The Righteous Men (2006) (18 page)

‘But I am afraid the usual rules cannot apply in this case.

I cannot let you come charging in here, no matter how heroically, and rescue
your wife. I cannot allow it.’

‘So you admit that you have her here?’

‘I don’t admit anything. I don’t deny anything. That is
not the purpose of what I am saying to you, Mr Monroe. Will. I am trying to
explain that the usual rules don’t apply in this case.’

‘What usual rules? What case?’

‘I wish I could tell you more, Will, I really do. But I cannot.’

Will was not sure if he had just been ground down by the ordeal of the last
few — what was it: hours, minutes? — or whether he was simply
relieved that it was over, but he was sure he heard something different in the
Rebbe’s voice. The menace had gone; there was a sadness, a sorrow in it
that Will heard as sympathy, maybe even compassion for himself.

It was ridiculous: the man was a torturer. Will wondered if he was
succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome, the strange bond that can develop between a
captive and his captor: first depending on the Israeli as if he was a guide dog
for the blind rather than a violent brute, and now detecting humanity in his
chief tormentor. This was surely an irrational reaction to the end of the
ducking-stool treatment: rather than feeling anger that it had happened at all,
he was feeling gratitude to the Rebbe for ending it. Stockholm Syndrome, a
classic case.

And yet, Will rated himself a good judge of character. He reckoned he had
always been perceptive and he was sure he could hear something real in that
voice. He gambled on his hunch.

‘Tell me something which I have a right to know. Is my wife safe? Is
she … unharmed?’ He could not bring himself to say the word he
really meant — alive — not because he feared the Hassidim’s
reaction so much as his own. He feared his voice would crack, that he would
show a weakness he had so far kept hidden.

‘That is a fair question, Will, and yes, she will be safe — so long
as no one does anything reckless or stupid, and by “no one” I am
referring chiefly to you, Will. And by “anything reckless or stupid”
I am speaking chiefly of involving the authorities. That will ruin everything
and then I can make no guarantees for anyone’s safety.’

‘I don’t understand what you could want from my wife.

What has she done to you? Why don’t you just let her go?’

He had not meant to, but his mouth had taken the decision for him: he was
begging.

‘She has done nothing to us or anyone else, but we cannot let her go.
I’m sorry that I cannot say more. I can imagine how hard this is for you.’

That was the Rebbe’s mistake, that last line. Will could feel the
blood rushing to his face, the veins on his neck rising.

‘No, you fucking CANNOT imagine how hard this is. You have not had
your wife kidnapped! You have not been grabbed, blindfolded, shoved into
freezing water and threatened with death by people who never so much as show
their face. So don’t tell me you can imagine anything. You can imagine
NOTHING!’

Tzvi Yehuda and Moshe Menachem almost sprang back, clearly as shocked by this
outburst as Will himself. The anger had been brewing since he got to Crown
Heights — in fact, long before. Since the moment that message popped into
his BlackBerry:
We have your wife
.

‘You said it was time for plain dealing. So how about some plain dealing?
What the hell is this about?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’ The voice was softer than it had
been, almost dejected. ‘But this is about something much bigger than you
could possibly know.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Beth is a shrink. She sees kids who won’t
talk and girls who starve themselves. What bigger thing could involve her? You’re
lying.’

‘I’m telling you the truth, Will. The fate of your wife depends
on something much larger than you or her or me.

In a way it hangs on an ancient story, one that no one could ever have
imagined would have turned out this way. No one ever predicted this. There was
no contingency plan. No preparation in our sacred texts, or at least none that
we have found so far. And believe me, we are looking.’

Will had no idea what this man was talking about. For the first time, he
wondered if these Hassidim might simply be delusional. Had he not seen them
earlier this evening, swept up in an ecstatic frenzy in adoration of their
leader, worshipping him as their Messiah? Was it not possible that they had fallen
into a state of collective madness, with this man, their leader, the maddest of
all?

‘I wish I could say more, but the stakes are too high. We have to get
this right, Mr Monroe, and we don’t have long.

What day is it today?
Shabbos Shuva
? We have just four days.

That is why I cannot afford to take any risks.’

‘What do you mean, the stakes are too high?’

‘I don’t think it will be helpful for me to say any more on this,
Will. For one thing, my guess is you won’t believe a word I say.’

‘Well, if you mean I’m unlikely to trust a man who’s
nearly killed me, you’re right.’

I see that. And one day, and I suspect it will be very soon, you’ll
understand why we had to do what we just did. All will become clear. That is
the way of these things. And I meant what I said. I feared you were a federal
agent and, when I confirmed that you were not, I feared you were something much
worse.’

‘What would you have to fear from a federal agent? And what would you
fear even more than that? What are you up to here?’

‘I can see why you’re a journalist, Will: always asking
questions.

You’d do well in our line of work, too: that is what Torah study is
all about, asking the right questions. But I’m afraid I think we have
done all the Q & A we’re going to do tonight. It’s time for us
to say goodbye.’

‘That’s it? You’re going to leave it at that? You’re
not going to tell me what’s going on?’

‘No, I cannot risk that. So I’m going to leave you with a few
things for you to remember. You can write them down later if you like. The
first is that this is much bigger than any of us. Everything we believe in,
everything you believe in, hangs in the balance. Life itself. The stakes could
not be higher.

‘Second, your wife will be safe unless you endanger her life by your
recklessness. I urge you not to do that, not just for your own sake, but for
the sake of all of us. Everybody.

So even though you love her and want to protect her, I plead with you to
believe me that the best thing you can do for her, as a loving husband, is to
stay away. Back off and don’t meddle. Interfere and I can offer no
guarantees, not for her, not for you, not for any of us.

‘And third, I don’t expect you to understand. You have wandered
into all this quite by accident. Perhaps it’s not an accident, but a
series of steps fully understood only by our Creator. But this is the hardest
thing of all. I’m asking you to believe things that you cannot
comprehend, to trust me just because I ask you. I don’t know if you’re
a man of faith or not, Will, but this is how faith operates. We have to believe
in God even when we have not the barest inkling of what he has in mind for the
universe. We have to obey rules that seem to make no sense, simply because we
believe. Not everyone can do it, Will. It takes strength to have faith. But that
is what I need from you: the faith to trust that I and the people you see here
are acting only for the sake of good.’

‘Even when that means nearly drowning an innocent man like me?’

‘Even when the price is very high, yes. We are determined to save
lives here, Will, and in that cause almost any action is permitted.
Pikuach
nefesh
. Now I must say goodbye. Moshe Menachem will give you back your
things. Good luck, Will.

Travel safely and, please God, all should be well. Good
shabbos
.’

At that moment, as he imagined the Rebbe lifting himself up out of his chair
and shuffling towards the door, he heard an interruption. Someone else had come
into the room; barged in, by the sound of it. He seemed to be showing the Rebbe
something; there was muttered conversation. The new voice was highly exercised,
a raised whisper. They need not have worried: even at that volume, all Will
could establish was that they were not speaking English. It sounded like
German, with lots of phlegmy ‘ch’s and ‘sch’s’.
Yiddish.

The exchange ended; the Rebbe seemed to have gone.

Redbeard, Moshe Menachem, now left his sentry position at Will’s side
and stood in front of him. His eyes were sheepish as he handed to Will the bag
he had left at Shimon Shmuel’s.

I’m sorry about, you know, before,’ he mumbled.

Will took the bag, seeing that his notebook had been put back inside, too.
His phone was still there, and his BlackBerry, untouched. He took out his
wallet, faintly curious to see which stub or ticket had given him away. It was
as he expected, full of anonymous cab receipts. He opened up the series of
slots made to carry credit cards, a feature he never used. In one, a book of
standard US postage stamps; in another, a business card of a long-forgotten
interviewee. In the third, a passport sized photograph — of Beth.

A bitter smile passed across Will’s face: it was his bride who had
betrayed him. Of course they would recognize her. She had given him this
picture about six weeks after they met; it was summer and they had spent the
afternoon boating off Sag Harbor. They passed a photo booth and she could not resist:
she mugged for the automated camera there and then.

Will turned the picture over and there it was, the message which had left no
doubt.
I love you, Will Monroe!

Will looked up, his eyes wet. Before him was a new face; he guessed it was
the man who had briefly clashed with the Rebbe a few moments ago. His face was
soft and round, his cheeks chipmunk-f, framed by a jet-black beard. He was tubby,
with a round head atop a round tummy. Will guessed he was in his early twenties.

‘Come, I’ll show you out.’

As Will got up, he saw at last the chair where the Rebbe had sat during the
inquisition. It was no throne, just a chair.

Next to it was a side table, the kind a lecturer might use to keep his notes
and a glass of water. What was on it made Will jolt.

It was a copy of that day’s
New York Times
, folded, very deliberately,
to highlight Will’s story about the life and death of Pat Baxter. So that
was what the round-faced man had shown the Rebbe; that was what they had argued
about. Will could guess what the young man had been saying:
This guy’s
from The New York Times. He’s never going to keep this quiet. We should
keep him here, where he can’t shoot his mouth off
.

By now they were outside, Will holding the clean white shirt the Hassidim
had given him but which he was not yet wearing: he had not wanted to undress in
front of his inquisitors.

He had been humiliated enough already.

They stood on the street, outside the
shul
. Men were still coming in
and walking out. Will looked at his watch: 10.20pm.

It felt like three am.

‘I can only repeat our apologies about what happened in there.’

Yeah, yeah
, thought Will.
Save it for the judge when I sue your Hassidic
asses for false imprisonment, assault, battery and the whole fucking shebang
.
‘Well, better than an apology would actually be an explanation.’

‘I can’t give you that, but I can give you a word of advice.’

He looked around, as if making sure that he was not being watched or
overheard. ‘My name is Yosef Yitzhok. I work to bring the Rebbe’s
word into the world. Listen, I know what you do and here’s my suggestion.’
He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘If you want to know
what’s going on, think about your work.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. But you have to look to your work. Go on, leave.’

This Yosef Yitzhok seemed agitated. ‘Remember what I said. Look to
your work.’

T
om answered his phone within
one ring. He told Will, who had been stumbling through the streets of Crown
Heights looking for the subway, to hail a cab and head straight over to his
apartment.

Now he lay on Tom’s couch, fit to pass out with tiredness, kept awake
only by a kind of fever. He was wearing nothing but three thick towels. Tom had
shoved him in a hot shower the minute he walked through the door, determined
that his friend not succumb to a cold, a fever or even pneumonia. He knew they
had no time to waste with illness.

Will did his best to tell him what had happened, but most of it was too
bizarre to take in. Besides, Will spoke like a man just woken trying to
remember a dream: new bits of information, new characters, new descriptions and
phrases kept popping up. There were so few items of normality for Tom to cling
to, he gave up making sense of it after a while. Bearded men, a near-drowning,
a sign telling women to cover their elbows, an unseen inquisitor, a leader
worshipped as the Messiah, a rule preventing people from carrying even keys for
twenty-four hours. He wondered if Will had gone to Crown Heights at all, rather
than to the East Village to score some particularly strong acid and embark on
one of the more surreal trips in recent hallucinogenic history.

Harder to resist was the urge to say, ‘I told you so.’ This was
precisely the outcome Tom had feared: Will charging into Crown Heights,
under-prepared and out of his mind with anguish, clumsily walking into the
hands of his enemies.

Not only did Will expect Tom to follow his account of the last, baffling few
hours, he also wanted his help in trying to decode it. What was that reference
to his work? What did the Rebbe mean about an ancient story, about saving
lives, about having just four days to go?