The Jerusalem Inception - By Avraham Azrieli Page 0,11
explain, but thought better of it.
“Sometimes,” Sorkeh said, “I think of a funny occurrence, like when my mother was making the keegel for Sabbath, and the noodles overcooked and stuck together and she couldn’t mix in the sugar!”
Lemmy chuckled politely.
Encouraged, she continued, “So we tried to mix the noodles with oil to separate them, and I was holding the pot—”
Tuning her out, Lemmy thought of yesterday’s dramatic events. He recalled the Jordanian shooting, his father’s arm on his shoulders, and the petite woman who touched his father’s beard, her arm exposed, her skin smooth. He shuddered as the sun disappeared behind a gray cloud. The narrow alley had been neatly swept before the Sabbath, and the air was sweetened by the aroma of cooking pots that had been simmering since Friday. His mouth watered. Talmud forbade eating until after morning prayers, and he was famished.
“—and it took us an hour to clean up the mess!” Sorkeh burst out laughing.
Realizing she had reached the punch line, Lemmy smiled. “That’s funny. Do you like to cook?”
“Oh, yes!” She launched into a long monologue about food preparations for Sabbath and various holidays.
With occasional head nodding, Lemmy paced along the connected row of apartment buildings, which had originally been designed as a wall of defense against Arab nomads, but now kept out the immoral, secular Israeli society.
He was relieved when they reached home. After further greetings, Cantor Toiterlich and his daughter left.
Rabbi Gerster entered the apartment first, touching the mezuzah on the doorframe and then his lips. They hung their coats in the foyer and entered the dining room, where the table had been set with silver utensils and white cloth.
Temimah and Benjamin’s mother, Rachel, shuttled dishes from the kitchen. The mother and son had come to lunch every Sabbath since Benjamin’s father had left the sect many years ago, never to be heard from again.
Benjamin’s dark eyes glistened, and he whispered, “How was it?”
Lemmy crinkled his face.
Rabbi Gerster began to sing: “Tranquility and joy, beacon for Israel, day of Sabbath, of rest, day of delight.”
Benjamin and Lemmy joined him, singing the familiar tunes until the women were ready to serve the meal.
The rabbi recited the blessing on the wine goblet and the braided challah bread, which he sliced with a long, toothed knife. They ate gefilteh fish in jellied broth and wiped the plates with chunks of challah. The three of them sang again while Temimah and Rachel cleared the table.
Next came a large pot of tcholent—a concoction of meat, beans, vegetables, and spices that had been cooking overnight. Temimah’s ladle broke through the crust, and she served her husband. He pointed at the steaming, generous portion. “My dear wife wants me to get fat!”
Temimah emptied a full ladle in Benjamin’s plate, then in Lemmy’s. Her face, framed by a headdress tied behind, was bright with sweat. “So?” she asked. “How is Sorkeh?”
Everyone looked at Lemmy.
“Sorkeh?” He creased his forehead. “Who’s Sorkeh?”
They laughed, and the rabbi started chanting, “Sabbath today, Sabbath the sacred day,” saving Lemmy from further inquiries.
After the meal, while the women were busy in the kitchen, Rabbi Gerster leaned back in his armchair, sipped tea, and quoted from memory: “The heaven and the earth were completed in all their glory, and on the seventh day God finished the work and blessed the Sabbath.”
Lemmy listened carefully. Every Sabbath lunch, his father followed the same routine: A quote from the Torah and a trick question.
“Torah and Talmud,” the rabbi intoned, “what’s the difference?”
“Torah is God’s word,” Lemmy answered. “Cast in stone. Talmud, on the other hand, is a compilation of transcribed arguments between Talmudic scholars.”
“I disagree,” Benjamin said. “The sages’ arguments originated from God’s words, which had been passed down the generations by memorizing until the Babylonian exile, when every word was transcribed.” As always, he ran out of breath before he ran out of words.
Rabbi Gerster turned to Lemmy. “Nooo?”
“How can Talmud be cast in stone? It’s a collection of oral debates about law, rituals, business, science, ethics, animal sacrifices, and everything else.”
“Since when,” Benjamin asked, “does the style determine the substance?”
“Ah!” Rabbi Gerster lifted a finger. “A disagreement between two promising scholars!”
Lemmy noticed his father glance at his watch. Was he also thinking of the woman from yesterday? Would she come to visit?
“Talmud,” the rabbi said, “just like Torah, is divine, and therefore solid and unchangeable. The sages were inspired when they expressed their arguments, channeling, so to speak, God’s own words.”