hidden just men, that he even made sure they were fed and clothed. They said the same about the Baal Shem Tov, the recognized founder of Hassidism.’ His eyes opened. ‘But these are the exceptions. Generally, it is understood that the hidden tzaddikim remain hidden. There are stories of near misses, of tzaddikim about to meet another of their own kind, only to miss out. And it’s assumed that one righteous man would have the wisdom to recognize another. You know, he would somehow “feel the glow”.’ The rabbi cracked the smile Will had seen earlier, the one that belonged to the playful, mischievous young man it seemed Rabbi Mandelbaum had once been. ‘But generally, these men are out of view, from themselves, from each other, from the rest of us.’
‘How would anyone work out where to find them?’
‘Now, this is the kind of question Tova Chaya used to ask – a question Rabbi Mandelbaum cannot answer!’ The two exchanged warm smiles, like an old man with a favourite granddaughter. ‘I wish I knew, Mr Monroe, but I don’t. For this, you would need to talk to others. Those who have penetrated the deepest secrets of the kabbalah.’
Will could see the rabbi was getting tired. And yet, Will did not want to let their conversation end. In the last thirty minutes he had got more answers than he had had in the previous forty-eight hours. At last he understood not only the barrage of clues that had arrived by text message, he now could see the wider picture, the ancient story unfolding. Surely this wise old man held the key to why Beth was a captive. If only Will could think of the right question.
There was a buzzing sound, the low vibration of a cell phone. TC, so used to wearing combat trousers with multiple pockets, seemed flummoxed by the realization she was now in a long, pocket-less skirt: she did not know where to look. Eventually she remembered. She had borrowed a smart leather handbag of Beth’s – more grown-up than anything TC owned herself. The phone was in there. Mouthing an apology, she stepped out of the room to answer it.
Will was scrambling to absorb everything he had just heard. Wild theories about the end of the world, dire warnings of a cataclysm foretold. He put his head in his hands. What on earth was he caught up in here?
Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder.
‘It is a terrible thing for a man to be without his wife. Mrs Mandelbaum has been dead three years and I carry on with my life. I still study, I still pray. But if, occasionally, I dream of her at night – ahhh, now that’s a shabbos.’
Will felt his eyes soaking with tears. To break the moment he cleared his throat and collected himself to ask a question. He did not know if it would help him find Beth, but he wanted to know everything he could. ‘What counts as good? What counts as such a good deed that it marks you out as righteous?’
‘I’m not sure it’s as simple as this. One has to think of the soul of the tzaddik. This is a soul of such purity, of such goodness, that it cannot help but express itself. The deeds are merely the outward manifestation of a goodness that is within.’ The rabbi began to haul himself out of his chair as if on a book-hunting expedition. ‘The key Hassidic text is known as the Tanya. In that book, there is a definition of the tzaddik. It explains that in each person there are two souls: a divine soul and an animal soul. The divine soul is where we have our conscience, our urge to do good, our desire to learn and study. The animal soul is where we have our appetites, for food, for drink; lust. This is all from the animal soul.
‘Now, these two souls are usually in conflict. A good person works hard to control his animal soul. To restrain his desires, not to give into every longing. That’s what it is to be a regular, good person – to struggle!’ He gave a creased smile, as if in recognition of the frailty of man. ‘But a tzaddik is different. A tzaddik does not just tame his animal soul. He transforms it. He changes his animal soul into something else, turning it into a force for good. Now he is firing on two cylinders, so to speak! It’s as if he has two divine souls. This gives him a special power. It equips him to save the world.’
‘And would one act be enough?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if a man had performed one act of extraordinary goodness, would that be enough to say he was a tzaddik.’
‘Perhaps you have some example in mind, yes? My answer is that it may seem to us as if the tzaddik performed just one holy act. But remember, these men hide their goodness. The truth may be that this is the only act we know about.’
‘And what might such an act look like?’
‘Ah, this is a good question. You know, in that story about Rabbi Abbahu and the man in the whorehouse—’
‘The story from the third century?’
‘Yes. In that story, the tzaddik has done something very small. I forget the details, but he makes some small sacrifice to preserve the dignity of a woman.’
Will heard himself gulp. Just like Macrae.
‘And this seems to be the common thread. Sometimes it is an act on a very large scale—’ Will thought of Chancellor Curtis in London, diverting precious millions to the poor ‘—perhaps a tzaddik will save an entire city from destruction. Sometimes it is a tiny gesture to one individual: a meal when they are hungry, a blanket when they are cold. In each case, the tzaddik has treated a fellow human being justly and generously.’
‘And in that way, even a small gesture might redeem a whole life?’
‘Yes, Mr Monroe. The tzaddik may have lived as if he was drenched in sin. Think of Chaim the Watercarrier, drinking himself to oblivion. But those acts of righteousness, they change the world.’
‘So goodness is not about rules. Or wearing a hair shirt. Or praying hard. Or knowing every word in the Bible. It’s about how we treat each other.’
‘Bein adam v’adam. Between man and man. That is where goodness, even divinity resides. Not in the heavens, but right here on earth. In our relations with each other. It also means we have to be careful. We have to treat everyone we meet with great respect because, for all we know, this man driving a cab or sweeping the streets or begging on a street corner, he might be one of the righteous.’
‘That’s pretty egalitarian, isn’t it?’
The rabbi smiled. ‘The equal value of every human life. This is the preoccupation of Torah. This is what Tova Chaya studied each day at the seminary. And what she studied here with me, before . . .’ The rabbi looked wistful and, suddenly, very old. He did not finish his sentence.
Will felt guilty. Not personally – he knew he was not to blame for TC’s leaving all those years ago. But he felt guilty as – he struggled to articulate it – as a representative of the modern world. That was it. It was modernity, America, that had lured young Tova Chaya away from the routines and rhythms that had shaped Jewish lives for centuries, whether in rural Russia or Crown Heights. It was Manhattan, shimmering glass buildings, K-ROC on the radio, tight-fitting jeans, Domino’s Pizza, blockbusters at the Cineplex, The Gap, HBO, Glamour magazine, Andy Warhol at MOMA, rollerblading in Central Park, AmEx cards, one-click shopping, Columbia University, sex outside marriage – it was all that that had drawn TC away. How could the medieval conformity of Hassidic life compete? The drabness of the clothes, the regimented calendar, the countless limits – on what you could eat, what you could study or read or draw, on who you could love. No wonder TC had had to escape.
And yet, Will could see that TC had lost something
