The Boudicca Parchments

Chapter 39

They pitied him, but they didn’t try to comfort him. Instead they merely ignored him, or at least pretended to.

Baruch Tikva was standing in the front row of the small shul — synagogue — in Stamford Hill. The synagogue was little more than a large room and it belonged to Shomrei Ha’ir. But the locals did not know this man. All that they knew of him was what they could see and hear. That he was a member of their sect — they could tell that from his attire — and that he was tormented by sadness and feelings of guilt.

This was not a formal prayer time, and there were only three others in the synagogue, the shamas — an official who assisted in the day-to-day matters of the synagogue — and two others who were there to make arrangements for other members their families.

He stood before the Ark of the Covenant — Aron Hakodesh (literally the “Holy Cupboard”) with tears in his eyes, his voice choking on his words, as he addressed Hashem in Yiddish, confessing to his failure to do the word of the Holy One Blessed Be He. As the words flowed through his constricted throat and stumbled out of his mouth in a tangle of guttural Germanic sounds, he expressed his guilt at letting down not only his father but Shamayim — Heaven — itself.

“I have failed as Jew!” he exclaimed through a flood of tears that he couldn’t dam up at source. “I have failed in my piety! I have not lived as a good Jew should live. I haven’t prayed as good Jew should pray. I haven’t served you as I should have served you. I have not found grace in your eyes. I have been tempted by the stranger’s ways. I have made myself unclean before you. I am impure. My heart is corrupted. I have betrayed when I should have served. I have doubted when I should have believed. I have been depraved by all that is profane and not kept faith with all that is holy.”

He broke down again, crying a river into the side of his clenched fist.

The other three men present felt truly sorry for him. He was a fellow Jew who had fallen on misfortune and he was to be helped, if help could be given. If his hardship had been financial, they would have given him tsedaka — charity. If his hardship had been medical, they would have given him advice or drawn on their network of contacts.

But it was clear from what he was saying that his crisis was not material but spiritual. What ailed him was not from without, but from within. Whether it was a trouble in the family or bereavement or just some personal inner feeling of failure, there was nothing they could for him unless he asked. He was praying to God and his fate was in the hands of the Almighty. If he had asked for spiritual guidance and support, they would have summoned the rabbi, who was no doubt nearby.

But he asked for nothing of them. He asked only of God.

But his next words troubled them.

“Help me to kill Daniel Klein.”