The Messiah

Israel Trips

A Kibbutz near the Sea of Galilee, c. 1960

The Messiah

It’s 1982. We have a bus full of Denverites, all of whom are first timers. We have celebrated a lovely Bar Mitzvah with a service in Ein Karem near the new Hadassah Hospital. We have also soaked in the Dead Sea, kayaked down the Jordan River, and were now on our way back to Tel Aviv for our final days of the tour. On the way there we make a stop at Rosh Hanikrah. This is a fabulous tourist attraction. Its name literally means the head of the woodpecker, but figuratively it suggests the result of such pecking away because it is a grotto carved out by the waves of the Mediterranean Sea over millennia. One can enter the grotto and walk around inside — a mountain of flint studded chalkstone overhead, and feel the power of the waves as they crash in and flow out. As an added benefit, in the summer, it’s 20 degrees cooler there than it is outside.

This is Israel’s northwestern-most spot on the coast, and is, therefore, the border crossing into Lebanon. The 1982 war is just getting under way. There are hundreds if not thousands of IDF transport vehicles and tanks all marked clearly with a single blue stripe front to back forming a tight procession that stretches back countless miles. The military procession is making haste through the border crossing as we arrive. Our bus stops and everyone gets off cameras in hand.

Our guide is a high ranking officer in the reserves. He sees that we are all snapping pictures, so he steps in front of the next tank and holds up his hand. The tank stops and those vehicles behind have no choice but to do the same. The top of the tank flips open and one of the soldiers pops his head out.

“Mah karah?” He shouts over the din of revving diesel motors. (What’s up?)

“Tiyarim rotzim la’hitztalaym - lakachat t’munote,” our guide answers. (Tourists want to take some pictures.)

“B’seder,” Okay, he responds, looks down, and two other tank members pop their heads out. All three smile, and the cameras snap away.

“Hatzlachah u’tiyu ba-re’im,” our guide yells as he waves them on. (Success and stay well.)

So our little ole touring bus stopped the war ... for pictures?! Only in Israel.

We arrive at our hotel in Tel Aviv and check in. The Tel Aviv Hilton was, back in the day, the premier inn in the city. Much smaller than the Dan Hotel, but much classier, it was where dignitaries and the financial crowd called home for a night, a week, or even longer. We rarely stayed there because its major disadvantage was that it was many, many blocks north of the center of the city. This was a bummer for tourists who wanted to be able to walk out of a hotel and be in the heart of the action. But the Dan, the Carleton, the Crown Royal, and the Continental were full, so we were treated to these very posh rooms and marble floored grand lobby at no extra charge. Our driver offered a bus ride for those who wanted to do some late afternoon shopping right away. Others could hop a city bus or take a cab when they were ready.

Rikki and I went up to our room. Our luggage was already awaiting us at the door. I unlocked the door and carried in the first bag. The phone was ringing. We just got here, and the phone is ringing? Let’s see, it’s one of the group not happy with their room? Nah! Can’t be unhappy with any room in this hotel. Well, maybe it’s the guide who needs something and it can’t wait until tomorrow? Nah! The guide can always wait. Oy, maybe an injury, we’ve had that before. Sick? That too. I went to the phone and answered.

A deep voice in English, no accent. “Rabbi Zwerin?”

“Yes.”

“Rabbi, this is Mr. ?? from the U.S. Embassy here in Tel Aviv. We have a problem that we think you can help us with if you are willing. I am in the lobby of your hotel right now. I wonder if I could impose upon you to come down and meet with me for a few minutes. I assure you that it will not take long.”

“I’ll be down in five minutes,” I reply and hang up.

“What was that?” Rikki asks.

“U.S. Embassy,” I reply. “I have no idea what they want, but the man said that I could help with something if I wished. Don’t worry, spying is not on my bucket list.” Then I realized that I hadn’t asked how I would recognize him. Then I realized that that was his problem. I brought in the other bag, and then got back in the elevator.

“Rabbi?” The dapper gentleman with a slim briefcase in his left hand and a U.S. Flag lapel pin greeted me the instant the elevator door opened. He introduced himself again. I missed the name again. “I have a table over here in the lobby. I ordered you a soda water, or would you like something else?”

“Soda is fine, thanks.” We sat near a curtained window, and a waiter was right there with the glasses.

“Rabbi, this is a very sensitive matter, and should you choose not to help, I’ll have to ask you to keep it just between us and to forget we ever had this conversation. Yes?”

First, ply me with soda, and then swear me to secrecy. Where is this going?

“Yes, I understand.”

“There is a young man from Denver. He is 21 years-old. He came to Israel for the summer, and ended up living and working on a kibbutz in the Galilee. He has a lovely young girlfriend from Boulder. They met on the kibbutz and have become very good friends. They were due to return home in another month, but unfortunately he developed a problem two days ago. He began to hallucinate about being chosen by god to solve the world’s problems. I won’t go into the psychological aspects of his visions. Your group leaves the day after tomorrow. We would like you to supervise him on your flights back home.”

“How did you know I was in Israel? How did you know my itinerary? Who gave you my name?” Bucket list or not, I had a bucket full of questions.

“When we heard from the kibbutz that they had transported the young man to a psychiatric facility in Haifa, we called the clinic. They shared his name and passport identification with our representative in Haifa. We discovered that he is from Denver and we looked to see if there were other Denver tourists. We did of course check you out through our Denver contacts, and it seems you are very well respected by your colleagues and the community.

Great. First the soda and now the soft soap.

“What is involved in this process?”

“We will take care of all of the logistics. He will be medicated so that he will not have an episode during your day of travel and time waiting in airports. No doubt he will sleep for most of the flight from here to JFK and from there to Denver. We will arrange the seating so that he will be in your sight, but not next to you. His girlfriend will sit next to him. She seems to have a calming effect on the young man, which is very good. You’ll need to help her get him to a restroom at JFK, but we’ll make sure that the plane personnel know about him and you. They’ll be ready to help should you need them.”

“What happens when we get to JFK? Do I take him through customs?”

“No, Sir. We will have someone there to meet you and they will take care of that. Also when you land in Denver, your responsibility ends. He will be met by medical personnel from the psychiatric ward of one of the local hospitals. You just go on home ... with our thanks.”

“I’d like to see the young man tomorrow. And one more thing. It just so happens that one of my group is not only a personal friend, but a well-respected psychiatrist in Denver. Should you need to check him out too, I’ll be happy to give you his name. I’d like to tell him this story and have him involved with this as well. I’ll ask if he’ll go with me to see the young man.”

“That sounds like a bonus for all of us, Rabbi. I will arrange transportation for you both to the hospital tomorrow. Our driver will meet you here in the lobby at ten in the morning. I’ll arrange for your meeting there at around ten forty-five. Does that sound about right for you?”

“Yes, and if you can arrange it, I’d like to meet the girlfriend tomorrow as well.”

“Of course. We’ll take care of the arrangements. Part of our task is to get our citizens home safely. We thank you for helping us do this for the young man and for his family.” With that, he rose, we shook hands, and I never saw him again.

My psychiatrist friend, Dr. J was very gracious. To go to Haifa with me meant that he would miss the entire day of touring – Jaffa, Rehovot, Bat Yam, Ashkelon, Yad Mordecai, Gaza, Beersheva, and more. Instead of a bus trip he would take a busman’s holiday – seeing a patient while on vacation. But he was delighted to do so. Actually, we were both pleased to be able to serve the needs of embassy and patient.

The drive to Haifa along the coast was a delight. It was a warm day in late July, but the sea breeze was most pleasant. We had the windows down all the way there. The Haifa facility was not a modern building; the inside was Spartan, but immaculate. We met the young man in his room – a simple metal cot with mattress, a small table, and three chairs. In one of the chairs, when we entered, was a beautiful young woman who immediately rose, shook our hands, and introduced herself as ‘his friend.’ She was articulate, bright, energetic, sensitive to the situation, and spoke with a competence that belied her age. While the doctor spoke with the patient, she and I went into the visitor waiting room to chat.

They had known each other tangentially in Colorado, but met by coincidence on the kibbutz. He was fun loving and had a lot of friends on the kibbutz. He loved being there. He enjoyed working in the fields, especially harvesting fruit. They spent their afternoons swimming in the kibbutz pool or going to the beautiful natural springs at Gan HaSheloshah also called Sachna, not that far away. They were just very good friends, but she felt a sense of responsibility for him. She would not leave him now, and, therefore, would cut her stay short to go home with him.

I told her that he would be in good hands – a psychiatrist and a rabbi with help from my wife and government agents along the way seemed to be overkill already. I suggested that she might just stay and finish out her plans for summer. But she was adamant. She would help him get home. This was not stubbornness, but rather determination. It was not willful or hard core, but rather kind and deeply concerned. It came with a sweetness that made me think ... this could have been one fortunate lad to find such a special young lady during a summer stay in a distant place. I asked her what happened.

“We were in the fields one early morning, and he just got weird. This calm, easy going guy, suddenly got all agitated and tense. He started shouting about having to do god’s work, having to save the country from the enemy. He had a mission, a task, he would save us all from war. He would bring peace. It was sort of funny the way he was going on, but he wasn’t kidding. I went over to hug him and he pushed me away saying that there was no time for that, he had work to do, he had received a divine call, he must not fail, god depends on him. It was intense, Rabbi. I had to get us back to the main building. So, I took a chance and asked him to take my hand and lead me back so we could pack for our task – to bring peace. I guess they’ve seen this kind of thing before. The Minahail (kibbutz leader) spoke with us briefly and called a number. Within an hour, we were picked up from the kibbutz and brought here. A representative from the U.S. Embassy came to speak with me mostly, because he was out of it by then. They had given him a shot. The medication was doing its job.”

We left the young lady with our respects for what she determined to do. Dr. J gave his assessment – psychotic break, messiah complex, confinement and intensive therapy would be needed back home. Short term, long term – he couldn’t tell right now. The meds were keeping the young man calm, but also closed off.

Our El Al flight the next morning to New York was scheduled for 10:05am. Our group arrived at Lod airport at eight. Awaiting us was the young man in a wheelchair and his friend. She was holding his hand. An embassy representative was there as well. He helped those two clear the long check in process in just a few minutes, and they were sitting quietly upstairs in the departure lounge when we got through. It was no surprise that the two were also put on the plane first. The embassy man came back from the plane to tell me that my wife and I and Dr. J could now take our seats, and the boarding process continued smoothly after that. He had a window seat so that he could lean against a pillow. He slept all the way to JFK.

We were met at the airport by a health official who again shepherded the couple through customs and check in. Dr. J and I kept close watch on them both in the airports and while aboard, but to tell the truth, his girl friend was amazing. Her soft words kept him calm when he stirred, she took his hand when he spoke his few words as he drifted in and out of his drug induced twilight.

When we landed in Denver, sure enough they were first off the plane, and uniformed medical personnel were right there to take charge of getting them from the airport to a health facility. I caught up with them before they left the airport to say good-bye and wish them both well. I asked her to give me a call and let me know where he was and how he was doing. She said she would and she did. In fact, we spoke by phone several times in the months following our trip home together. Then after telling me that he was at home and doing much better, she mentioned that they were no longer seeing each other. Shortly after that, we also lost contact.

Sometime in the early years of the new century, I came across an article about a number of people who were graduating from Aleph, a program in Boulder founded by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi (z”l), that trains students from diverse backgrounds and every denomination to serve the global Jewish community as rabbis. It also listed the names of the few men and women who were being ordained. I recognized one name. It was that of the young woman from the kibbutz, from the hospital in Haifa, from the planes. We had not seen nor heard from one another in 25 years. I went to her ordination ceremony. I heard her teachers offer their praise of her. Yes, it was her, decades later. She had kept her maiden name. I would not have recognized her had we passed on the street, as she did not recognize me when I shook her hand and wished her a mazal tov.

The light of recognition is diffuse after so many years. We had only seen each other for one day and had spoken but a few words then and afterward. She gave me a puzzled sort of smile as I congratulated her and moved along to make room for others behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her turn to a fellow ordainee to ask as if she knew who I was. She shrugged. No one knows me in Boulder. It’s not my town. But I was thrilled to know that she was now a rabbi. More than picking fruit on a kibbutz, this was her calling. Whatever community she went to serve would be truly cared for by this compassionate woman, it would be well taught by this bright and articulate now rabbi, and it would in every way no doubt be richly blessed.