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 Europa? 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 men had done noble deeds – and all had done them in secret.
‘How
