‘Sorry, that’s God. HaShem literally means “the Name”. In Judaism, we know the name of God, we can see it written down, but we never say it out loud.’
Will gestured for Sandy to carry on. He explained that he had put his life in the hands of the Rebbe and his followers. He started dressing like them, eating kosher food, praying in the morning and evening, honouring the Sabbath by abstaining from all work or commerce – no shopping, no using electricity, no riding the subway – from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday.
‘And did you do anything like that before?’
‘Me? You gotta be kidding. Man, I didn’t know what shabbos was! I ate everything that moved: lobster, crabs, cheeseburgers. My mom didn’t even know what was kosher and what was treif.’
‘And what does she think about, you know, this?’ Will gestured at Sandy’s clothes and beard.
‘You know, it’s kind of a process?’ Upspeak, even here. ‘She found the kosher thing hard; me not being able to eat with her when I visit with her in her home. And now that I have kids, that gets kind of tricky. But the toughest thing for her, without a doubt? When I became Shimon Shmuel, rather than Sandy. She couldn’t get her head round that.’
‘You changed your name?’
‘I wouldn’t really call it changing my name. Every Jew has a Hebrew name already, even if he doesn’t know what it is. It’s the name of our soul. So I like to say that I discovered my real name. But I use both. When I visit my mom, or when I meet, you know, someone like you, I’m Sandy. In Crown Heights, I’m Shimon Shmuel.’
‘So what can you tell me about this Rebbe, then?’
‘Well, he is our leader and he is a great teacher and we all love him and he loves us.’
‘Do people do whatever he tells them to do?’
‘It’s not really like that, Tom.’ (Will had had to think quickly. In all his preparation he had forgotten to make up a pseudonym. So he had borrowed Tom’s first name and his mother’s maiden name: Sandy thought he was talking to a freelance reporter called Tom Mitchell.) ‘The Rebbe just knows what’s right for all of us. He’s like the shepherd and we’re his flock. He knows what we need, where we should live, who we should marry. So, yes, we listen to his advice.’ Will’s hunch was being confirmed. This guy pulled every lever.
‘And where does he live?’
‘He is right here in this community, every day.’
‘And can I meet him?’
‘You should come to shul tonight.’
‘Shul?’
‘Synagogue. But it’s more than that. It’s our headquarters, our meeting house, our library. You’ll find out all you need to know about the Rebbe there.’
Will decided to stick with Sandy. He needed a guide and Sandy would be ideal. Not much older than Will, he was not a rabbi or scholar, not some authority figure who would require ingratiation, but a burned-out hippy who, Will guessed, had simply cried out to be rescued. If the Moonies had got there first, Sandy would have gone with them; he was a man who needed someone to catch him when he fell.
They talked as they walked the few blocks to Sandy’s first stop.
‘Tell me something, Sandy. What’s the deal with this clothing? How come you all dress alike?’
‘I admit, I was pretty freaked by that at first. But you know what the Rebbe says? We are more individual because we dress this way.’
‘How does he work that out?’
‘Well, what makes us different from each other is not the designer shirt we wear or an expensive suit, something on the outside. What makes us different from each other is what’s inside: our true selves, our neshama, our souls. That’s what shines out. If the outside becomes irrelevant, if we all look the same, then people can truly start to see the inside.’
By now, they had arrived at a building Sandy referred to as the mikve and which he translated to Will as ‘ritual bath’. They joined the line paying a dollar to the attendant at the door, Will handing over an extra fifty cents to get a towel, and headed downstairs into what seemed to be a large changing room.
As soon as Sandy opened the door, they were hit by a cloud of steam. The air itself seemed to be dripping; Will had to blink three or four times to adjust his eyes. When he finally regained his vision, he stepped back as if he had been punched.
The room was packed with men and boys who were either naked or about to be. There were bony teenagers, large-bellied men in their fifties, their beards frizzing in the humidity, and wrinkled geriatrics – all of them removing every last piece of clothing. Will had been to the gym enough times, but there the age range was narrower, there were fewer people and nothing like this volume of noise. Everyone in here was talking; if they were kids, they were screaming.
‘We have to be entirely unadorned when we enter the mikve,’ Sandy was saying, ‘if we are to become pure for shabbos. Our skin must make total contact with the rainwater that’s collected in the mikve. If we wear a wedding ring, we have to take it off. We must be as we were the day we were born.’
Will looked at his own finger, at the band that Beth had given him. At their wedding ceremony, she had placed it on his finger whispering a vow that was for his ears only. ‘More than yesterday, less than tomorrow.’ It referred to the depth of their love for each other.
Now he was standing surrounded by naked men, some taking off tasselled vests – which Sandy explained were worn by order of a religious commandment: a reminder of God, even under your shirt – others putting them on, where they instantly became stained with the moisture of skin not yet dried, several muttering prayers in a language Will did not understand. How strange the world is, Will thought surveying this scene, that my love for Beth could bring me to this place and this moment.
‘Coming?’ Sandy was gesturing towards the pool. Something told Will that if he was going to win this man’s trust, he would have to show respect and go along with whatever ritual the hour called for.
‘Sure,’ he said, taking off his own clothes; even the wedding ring. Gingerly he followed Sandy, reminded of his school days and the walk to the communal shower after a winter afternoon of rugby practice. Then, as now, he felt self-concious, taking care to cover his private parts with his hands. The set-up here looked a lot like those old school baths, down to the puddles of blackening water and the random pubic hairs on the white-tiled floor. There was a sign: LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR, TAKE A SHOWER BEFORE THE MIKVE. Will took his lead from Sandy, who stood under the jet of water for just a few seconds.
Then to the mikve itself. It was like a small plunge pool and plunging was what you did. Down the stairs, wade a step or two and then down – a complete dunk, so that not a hair on your head remained dry – then twice more and out. The temperature was comfortable but no one lingered. They were not having a dip or a Jacuzzi, they were there to be purified.
As Will sank below the surface, holding his breath, he was filled with an unexpected anger. Not at the men around him, not even at Beth’s captors, but at himself. His wife was missing, in who knew what kind of danger, and here he was, butt naked. He was not where he should be, in a New York Police Department command centre, surrounded by flickering computer terminals manned by kidnap specialists, each of them working round the clock to trace phone calls and decode emails using state-of-the-art encryption technology, until finally one officer turns around and announces to the room – ‘We’ve got him!’ – prompting everyone to pile into squad cars and a couple of helicopters, surrounding the criminals’ den with a SWAT team of marksmen who then emerge with a trembling Beth, wrapped in a blanket, and her evil abductor in handcuffs or, better still, a body bag. All this raced through Will’s mind as he held his breath in the rainwater that was meant to sanctify his body. I’ve seen too many movies,