Entry #10: The Rabbi
The tale of Two Pigeons continues. Start with Entry #1.
When Misha’s rabbi walked through the decon vestibule and into the coffee shop, I looked past him. No way was this guy him. I had looked at photos of him online and they were inline with what I expected from a chasidic rabbi belonging to the Chabad sect. Pale, pudgy, scraggly beard, black fedora, shapeless frumpy black suit…This man wasn’t that. He wore an olive long-sleeved shirt and a pair of camo pants turned up over a pair of worn Blundstones, a breather with goggles hanging at his belt. He looked like an avid hiker, like someone who bought outdoorwear outfits and actually used them. I glanced at him walking in and then returned to my reading.
So I was surprised when the man came up to my table a few minutes later. “I have a feeling you’re the one waiting for me,” he said, looming over me.
“Moishe?” I said uncertainly. “Rabbi Moishe?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he said.
I stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
"No problem. Anything I can do to help,” he said, sitting down.
I inspected Moishe. He was thickly built, had an oval face, a pony tail that flowed back from a slightly receding hairline. His beard was neatly trimmed, his face tanned. He was about my age…and looked fit and healthy. His face seemed familiar, too. I had the sense that I had seen him somewhere before.
“I have to admit, you look…different than what I expected,” I said.
He laughed. “Yes? Why?”
“You’re not dressed like—”
“—Like what?”
“Like you know?”
“Like I’ve been teleported from a ghetto in Lodz?” he said. He smiled slightly, parting his lips. and revealing a row of small gapped teeth.
I laughed. “Well…yeah. Pretty much.”
“You could say that I had an evolution in my views. I no longer think many of the customs foisted on me in my yeshiva reflect the true spirit of Judaism.”
“So you’re no longer practicing?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said, sharply. “I said I don’t think the customs that were drilled into me reflect the true sprit of our faith.” He paused.“You used to work as a journalist? Correct?”
I nodded.
“Didn’t they teach you to accurately quote your subjects?” He was looking me straight in the eyes now, his face blank. “Isn’t that one of the basic skills one must master before practicing the profession?”
I chuckled. “You’re right. That is a big one. But I got fired from my last journalism job. So I don’t have to worry about all that anymore,” I said.
“I see. Well with an attitude like that I’m not surprised you got fired,” he replied, his eyes still locked on mine. A waiter brought his order — an iced coffee and a cookie. He broke off a piece and put it in his mouth.
I couldn’t tell if he was messing with me or being serious. But the way he carried himself — the supreme confidence, the supreme condescension — triggered a flashback. My first job in journalism was with a Jewish newspaper in San Francisco. I spent a lot of time talking to Chabad types, especially when I was posted for a year in Moscow as their “chief correspondent” covering the former Soviet Union. Practicing or not, Moishe gave off a very particular kind of vibe…the vibe of a Chabad rabbi…someone who believed he was one of the chosen…full of secret holy esoteric knowledge…someone convinced that anyone who wasn’t part of his world was beneath them, not fully human…even if they were Jewish. I remember interviewing a Chabad rabbi who was running a tiny synagogue out in Volgograd. I met him at his apartment which he shared with his wife and three small children. The place was a mess — dirty carpets, food strewn around the kitchen, toddlers crawling around in soiled clothes. The rabbi was somewhere in his early 30s and looked like he was cast for the role. He was chubby and pale, had a scraggly beard and a wore a black rumpled suit. We went out on his balcony to talk and smoke. I wanted to get some intel on the city’s small Jewish community and Chabad’s long-term plans in the area. The topic of the article I was hoping to write was about the state of Jewish communities in provincial towns in Russia. But I didn’t get many questions answered. The rabbi told me some basic facts about his synagogue and community center and funding but wouldn’t enter into deeper conversation about values and religious beliefs. He said I wouldn’t understand. He, a religious man steeped in the Torah, operated on a higher spiritual plane. I, a mere secular Jew, was stuck in the mire like a dumb animal. He was comically condescending. “We can talk about what to eat, what to drink, maybe even what to fuck. But that’s about it,” he told me, saying “fuck” with a grin and chuckle. “You exist down here on the animal plane, concerned with eating and shitting,” he continued, waving his hand around near the floor. “And I’m here,” he said, raising his hand above his own head. We were sitting on his little balcony of his apartment in the center of the city, drinking Lipton tea and eating cheap sugary cookies. Through the window I could see the rabbi’s wife sitting on a couch, fat and exhausted, kids playing and crawling on the carpet at her feet. Meanwhile the rabbi sitting in front of me, teeth yellowed from the Pall Malls he chain-smoked…all he wanted to talk about was how successful he had been in attracting funding for his synagogue from several local businessman. Wasn’t how I imagined the truly enlightened live…
I decided to ignore Moishe’s catty comments. I was anxious to get down to business. I thanked him again for meeting with me and reiterated what I had told him over the phone: That I’m a friend of the family and was helping Leah figure out what happened to Misha.
“Leah told me she called you after Misha disappeared,” I said. “I don’t know how much you know about what happened—”
“—No I don’t know much at all,” he said. “Leah called me…I guess this was a few weeks ago. She asked if I had seen him recently. I told her I hadn’t. I thought it was a marital dispute or something of that nature.”
“So you haven’t heard from him in the last few weeks?”
“No. But, wait, so Misha is still gone?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “He just left one morning and never came back.”
Moishe leaned back in his chair and whistled. “Misha would never do that. He’s always been very devoted to his family. That I know.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Leah contacted the police of course?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. But..it’s complicated,” I said. “He called Leah some time after disappearing…although he didn’t say where he went or why or if he’ll ever come back. But the fact he called and said he was fine means the police aren’t treating it as a missing person’s case any more. It’s not illegal to leave your family, they said.”
“I see,” he said.
“Yeah. So that’s where I come in. I’m helping Leah figure out what happened.”
“That’s so unlike him,” Moishe said.
“Yeah. It’s a mystery to his family, as well,” I said. “And that’s why I asked to meet. Leah said Misha had been getting into Judaism a lot before he disappeared. That he spending quite a bit of time with you at your, synagogue. So I wanted—”
“She said that?” he said, furrowing his brows. “I think she might be confused. He used to study with me at the Rebbe Memorial Center.”
“Where’s that?”
“Out in Richmond. On Balboa,” he replied. “But that was a long time ago. When I was still with Chabad. We hadn’t met there for almost two years.”
“So you have’t seen him—”
“—No I have. Misha has come around a few times to an informal study group that I run now. It was never regular,” he said. “Last time was a month…no…more like two months ago.”
I didn’t know what to make of this new info. Leah seemed certain that Misha was going to a synagogue and studying with Moishe. But then maybe Misha was lying to her…
“What’s the study group about, if it’s not a secret,” I asked.
“It would be hard to explain to a layperson who isn’t steeped in the Torah,” he replied.
“Well try me,” I said.
He rolled his eyes a bit.
“I’d say we’re more traditional. The problem with the way that Judaism has evolved is that it has leaned too heavily on the exile…it allowed the rabbis of Europe to point the way. I think this was a bad choice. It introduced impurities…it took us away from the real religion.”
“You mean—” I said.
“—Let me give you an example that you can understand,” he interrupted. “Notice that I’m not wearing a kippah? Correct?” He bent forward so I could see the top of his head. You think that every observant Jew must cover their heads? Yes?”
“Yeah I guess so,” I said. “They all seem to.”
“And where do you think the law that stipulates this commandment is be found?”
“The Torah, I assume?” I said.
“Well your assumption would wrong. Try it when you get home. Search it. Find where in the Torah it says for me to always cover their heads…you won’t succeed. Because it’s not there.”
“Really? Why do people do it then?”
“Because some rabbi in the twelfth century told Jews to.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
“The ritual around shabbat. It, too, can be grouped into this category. And the silly 18th century black suit and fur hat dress code,” he said.
I chuckled. I was starting to like this rabbi.
“Please don’t laugh,” he said. “This is not a trivial thing but of the utmost importance. To me the word of the Torah exists outside of time. There is no boundary between past and present and future. We are all currently living in it. It’s not a history book but a description of eternal life. But these rabbis….they imposed their own human time on the Torah. They pulled the sacred out of eternity. With their rigid traditions and rules they sought power. And in doing this they…they defiled the word of Hashem.”
I nodded along but I had no real idea what he was talking about now.
“See. I told you you would not understand,” the said. He then looked at his wristwatch — one of those big mountaineering watches with GPS coordinates and a compass and altimeter. “If you don’t have any more questions I have to go,” he said. “I do apologize for cutting this short. But…I…I have another meeting.”
He rose and I stood up with him.
“I’ll ask around if anyone knows anything about Misha. And please keep me in the loop. He’s a good man. I hope nothing bad has happened to him,” he said.
I thanked him again for meeting me. We shook hands and he walked out of the coffee shop.
I sat down for a second, finished the last of my coffee and, on a whim, decided to trail him. And I’m glad I did…
The coffee shop was on the corner of Van Ness and Market. He took 11th Street down, walked three blocks, turned into a blind alley just past Howard Street…I crept up slowly to the corner and peeked around the edge of a building.
Moishe was there…talking to someone through the driver side window of a white van that was parked in the ally outside a one-story warehouse. A moment later the van’s back door flung open and two people jumped out. They were dressed a lot like Misha — like avid hikers. And both had beards and long hair. Moishe went to door of the warehouse while the men each carried a large cage — the size of a big box. There were birds inside, fluttering. They looked like pigeons. They all disappeared inside.
After a few minutes I crept up to the van and peeked through the door. The cabin was messy — paper cups on the floor, empty energy drinks…and everything was covered in brown dust. They really did spend a lot of time outdoors somewhere.
I crossed the street and crouched behind a car, hoping to wait them out. But there was no movement. After an hour I decided to go home — and not empty handed, either. Now I had an address and a license plate.
Entry #11 will be published next week. See all installments of Two Pigeons here.