Redemption

The Chosid calls out to me on the street and asks my name.

“Natan.”

“Nosun!” The Yiddish version.

Sure, why not.

I smile and linger. Is he one of the guys who blares techno music from a decrepit mitzvah van? Does he solicit by the highway, handing out little pamphlets?

Automatically, I touch my pocket. Some loose coins. That should get rid of him.

But no request is made, no hand held out for charity. Not this Chosid. He’s quiet, sweetly nodding to himself. In another world.

I step closer. Mid 50s I’d guess. Piercing blue eyes peer out from a matted white and blonde beard, stubby fingers twirl the knotted locks beneath his chin.

Is he a Big Kahuna? One of the leaders? Sending gangs of teenage black-suits to busy spots around town, to encourage passersby to put on tefillin. That’s one serious fetish, wrapping strangers in black leather straps. Maybe this guy is their ringleader, a sort of Holy Fagin.

“Nosun! Nosun!” He’s singing to himself, a melody half-recognized from childhood. He looks up at me, transfixes me with his eyes.

“Look it up on YouTube,” he suggests gently in English.

I do as he says, time passes slowly. I find an electric guitar version. We both nod along to the beat, his bulging eyes full of joy. Now I’m standing right next to him, he somehow resembles my rabbi back in England. But a bizzaro version – as they say here “scratched,” like a record.

“What’s your name, Rav?”

“Haim Itzak.”

Then straight back at me: “Nosun. Nosun. A great prophet of Israel!”

“Oh no, not me. Not a prophet. Just a regular Nosun.”

“There are no regular Jews!” He points up at the heavens, starting to giggle like a little boy.

“Nosun the Prophet was only ‘great,’” I say, hoping to draw more of his intoxicating laughter, “because King David was so naughty.”

“That lady Bathsheba? Bathing on the roof.” I raise my eyebrows.

He looks at me silently. Then, in a measured tone: “Nosun. We are in the time of Geula – the redemption.”

I take a deep breath. Here we go. Sometimes I forgot how many Jews are waiting for the Messiah.

“You know what, Rev Haim Itzak, maybe you’re right.”

“Since October seventh, we’re in the same boat. All Jews: religious, secular, Israeli, diaspora. For years we’ve been separated, behind walls. Now we’ve all got the same problem.”

“They hate us, everywhere. Here in Israel. All over the world. Now we only have each other.”

“So maybe you’re right. If there ever was a time for redemption, for unity, it’s now.”

Rav Haim Itzak grins like a cat.

“See, you ARE Nosun!”

We laugh together, like a storm breaking.

There’s a long pause. He’s humming to himself. After what feels like an hour, he looks up at me, leaning in with a secret.

“You know, I didn’t used to be a Chosid. I was a graphic designer. Didn’t like it. I asked Hashem what to do. Now here I am. Seven children.” He chuckles, walks me to the corner of the road.

“Before, when I was secular, I had a cuckoo.”

He points to the crown of his head, obscured by the black hat. I try to imagine a man-bun; an upturned, coiled ponytail. Israelis call this a “cuckoo.”

“When I got religious the cuckoo moved, down here. See?” He strokes both hands through his thick beard, scattering breadcrumbs, smiling the smile of an angel.