“This is not the way,” I humbly replied, trying to sway the Rabbi from his beliefs. “Please, listen to reason.”
“You are young, Cohen,” the Rabbi said. “You do not understand.”
“I don’t need to understand,” I replied. “This is wrong.”
The Rabbi sighed. “Is it wrong to want to settle down, to put down roots, and to own your own home? To be forced from one town to the next—that is wrong. To be unwelcome wherever you go—that is wrong. To spend a life on the run—that is wrong. I’m an old man, Cohen, I can’t run anymore. This is my home.”
“I know, Rabbi, we all feel as you do.” I was almost ready to believe him, but then I had a revelation.
“Don’t do this, Rabbi. Soon it will be Yom Kippur. It’s blasphemy.”
“No, it must be done on the eve of Yom Kippur, or not at all. It is the only way. Help me, Cohen.”
I looked at the lifeless body on the table, and then nodded.