with me about a congregant, I’d refer him to a fellow psychiatrist in Kfar Saba. Everyone felt happier and safer that way.

That’s why I was surprised when the Rabbi called and told me about his uncle. “My uncle Moussa has asked that I find him a psychiatrist, yet refuses to share any further information with anyone in the family.”

Based on my experience with the community, I wasn’t surprised by the secretive nature of his uncle’s request.

“You wouldn’t rather send him to Dr. Veissberg in Kfar Saba?” I asked openly.

“My uncle asked me to find someone who speaks our language, Dr. Freedman.”

I smiled together with Rabbi Chacham-Tzedek — we both knew he wasn’t talking about my Farsi, which is limited to a few dozen words and mostly covers different specialty dishes eaten on the chagim.

“You mean you’re looking for a fake-Persian who can talk about Shabbat ghondi on one hand, and who realizes that the fact that he’s paranoid about everyone is not necessarily a psychotic symptom. But you know, he’ll never come to my office.”

“And you know that he’ll have no problem covering your fee for a home visit, Doctor. Furthermore, his wife is aware of your addiction to tadig, so you can expect some of that crispy, saffron-spiced rice upon arrival.”

Moussa Chacham-Tzedek’s house was located in the luxury neighborhood of Yemin Moshe. The walkway leading to his door was lined with Persian sweet lemons and rows of perfectly trimmed hadassim. The door itself was carved ornately with five-fingered chamsas surrounding the family’s nameplate.

Before I could even knock, the door opened before me by two individuals whose sharp suits, extraordinarily muscular builds, and Rolex watches identified them as hired guards. I introduced myself as a doctor who had been asked to make a house call for Mr. Chacham-Tzedek, to which they simultaneously nodded and brought me in. I entered and kissed the golden mezuzah case that could easily have been the size of my arm.

Had I known they would frisk me, I would have let the guards know I was carrying my firearm (I’m also an MDA volunteer physician). In the end, I was allowed in and brought to sit at a giant, circular wooden table in an office as big as a medium-sized house. The walls were covered with a mix of ancient Persian artifacts and photos of famous Sephardic chachamim.

I tried not to let it affect me, but the only other time I’d seen such wealth was when I was flown to Panama to see the son of a Syrian tycoon who was having panic attacks. I was thinking how I hoped this case would end up better than that one, when an older, nondescript Persian man entered the room.

Mr. Chacham-Tzedek was in his late sixties, dressed casually in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks. I stood up in a respectful fashion and he waved his hand to signify that I should sit down. He chose the regal seat across from me next to the window and asked me warmly, “Chai me hai?”

I responded to his friendly offer for a cup of tea, but I did so in Hebrew to let him know that while I was fluent enough in Persian culture to understand the question, we’d need to switch languages in order to have a productive conversation.

Two cups of tea came moments later, delivered by a woman who was obviously his wife. Still, she made it clear that while she was happy to have guests, she knew nothing about the nature of our business and didn’t particularly care to. I imagined that she had welcomed innumerable guests over the decades with sweet Persian tea.

“You know enough Persian to accept a cup of tea,” my host began. “I imagine you also know enough about our community to understand how private we are when it comes to certain things.”

“I certainly respect your confidentiality, as I would for any of my patients, Adon Chacham-Tzedek,” I responded.

“You can call me Moussa, Dr. Freedman,” he let me know in what was more of a command than a comment.

“Amu Moussa,” I countered, bestowing the familiar-but-dignified title of “Uncle” that was befitting of a man a generation older than myself.

He smiled, made a brachah, and sipped his tea, turning to look out the window as he gazed upon the small grove of sweet lemon trees in his private courtyard. His face retained its pleasant demeanor even as tears began to roll down his cheeks and drop into his cup.

Amu Moussa and I shared a silence that he broke as he placed his cup on the table and told me his secret. “I’m dying, Dr. Freedman.”

I rearranged my features as neutrally as I could. This wasn’t what I’d expected, but somehow, I also knew that it wasn’t the reason he’d summoned me.

“I’m dying and you are only the third person to know after myself and my personal physician. I know that there isn’t much you can do for my diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, but you can answer a question for me, Dr. Freedman.”

“I’d be honored to help if I can, Amu Moussa.”

“How do I tell my family?” he asked me — and then held up a hand when he saw that I was poised to answer. “No, not ‘how to tell them that I have less than six months to live.’ That I can do. And that I will do. They are strong people and they are people who are steeped in Torah. They will understand that part. Rather, I want to ask you, how do I tell them everything else that I’ve never told them? You see, I was once a young man in Tehran before I was an old man in Jerusalem.”

I sipped from the cup of sweet Persian tea and considered the question. I had no idea what he was about to reveal regarding his past, but I sensed there was a trauma there, an inner unrest buried for decades that needed to be released. Individual trauma results from an event or set of circumstances that is experienced as physically or emotionally harmful or life threatening, and generally has lasting adverse effects on the person’s mental, physical, social, emotional, or spiritual well-being. Amu Moussa, though, seemed to not only be a pillar of strength and control, but spiritually healthy as well.

Yet these people were private, and suspicious. Would Amu Moussa be able to share his experiences and be willing to explore those ghosts together?

“I wasn’t a spy or a warrior, Dr. Freedman,” he began. “I was just a young man who tried to help my community. But I can never forget.”

To be continued…

Identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients, their families, and all other parties.

Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman, whose new book Off the Couch has just been released in collaboration with Menucha Publishers, can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills around Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 896)