36 Arguments for the Existence of God - [60]

It was a spacious room lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound Hebrew books. The Rebbe himself was sitting behind a large handsome desk flanked on either side by two middle-aged Hasidim, both wearing the black felt hats with the rounded tops Cass had seen on the other men. But the Rebbe was wearing a fur shtreimel, more streamlined than the one he’d be wearing on Shabbes, but still an impressive piece of pelt.

The Rebbe stood up and came around in front of his desk and held out his hand to Jonas Elijah Klapper.

“Extreme Distinguished Professor Klapper of Frankfurter University,” he said in clear English without an accent. “Welcome to New Walden.”

“I am honored, Grand Rebbe, that you have permitted me this private audience.”

“And you, Reb Chaim Yisroel Seltzer,” the Rebbe greeted Cass. “It is wonderful to see you again.” Cass was surprised to learn that the Rebbe remembered ever having seen him. Of course, the Rebbe had been at his bubbe’s funeral, but he had been such a lofty figure, surrounded by his courtiers. Cass had assumed he hadn’t noticed, and certainly not remembered, the one person who had cried. “Your bubbe, of sainted memory, could never stop singing your praises,” the Rebbe said to him now, which made Cass almost tear up again. Being in New Walden brought her back so vividly. He could recall the smell of her house, a special Hasidic-certified scouring powder that used to make his mother gag. “May her praises continue to intercede on your behalf from On High. How is your mother, Devorah Gittel?”

Cass’s mother had never clued him into the Rebbe’s unusual mind, since she never had any praise to spare for the Valdeners. The Rebbe’s remarkable recall for names was among the least of the wonders his Hasidim recounted. It was taken for granted that a Hasidic Rebbe would manifest extraordinary mental and spiritual attributes, since he was believed to inhabit a different spiritual plane, his soul garnering a greater share of the divine sparks that were, according to the Kabbalist cosmogony, scattered in the great metaphysical mishap that accompanied the creation of the world. The position was dynastic, passed down from father to eldest son-though, should the designated inheritor be deemed of unworthy spiritual or intellectual caliber, it could go to a younger son, or even another relative or a student.

Sometimes there could be feuds and factions, a War of the Rosens over succession. Such discord had never, thank God, rent the Valdeners. Though he had five older sisters, the current Valdener Rebbe was the eldest son, with three younger brothers. His intellectual sharpness and analytical skills had been apparent since childhood, though they manifested themselves with a zeal for matters more practical than mystical. The Valdener Rebbe would much prefer to discuss the requirements for New Walden’s sewer system and water supply than the Kabbalist Zohar, The Book of Splendor. He had committed to memory a whole directory of doctors and their specialties, so that, if any of his Hasidim came to him with a particular ailment, he knew where to send him or her. The Rebbe’s brilliance was often turned to the Talmudic complexities of attaining government subsidies-for housing, for health, for education-for the members of his community, the majority of whom lived below the poverty line, not surprisingly, since none were college-educated and they almost all had, thank God, large families.

“Please give your blessed mother my regards.”

Cass was surprised that the Rebbe seemed to harbor no hard feelings toward his mother.

The Rebbe had retreated again behind his desk-for a small, round man he moved very quickly, giving the impression of forceful rolling- and now sat down. Cass and Klapper did the same.

“So your mother, Devorah Gittel, left the Hasidim. But you, Chaim Yisroel, have returned. You, too, are a Hasid.”

Cass remembered how his bubbe used to call him a little Hasid. Had she told the Rebbe one of her bubbe meisahs, her grandmother tales? Cass felt compelled to clear up the confusion, as delicately as possible.

“I haven’t been raised as a Hasid, Rebbe. I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s for me.”

“Of course you’re a Hasid! How can you deny that? Especially sitting right there beside your Rebbe!” he said, gesturing grandly toward Jonas Elijah Klapper.

A look of beatitude settled over Jonas Elijah Klapper’s face. The Valdener Rebbe clearly recognized him as a fellow charismatic.

“We have many interests in common,” Professor Klapper said now to the Rebbe. “I have a consuming passion for the esoteric texts of Jewish mysticism.”

“You are an educator on the highest order. An Extreme Distinguished Professor at an accredited university. We Valdeners value education to the highest degree, too. Every Valdener Hasid is a scholar. Our boys are learning from the age of three on. In our kollel, which is our adult-learning institute, we have over fifty percent of our married men learning Talmud full-time, and for the first year after their marriage, every single man learns full-time, supported by the community until he has to go out and earn for his family. But even those who have jobs come in the evenings to study two or three hours. The ones with jobs support the ones who sit and learn full-time to the best of their abilities. All our men, young and old, are scholars, though some have special needs. You can imagine how hard it is on the community to support such demands of scholarship. In the outside world, only the chosen few, such as yourself, Rav Klapper, are permitted a life of study, but for the Valdeners every butcher, baker, and bus driver is also involved in a life of study.”