The Ascent of Eli Israel by Dara Horn Jonathan Papernick

muezzin cried, calling the Arabs to prayer. “Ull-aaaaaaw-hoo-Ak-bar! Ull-aaaaaaw-hoo-Ak-bar!” And the unwelcome guests, as surprisingly as they had arrived, began disappearing into the blue morning light. The blind father, the wives, the mother, the woman, the sons, and the nephews dropped to their knees, foreheads on the floor. And were gone. The old man, too, climbed from his chair and vanished. Yossi pulled the dirty kaffiyeh from his mouth and ran to the hallway, his heart breaking in his throat. The bedroom door opened and out stepped Youssif, a tall handsome Arab in a sweater and slacks. He held a broken bottle in his hand.
    Youssif stepped past him, dropping the bloodied bottle to the floor.
    â€œShe is not dead,” Youssif said. “She is only crying for the ghosts of her children and their children, too.”
    The sun continued to rise, the muezzin wailing in Arabic, “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”

The Art of Correcting
    O ne morning, Rabbi Israel Frummann could not rise from his bed to say his morning prayers. It was the first time in his entire sixty-three years that the great Dokszycer rebbe did not greet the new day with prayer on his lips.
    â€œMy back is aching,” he said to his wife, Sarah. “I can’t move.”
    â€œGet up. You must go and pray.”
    â€œLike the mortar of Egypt,” he cried. “I am turning to stone.”
    She brought him a hot towel to lie on and some ointment for his neck. He waved it away and then winced.
    â€œAll right, my wife. Bring it here.”
    â€œThen you must go and pray. You are the rebbe.”
    With that, the Dokszycer rebbe pulled himself up on his elbows and then fell quickly back onto his pillows. “I cannot go,” he said.
    â€œBut what about the minyan?” Sarah said, raising her voice.
    The Dokszycer sect was a very small order, so small in fact that without the rebbe, only nine men could appear at the Western Wall to perform morning prayers.
    â€œDon’t worry, they can worship without me,” the rebbe said. “They are all grown men.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Sarah said, horrified. “Man’s prayers are only truly heard when he prays as part of a congregation. Get out of bed now!”
    â€œAll right, wife,” the rebbe said and began resolutely to climb from his bed, but screamed out in pain, “The Angel of Death is killing me slowly.”
    â€œAre you going to pray?” Sarah said.
    â€œHis sword is wedged in my spine!”
    â€œThen, rest,” Sarah said, finally. “I will bring you some tea and honey.”
    â€œBring me Luria!”
    Lev Luria was a local kabbalist whose mastery of amulets, prayers, and spells was known outside Jerusalem as far as Banei Brak. It was said he had once revived a dead yeshiva student who had been hit by a bus simply by breathing the word chayim, life, into his mouth.
    Pale, long-faced Luria arrived sometime after noon and found the rebbe in bed with his window curtains pulled closed.
    â€œThe rebbitzin sent for me. What is the matter?” Luria said, stepping close to the rebbe’s bed.
    â€œI did not go to prayers this morning,” the rebbe said in such a sad tone that he may have been lying on his death bed.
    â€œWhy me?” Luria asked, placing his hands in his pockets and stepping away.
    â€œMy back feels like it has been walked on by an elephant. My spine has been a ladder for a thousand monkeys. . .”
    Luria took a step closer to the bed. The rebbe was not dying. “How are your eyes?”
    â€œMy eyes?” the rebbe said, trying to lift his head from the flattened pillow. “They hurt sometimes.”
    â€œIt is not your back,” Luria said, and a thin smile formed on his face. “The Talmud says a heavy step detracts one fivehundredth from the light of your eyes. Rebbe, if I may be so bold, there is nothing wrong with your