Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

in government offices, had their own way of dispensing help. It often meant that after standing in a long line, you find you need to come back the next day to speak with “Sarit.” You come back the following day as instructed, only to discover that “Sarit” doesn’t work that day. It’s not unusual to hear customers screaming at the people behind the counter. “Yeah, aside from the Israelis’ way of handling customer service.”

      “Nothing unusual. It was a great trip. We always look forward to going back and seeing family.”

      “Great.” I paused. I was zero for …how many questions had I asked? “Finally,” I said, “where can I find Josh?”

      8

      I found the rabbi sitting at a table at Benson’s Bagels up on Reisterstown Road, speaking with a man I recognized from the after-services crowd in front of the synagogue on Saturday. He was the 40 year old congregant dressed in an off-white suit, socializing with the Mandels as everyone was leaving. At the moment, he and Josh were sitting opposite each other, across a square table along the side wall of the eatery. A paper plate with a smattering of crumbs was in front of each. They must have just finished. The man opposite Josh had a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand.

      “Josh, hi,” I said, stepping up to them.

      He looked up. “Gidon, hi.”

      I turned to the man opposite him. He held out his hand: “Henry Sakolsky.” I shook it. “What you did the other night was truly heroic. You saved their lives.”

      Obviously, Josh had spoken with this guy. “Glad I was there.”

      “Have a seat,” Josh leaned over and tugged at the chair at the side of the table. I pulled it the rest of the way and sat down, Josh to my right, Sakolsky to the left.

      The bagel place was packed with customers, both young and old, and the noise level made an intimate conversation difficult. On the other hand, everyone was engaged in their own dialogue, so they wouldn’t be conscious of anyone else’s. Josh inched forward a little. “Henry is the president of the congregation and a friend.”

      “I have some questions for you, rabbi, and I hate to interrupt, but…” I turned to Sakolsky.

      “You’d like to ask them privately,” Sakolsky put in.

      “Yeah, sorry,” I said.

      A young girl, probably a high school student, wearing an apron and carrying two plates of scrambled eggs, edged past me and set the plates on the table next to us, in front of a twenty-something couple.

      “No problem. Rabbi, I’ll talk to you later.” He stood up and turned to me. “Gidon, while you’re here, can I ask you a question? I didn’t know who you were at shul.”

      I stood up too, so we could speak more comfortably. “What can I do for you?” I hoped he wasn’t inquiring about Friday night.

      “You obviously know how to handle yourself. IDF, I was told?”

      “Yes and no.”

      He didn’t know what to make of my answer, but proceeded anyway. “You wouldn’t by chance teach self-defense or anything? I would love for my 12 year old to learn karate.”

      I looked at him, wondering if he were legit, or if he wanted something else. “I do have a class, down on Charles Street, below 25th.”

      “Can we come by sometime?”

      “Sure.”

      He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. “Can you write down your address and phone number? If you don’t mind.”

      “Not a problem.” I took the card, reading the front – Sakolsky & Levin – Business Equipment – and then flipped it over and printed the information he requested.

      “Thanks.” He took back the card and pen, patted my shoulder, and left.

      After a moment, Josh commented: “Henry is a good guy. He’s at shul more than I am, if that’s possible.”

      I sat down, but didn’t respond.

      “He’s the go-to guy.”

      I nodded.

      “Again, I can’t thank you en—”

      “Stop it.”

      “Okay.” He let a moment go by and I was conscious of all the chatter and clatter in the room. “You want to ask more questions, right?”

      “We have to figure this out.”

      He nodded.

      “I’m going to ask you the same thing I asked Shelley thirty minutes ago. What do a rabbi, his wife, and two guys with malice in their hearts have in common?”

      “I really have no idea. Gidon, really, Shelley does her thing, I do my thing.”

      “You’ve never rubbed anyone the wrong way?”

      “Who am I going to upset?”

      “Josh, two men came to your house Friday night. One of them had a gun to your head. Somebody’s upset.”

      He just looked at me and held his palms up.

      “Your relationship with the congregation?”

      “Beautiful.”

      “No one is angry with you.”

      “No.”

      “Do you offer couple’s counseling?”

      “Some.”

      “Any pissed off husbands, wives, or lovers?”

      “At each other yes. At me, no.”

      “Any women make a pass at you…jealous husbands?”

      He shook his head.

      “Josh, I gotta say, you don’t seem worried about this.”

      “Ye’hiyeh b’seder.” He had given me the classic, Israeli response to everything: “It will be okay.”

      He saw my exasperation.

      “Gidon, I trust you.”

      “You don’t even know me.”

      “I know you. Last year you stopped an assassination during our banquet. That was you, right?”

      I nodded. So he knew.

      “You did what you had to Friday night. I trust you.”

      “Tell me about your parents. They’re not bookies or arms smugglers, are they?”

      “Dad’s a principal of a private school in Boston. Mom’s a social worker for the Brookline schools. No one is going after us because of them.”

      “Have you ever been to Turkey?” Again, I was thinking of Mazhar’s name.

      “No.”

      “Have you traveled lately?”

      “I had some rabbinical business in Charleston and in Rhode Island not too long ago, and the family went to Israel three months ago.”

      I nodded. Shelley had said they both had family there.

      “Gidon,” he looked at me, but I didn’t say anything. “Ye’hiyeh b’seder. It will be okay.”

      9

      I walked into the dojo an hour later with two quarterstaffs resting on my right shoulder. I was dressed in black military BDU pants and a red and white IDF paratroop T-shirt. As I stepped through the door I saw that the workout area was empty, except for Jonathan, who was in the middle of the room, working on one of the more aggressive tai chi forms. He moved fluidly and strongly; the chen-style form had some of the more common circular hand movements, but it also had less familiar jumps, spins, punches, and strikes. I waited