"In Jerusalem… I don’t know, the people there, a lot of them seem to live and breathe Judaism in a much more vibrant way”
"Are you going to Israel to find a kallah?”
“That, too,” Yonatan replied, unable to suppress a smile.
“Sara!” Yonatan’s sister Judy was displeased with her daughter’s lack of manners. “We don’t ask questions like that.”
“But Yonatan doesn’t mind,” the little girl protested.
“I’m going to Israel because I have a job there,” Yonatan explained. “And if I also happen to find a kallah there, that would be very nice.”
“You’re getting awfully old,” five-year-old Miriam commented. “You really need to get married, Uncle Yonatan.”
“Miriam!” Judy looked apologetically at her brother. “I’m sorry, Yonatan. They’re usually much better behaved than this. I don’t know what’s gotten into them today. Maybe it’s the excitement about your trip.”
“Don’t worry about it, Judy. If there’s anyone in the world I’m happy to discuss shidduchim with, it’s my nieces.”
“If you get married in Yerushalayim, will you invite us?” Sara asked.
“Of course.”
“Ima, will you let us go to Yerushalayim for Uncle Yonatan’s wedding?” Miriam asked.
“Of course I will. You’d be the guests of honor.”
“We’re going to Yerushalayim! In an aeroplane!”
“And we’re going to dance with the kallah at Yonatan’s wedding!”
When the girls had tired of jumping around Yonatan, they went to pester Savta Marta for a while. Yonatan debated between two backpacks. He’d taken the big one on his last trip to Israel. But this time, most of his things were in the suitcase. The small one would do fine as a carry-on.
“Where are you staying?” Judy asked him.
“For the first two weeks, in a hotel, while I try out my new job. If it works out nicely, I’ll rent an apartment and apply for the exam to have my British degree recognized in Israel.”
“Conserving old buildings in Jerusalem — that sounds like a dream job,” Judy mused.
“I expect it’ll be pretty dreamy,” Yonatan said. “I’ve been dreaming of a job in Jerusalem ever since I decided to specialize in conservation architecture. And also….”
“Also what?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking of becoming a little more religious.”
“Yonatan! What do you mean by that? We were brought up perfectly religious!”
“Yes, we’re very religious,” Yonatan agreed. “But in Jerusalem… I don’t know, the people there, a lot of them seem to live and breathe Judaism in a much more vibrant way.”
“And our Judaism is dead? Is that what you mean to say?”
“I can’t explain it in words, Judy. I’ll tell you what. The next time you come to Jerusalem — for my wedding, let’s say, or just to visit — go to a chassidic tish and see for yourself. See it, hear it, feel it. We’re completely observant, Judy, I’m not arguing with that. But the Judaism you find there is on a higher spiritual plane. I asked Daddy to set me up with a sort of mentor, somebody to explain to me what goes on in the chassidic beit midrash and to let me know when they’ve got something special coming up.”
♦♦♦
Just before the 6 a.m. Shacharis at Zichron Moshe, Yanky met Bugi. That was a surprise; the beggars usually started their day later.
“What brings you here so early in the morning?” Yanky asked.
“What brings you here so early?” Bugi countered.
“I have to get to the airport,” Yanky said, “to roll out the red carpet for a rich man’s son who’s landing in about an hour. His father is a patron of our chassidus, so I was asked to take care of him.”
“Well, I’m here early for a much more annoying reason,” said Bugi. “I had to get away from those awful African guys.”
“African guys?”
“Sudanese, Eritreans, I don’t know what they are exactly. But they’re big and violent, and a gang of them decided to take over the building next to ours.”
“Take over? What’s to take over?”
“They’re living there, and they’re ruining the neighborhood,” Bugi said with a touch of irony. “They’re always fighting and screaming at each other. Or if they happen to be in a good mood, they’re partying all night. Singing and pounding on drums — they’re so loud, the walls shake.”
“Can’t you report them to the immigration police or something?” Yanky asked.
“No. We’re afraid they’ll kick us out, too,” said Bugi. “We’re there illegally, same as them.”
“But at least you’re citizens,” said Yanky. “You have ID cards, right?”
“Yes, but we’re trespassing on city property,” Bugi said, as if reading from an indictment. “If the police come around to remove the Africans, they’ll also check our building, and then they’ll send inspectors and have us removed, too.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to move into your rental in a few days,” Bugi said, and his eyes flickered with hope. “But I don’t know what the others are going to do. Avery and Mishmesh will manage all right… maybe they’ll go to Tel Aviv or some other place where it’s warm. But Lulu is too old to move, and Musa is too sick, especially now that it’s starting to get too cold at night to sleep out in the open. I really don’t know how they’ll get through the winter with neighbors like that.”
The chazzan started Kaddish d’Rabbanan, cutting off their conversation. Immediately after davening, Yanky made a beeline for Shaye Langerman’s waiting Mercedes. Langerman’s warning replayed itself in his brain as he hurried outside: “I’m sending Menachem Levron for you in my car. Be there on time!”
So there he was, on time. Menachem greeted him with a gut morgen and without further ado, they sped toward the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway.
“Everyone thinks you’re an excellent choice,” said Levron, drumming on the steering wheel. “You’re the best possible person to host Eliav.”
“Why?” Yanky was truly curious.
“Fishing for compliments, are you? Well, I have no reason not to give you a few. They think you’re just right for the job because you’re a good conversationalist, without being a chatterbox. You’re a yarei Shamayim, but also have your feet down on the ground with all of us mere mortals. You wear traditional levush, but something about the way you carry yourself makes you open and approachable. You’re from a choshuve family, and at the same time you’re a regular person. The type that everybody loves.”
“Who does everybody love?”
“You, Yanky. They love you. What, are you playing dumb to make me repeat the whole thing over again?” Menachem was amused.
“No. I really don’t know who everybody loves. Let’s say I started coming to the beis medrash wearing red shoes, a green shirt, and a baseball cap. Would they love me then?”
“They’d think you lost your mind.”
“And would they love me?”
“If you started dressing like that every day, then I’m afraid they might feel….”
“What if I got up and danced on the roof of a van? What if I looked like a dirty beggar and living in an abandoned building across from the Central Bus Station?”
“Yanky, what’s the matter with you? Obviously if you were to go crazy, chas v’shalom, people would feel toward you the way they feel toward crazy people.”
“But I would still be me.”
“You’d be Yanky, but you’d be a crazy Yanky.”
“So you’re saying that nobody actually loves me,” said Yanky. “They love my respectable behavior, my standard way of dressing, the fact that I walk the walk and talk the talk. But who loves me just for myself? Who would love me if I crowed like a rooster in the middle of the day?”
“And who loves me just for myself?” Levron retorted. “Don’t be silly, Yanky. Of course if you want to be liked, you have to act normal.”
“But the Borei Oilem loves you unconditionally and absolutely, no matter what you wear or how you act.”
“Whoa!” said Levron. “Who are you quoting now, with that funny glow in your eyes?”
“Oh, stam,” Yanky murmured. But he knew he was caught now. “Have you heard about the watchmaker from Rechov HaRidbaz? I went to a shiur of his during Succos, and that idea really stayed with me.”
“That’s the kind of thing the watchmaker says? I didn’t know he was a Breslover.”
“Mah pitom? He has no connection to Breslov.”
“But you said he talks about Hashem’s unconditional love, and all that.”
“Do you think Breslov has a monopoly on the idea that the Eibeshter loves us? I guess the navi Malachi was a Breslover. He told us, ‘Ahavti eschem amar Hashem.’ And Shlomo Hamelech must have been a Breslover… and so was the navi Hoshea, and Rashi. Everybody’s a Breslover!”
“All right, whatever. Enough for now, Yanky — all this New Age spiritual stuff isn’t for me,” said Menachem, and Yanky realized, a little too late, that the rest of the world wasn’t necessarily interested in the ideas that were filling his head now.
“The main thing is that Shaye Langerman is relying on you to be a good host to Eliav Junior,” Menachem went on, getting back to what he saw as the point. “His father is getting old, and Yonatan is an only son.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that you’re asking a lot of funny questions today. Especially for such a smart fellow like yourself. Since Yonatan Eliav will inherit his father’s fortune, we want to make sure he feels totally at home with us, and give him some sort of emotional connection to our mosdos.”
“So my job right now is to invest in future growth, while keeping an eye out for immediate profits.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Levron. “I knew you would get it. It’s basic public relations. For example, if you can get him to come to Shabbos night tishim, that would be wonderful. We’ll give him a good seat, of course.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“I understand he has a bit of background in learning. You might suggest to him to come and learn with us in the beis medrash a few evenings a week, for example. We could give Moishe Kopp a few shekels to be his chavrusa. And make sure to bring him in to the Rebbe a few times. Let him know about any events or simchahs, and make sure he feels welcome. B’kitzur, you’re the liaison officer between him and our chassidus.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Yanky, hoping that Menachem wasn’t sharp-witted enough to discern the cynicism in his voice.
“Right. It won’t be hard,” said Menachem blithely. “Sandy himself asked us to set his son up with someone. He said that Yonatan wants to know more about our kehillah, even though he’s a more modern type.”
At the airport, just before they stepped forward to welcome the young gvir, Levron added one more word of caution. “Just be careful, Yanky, not to go quoting your watchmaker in the beis medrash. People won’t appreciate it.”
“Why not?”
“Because of Yerachmiel Poiker.”
Yerachmiel Poiker? What did that have to do with anything? Yanky wanted to know more — but Levron was already busy with Yonatan Eliav.
He sighed, squared his shoulders, and relaxed his features into the perfect PR pose: smooth, ripple-free, gracious, and welcoming. If he could say so himself, Levron had been right; he was the right person for this job.
