Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter on a cool, spring day. We were heading down a stone staircase that led to the Western Wall Plaza when we had passed a dark complexioned man of about forty, standing to the side. He had laid out three or four stacks of crocheted kippot on the waist high wall next to the staircase. I didn’t think the yarmulkes were any different than any of the ones on sale in malls or on Ben Yehudah Street, but Tamar spotted a particular azure one. She bought it – not because I typically wear one – but because the tones, she said, matched the color of my eyes.
I smiled to myself, letting the images of another time and place dissolve. As I was seated in the rear of the shul, the entire room was open before me. It was completely silent. There were rows of turquoise-cushioned seats lined up, maybe twenty-five rows in all, leading up to the slightly elevated stage where the rabbi and officers had their individual high-backed chairs. And there was the ark with its gold lettering and ancient phrase, which I wanted to ignore.
The sanctuary was fully lit beneath fluorescent fixtures. In the center of the room stood an island, a raised platform and table, for the reading of the Torah. To the rear of the table was a cushioned bench.
I turned back to the curtain covering the ark. They had to pick that phrase? “Know before whom you stand.” This wasn’t the place for me. So, Gidon, get up and leave.
I looked toward the front again. Hanging from the ceiling near the top of the ark was the “Eternal Flame.” Okay, it was an ornamental light fixture with a golden bulb, but still, a decent representation.
The cell phone in my pocket vibrated for a second then stopped. After a moment, I checked the display. There was a text: “COME BACK TO SCHOOL. I NEED YOU.”
I pocketed the phone and looked up again at the Eternal Light.
“You know,” a man’s voice called from the front of the sanctuary, “if you sit in the back row long enough, you might fall asleep.”
A thin man in his late thirties was coming toward me. He must’ve entered from a door tucked off to the side. The man had some books in his hand, and placed them in a book holder behind one of the seats. He was wearing an open collared, seafoam-colored shirt and khakis. “At least that’s what happens when I begin to speak. Well, that’s not entirely true,” he said moving closer, “sometimes people sleep in the front row, too.”
“I would never do that,” I said, standing up.
The man, now to my right, held out his hand. “Josh Mandel.”
“Gidon Aronson.” I shook his hand. He had a firm grip. “I hope it’s okay that I was hanging out back here.”
“If the door’s open and you got past our secretary, then it’s okay.” He paused. “For the record, my speeches are always enlightening and stimulating. Never ponderous or esoteric.”
“I don’t doubt it. You don’t seem like a ponderous man. Esoteric, maybe.”
“Only on the first Saturday of every month. The congregation expects it.”
I looked at Rabbi Mandel. He was about five foot ten, and had thinning, sandy-colored hair, and an easy smile.
“What brings you around? Services don’t start for a few hours.”
I smiled, “Would you believe esoteric reasons?”
“And it’s not even the first of the month.” He paused. “Maybe you want to give the sermon tomorrow.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
He let a moment go by. “Seriously, though, anything I can do for you?”
“No, just wanted to wrap my head around a few things.”
“That’s refreshing.”
“What?”
“That you came to a synagogue to do that. I’m really glad.”
“So all this is yours.”
“Well, they seem to like me. I talk, I teach, I talk, I teach.”
“And they keep coming back. Impressive.” I smiled. I had never met a rabbi who was so easy to talk to. Maybe because he didn’t have that professional clergy aura – and the fact that he was on the younger side and closer to my age.
He seemed about to say something, but then interrupted himself… “Wait… Gidon…” he trailed off, his mind running. “Why do you seem familiar to me? Have you been here before?”
I shook my head. It was a small lie. I was here months ago, in the social hall, as an invited guest to a fundraiser for an Israeli dignitary. There was an assassination attempt and I stopped it. I didn’t want to discuss it.
“I’ll get out of your way.” I began to move toward the door. “I’m sure you have things to do.”
“You can stay longer, if you want. Did you find what you came for?”
I looked over at the aphorism on the ark cover. “No, it’s okay. Timing must not be right.”
“Come to services tonight. Friday evening is really special here. Better than Shabbat morning, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Thanks. It’s not my thing. No offense.”
“JJ?” A woman’s voice called from the front of the sanctuary.
“Over here,” the rabbi responded.
I turned to see a young, slim woman coming toward us, carrying a manila envelope. She had shoulder-length, dark straight hair except for the hair cut short to frame her face. She was clad in an orange Orioles T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and blue Teva sandals.
“Shelley, this is Gidon.” He turned to me, “Gidon, this is Shelley, the rebetzzin,… my wife.”
I looked at her again. She was a head shorter than me, maybe in her early thirties, and not what I’d have expected. She looked more hippy-ish than rabbi’s wife-ish.
“Okay,” she said, looking down at her T-shirt and reading my thoughts, “the congregation puts up with the way I dress because they really love my husband. They would prefer I wear a dress all the time, be demure…”
I didn’t know what to say.
She patted me on the arm. “Don’t worry. I know the look on a person’s face when we’re introduced.”
“Sorry I was so obvious. I pride myself on being inscrutable.”
She smiled and turned to the rabbi, handing him the manila envelope. “You forgot your notes, Einstein.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
She turned to me, “So, Gidon, are you from around here? Got a meal tonight? Do you want to come to us?”
The rabbi leaned in to me, “Shelley wants everyone to have a Friday night meal. I think tonight’s an off night. We don’t have any guests, do we?
“Nope,
