“You too,” Tim responded amicably. And then, as Danny Luria walked away, repeated to himself, I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys …
Kfar Ha-Sharon.
And now I know how to find Deborah.
When Timothy met his traveling companions at Fordham, he was even more amazed at having been chosen for this journey.
He had assumed that they would be scholars—and indeed they were. But two of the four other young seminarians being sponsored by the mysterious “committee” had already published articles. Perhaps even more significant, each in his own way generated a kind of animal magnetism. Charisma was too pale a description.
Why me? Timothy puzzled.
Later that night, as he lay in bed in the luxury of a small room all to himself, he wondered what he had in common with these imposing young seminarians. The only link he could find was superficial. They were all about his own age—and Irish Catholics.
By two A.M., he realized that it was not the enigma of his selection that was keeping him awake, but all the feelings that had resurfaced when he’d talked with Danny Luria. He knew now that he had to see Deborah one more time. Not to pursue their relationship, but to bring it to a proper end.
On their flight the next evening, the quintet was chaperoned by Father Lloyd Devlin, a spry sexagenarian who unfortunately was terrified of flying. All across the ocean he fortified himself with a rosary in one hand and a glass in the other.
After the cabin darkened to show the movie, Timothy pretended to be leafing aimlessly through the Alitalia magazine, hoping that no one would notice him studying a map of the airline’s routes.
Yes, they regularly flew from Rome to Israel. But how could he possibly arrange it?
He tried to imagine what would happen if he ever saw Deborah face to face, thousands of miles from the authorities who had ordained their separation. What might she say to him? How would he feel?
He could not conjure up the answers. But he knew he had to find them.
23
Daniel
It was the most traumatic night of my life.
I was brain-weary from studying Solomon’s Wisdom, the famous work on the different tractates of the Talmud written by Rav Solomon ben Jehiel Luria in the mid-sixteenth century—a fact that may explain the effort I had expended on it.
I was about to take off my shoes and flop into bed, when a guy from down the corridor knocked on my door to say I had a phone call.
At this hour?
It was my mother—and she was frantic.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, my heart beginning to pound uncontrollably. “Is something wrong with Papa?”
“No,” she answered, her voice quavering, “it’s Rena.…” She took a deep sobbing breath, and blurted out, “She’s possessed! She’s hallucinating—in a kind of trance—and groaning in a strange voice. Your father thinks it must be a dybbuk.”
“A dybbuk?” I nearly shouted, fear and disbelief commingled. “For God’s sake, Mama, this is the twentieth century. Demons don’t enter other people’s bodies. You should get a doctor.”
“We did,” my mother said softly. “Dr. Cohen’s talking to your father right now.”
“Well, what did he say?”
Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “That we should call … an exorcist.”
“Surely Papa wouldn’t agree to that.”
“Danny, he’s already found one.”
My incredulity gave way to fright. I didn’t even know there were such people. “Mama, are you telling me Papa believes a so-called demon is actually inside Rena, talking through her?”
“Yes,” my mother replied. “I heard it myself.”
“Well, who … who does it claim to be?”
She hesitated for a minute. “It’s Chava.…”
“Papa’s first wife?”
My mother could only repeat, “Chava says she’s taken over Rena’s soul and won’t leave till she receives justice. Please, Danny,” she implored, “get here as quickly as you can.”
I dashed back to my room, grabbed a windbreaker, and hurried toward the subway. Then it occurred to me—What the hell could I do? I mean, I didn’t believe in dybbuks. For God’s sake, dead people are dead.
But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t go alone.
Though ashamed, I forced myself to dial Professor Beller’s number. A sleepy voice answered.
“Yes?”
I was shivering with cold and fright as the black wind sliced through the crevices of the phone booth.
“It’s Danny Luria, Professor—you know, the frummer in your lecture course. I’m incredibly sorry for calling you this late, but it’s something very serious—”
“That’s all right, Danny,” Beller replied in a calming tone. I guess it was his psychiatric training. “What seems to be the matter?”
“Professor,” I begged. “Please hear me out before you think I’m crazy and hang up. I don’t know what to do. My mother just called to say my half sister’s possessed by a dybbuk.”
“That’s superstitious nonsense,” he answered without raising his voice.
“I know, but Rena’s raving and hallucinating—”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Beller replied. “But whatever your sister’s saying—even if her voice has changed—has got to be coming from her own psyche. I’ll call one of my colleagues in Brooklyn—”
“No, please! You see, my father’s already called an exorcist.”
“Not the Silczer Rav,” Beller responded, half under his breath. Then he asked quickly, “Where are you now, Danny?”
“Outside the Hundred-and-sixteenth Street IRT.”
“I’ll get dressed and meet you. Give me ten minutes.”
Throughout the excruciatingly slow subway ride to Brooklyn, Professor Beller tried to explain what he knew about the ceremony he was hoping to prevent. “If she’s had a mental breakdown—which I clearly think she has,” he said, “this sort of medieval voodoo is bound to make it worse.”
We got to the synagogue at about one-thirty in the morning. It was dark except for the lights in front near the Holy Ark.
Half a dozen men were gathered in a circle around my father, who was seated, wringing his hands. Among them were my Uncle Saul, my brother-in-law Dovid—a yeshiva teacher who was married to my older half sister, Malka—and Rena’s husband, Avrom, pale and quivering.
Reb Isaacs, the sexton, was scurrying back and forth between them and a far corner where the women—my half sister and my mother—were taking turns trying to soothe Rena, who was groaning unintelligibly.
Dr. Cohen, obviously with Papa’s dispensation, stood in the segregated women’s section and shrugged his shoulders.
As we drew nearer, I suddenly realized that Beller did not have a skullcap. Luckily I always carry a spare, which I offered to him, half-afraid he would refuse to wear it. He simply nodded and placed it on his head.
As we joined the men, I saw a bizarre figure hovering close to my father—a wizened, bearded old man in a long caftan and wide-brimmed hat. He seemed to be whispering to all present, punctuating his words with emphatic gesticulations.
Standing respectfully a few paces behind him was a tall, cadaverous youth, obviously some kind of assistant.
At this moment, Father saw us. His face was gray as a tombstone. In all my life I had never seen him so distressed. His shirt collar was open and his prayer shawl draped over a wrinkled jacket. He hastened toward us and motioned me aside.
“Danny,” he confided hoarsely, “I’m glad you’re here. I really need your support.”
Him need me? That was an unsettling reversal of roles.
When I asked who the strange old man was, he looked at me with pain and helplessness.
“He’s Rebbe Gershon from the Williamsburg Talmidey Kabbala. I asked him to come. You know that our ancestors were mystics, but I myself never believed in this sort of black magic. And now it’s right in front of my eyes.”
; He paused and added mournfully, “What else could I do? Anyway, we have another problem. We don’t have ten men. I could only ask people we could trust. So there’s Rebbe Saul, the two sons-in-law, Rebbe Isaacs, Rebbe Gershon and his apprentice, Dr. Cohen—and now you make the ninth. We still need one more.”
He looked at my companion and asked, “Is this gentleman—”
“This is Professor Beller, Papa—” I interrupted.
“Oh,” my father responded. “Are you Jewish, Professor?”
“I’m an atheist,” he replied. “Why don’t you ask one of those women to make the quorum?”
Father ignored him and demanded urgently, “Will you just stand with us? That’s all the Law requires.”
“Very well,” Beller conceded.
A sudden piercing shriek came from the front of the synagogue and echoed from the rafters.
The men had now moved Rena to the front of the pulpit and surrounded her. This time, despite the hysteria in her voice, I could hear the words.
“I am Chava Luria, and I cannot be admitted into the life of the world-to-come until the man who murdered me does penance.”
Beller and I exchanged glances.
“Does that sound like your sister?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, my heart pounding. “I’ve never heard that voice before in my life.”
As we neared the circle, I could see Rena writhing on a chair, her face contorted. She had pulled off her sheitel and looked so grotesque I could barely recognize her. Her heavy-jowled husband, Avrom, stood by her, looking helpless and terrified.
I went to her, bent down, and said as gently as I could, “It’s me. Danny. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She moved her lips and yet another unearthly sound emerged. “I am Chava. I have attached myself to Rena’s soul, and I will remain until I have revenge.”
I froze. Like the other onlookers, I was petrified.
Only Beller reacted. To Rebbe Gershon’s visible annoyance, he stepped forward, knelt next to my sister, and simply spoke to the voice as if conversing with my father’s long-dead wife.
“Chava,” he said quietly, “I’m Dr. Beller. What is this revenge you’re talking about? Whom do you think has wronged you?”
The reply spewed out like lava from a volcano. “He killed me. Rav Moses Luria killed me!”
Nine pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on Papa, as Professor Beller turned to him and asked, “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”
My father shook his head emphatically, and added in a whisper, “I never did anything to hurt her.”
“You killed me,” howled the voice. “You let me die.”
“No, Chava, no,” my father protested. “I begged the doctors to do everything to save you.”
“But you made them wait. You wanted to have your son—”
“No!” Father’s face had gone chalk white.
“You have my blood on your hands, Rav Moses Luria.”
My father lowered his head to avoid the startled gazes of the onlookers and murmured in agony, “It’s not true. It’s not true.” He then addressed the exorcist in suppliant tones. “What shall we do, Rebbe Gershon?”
“Open up the Holy Ark and we will pray to chase this evil spirit out of your daughter.”
I bounded onto the pulpit, opened the doors, and pulled apart the curtains. There, row by row, stood the sacred scrolls, clothed in their gold-fringed silk and crowned with silver ornaments. They seemed to shine more brightly than ever on this night of supernatural blackness.
Rebbe Gershon turned to the others. “We will surround this woman and recite the Ninety-first Psalm.”
We quickly turned to the appropriate page, and awaited his instructions.
He signaled us to begin.
Normally, our prayers were torrents of words moving at different speeds across the text, creating a sacred cacophony. But this time we all spoke in unison, as if the Lord had sent a metronome into our midst.
We had studied this psalm in one of my classes, where we learned that in ancient times superstitious Jews regarded it as having antidemonic powers, since its first two verses invoke God by four completely different names.
Oh Thou that dwellest in the covert of the Most High,
And abidest in the shadow of the Almighty;
I will say of the Lord, who is my refuge and my fortress,
My God, in whom I trust,
That He will deliver thee.…
I looked over my shoulder and saw my mother and half sister praying intensely. I glanced at all the frightened faces of the worshipers—except my father’s. I could not bear to look at him.
As we recited, Rena’s head slumped forward. She shook as if locked in mortal combat with the spirit who had captured her. Then suddenly she fell into a faint. Professor Beller dropped down beside her and began to take her pulse.
We all ceased praying. There was total silence. I could hear the angry winds blowing outside.
My father asked anxiously, “Are you all right now, Rena?”
His daughter looked up, eyes pleading. From within, the demon howled once again, “I will never leave until you beg forgiveness from the Almighty!”
Papa had his head in his hands, lost for what to do. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him. But before I could move to his side Rebbe Gershon commanded him, “Rav Luria, you must confess.”
Father stared at him. “But it isn’t true!”
“I beg of you, Rav Luria. Do not question the Lord of the Universe. If He finds you guilty, then you must confess.”
Papa was adamant. “But I told the doctors that her life was more important. You know I would have—it’s the law of our religion. I am innocent!”
After a dreadful silence, once again Rebbe Gershon murmured, “We sometimes do not realize what we do. But He who sits on High can only be placated if we ask forgiveness for the sins we might have committed.”
“All right!” my father shouted.
He sank to his knees before the Holy Ark and, sobbing, chanted the Al chet, the “Great Confession of Sins,” which we recite nine times on the Day of Atonement.
Without a sign or signal, all of us said in unison the congregational response to the prayer, “Forgive us, have mercy on us, pardon us.”
When our voices finally ceased to echo in the empty synagogue, my professor spoke.
“Rav Luria, I think your daughter should be seen by a psychiatrist as soon as possible.”
Father’s head snapped up. He riveted Beller with his eyes. “You keep out of this.”
“All right, have it your way—for the time being. But remember, as a doctor I have the authority to insist that she be taken to a hospital.”
The others in the minyan glared at him. They would, I’m sure, have chased him out had we not needed him as a tenth man. Then they all turned to my father.
“What should we do, Rav Luria?” one of them inquired.
“Ask Rebbe Gershon,” Father answered weakly. He had clearly abdicated all authority.
“There’s no alternative,” the elderly rabbi declared. “We must perform the entire ceremony of excommunication—rams’ horns, Torahs, lights—everything. These are dire circumstances and one must take the ultimate measures. Are you in agreement, Rav Luria?”
“Just tell me what you need,” Father said softly.
“First, we all put on kittels.” The exorcist motioned impatiently to his assistant. “Ephraim—quickly.”
The young man rummaged through a large suitcase, and withdrew the white garments Jews wear on Holy Days—and as a burial shroud.
Rebbe Gershon turned back to my father. “We will use seven rams’ horns and seven black candles.”
“Black candles?” said my father in disbelief.
“I brought everything,” Rebbe Gershon murmured. “I left the bag in your office.”
Papa nodded. “Danny, hurry and get it—please.”
I charged up the stairs and entered the little office on the se
cond floor. It looked as though it had been vandalized. Open books strewn everywhere. Tracts on mysticism and demonology. Several on the mystical theories of the sixteenth-century “Divine Rabbi,” Isaac Luria. I never knew he had such works. Or perhaps the exorcist had brought them.
Near the desk was Rebbe Gershon’s weathered valise. I stared at it for a moment, frightened by what else it might possibly contain, then picked it up and carried it gingerly down the stairs.
By the time I returned to the synagogue, the others, including Professor Beller, had put on the white shrouds.
The moment I gave the bag to Rebbe Gershon, my father pushed a kittel at me.
“Hurry, Danny.… Let’s get this over with.”
As I quickly dressed, I could hear Rena—or was it Chava?—moaning incoherently.
Rebbe Gershon now ordered seven of the men to take down Torahs from the Holy Ark. He then opened the valise and motioned me toward him.
“Here, boy, give these out.”
One by one he handed to me seven of those sinister candles.
Father was pacing back and forth, every so often slapping his forehead as if it had been stabbed with needles.
Mama nervously approached the exorcist.
“Rebbe Gershon, we want to do something. May we at least hold candles? I mean, in the women’s section, of course.”
The old man waved her off. Then he pointed again to me. I understood, without the need of words, that he was commanding me to extinguish the other lights.
In a moment the vast synagogue was drowned in darkness, except for seven candle flames.
By their eerie flickering light, the exorcist then distributed among us seven rams’ horns. I took one, but I wasn’t sure I could produce a sound because my lips were numb.
At another of Rebbe Gershon’s signals, we again surrounded Rena, still sitting, her shoulders hunched and eyes tightly closed.
He took a deep breath, stood in front of her, and declaimed, “Evil spirit, since you will not hear our prayer, we invoke the power of the Most High to expel you.”
And then he commanded us, “Blow tekiah.”
I had always been chilled by the sound of a single ram’s horn on the High Holy Days. I imagined the great blast to be the seal of God’s Supreme Judgment. But the sound of seven all at once was beyond description.