The potential to be Messiah

“Now, all right. From what I have heard,” Landsman continues, “and I certainly don’t claim to understand it, your son – as a boy- he showed certain, well, indications, or…that he might be…I’m not sure I have this right. The Tzaddik Ha-Dor, is that it? If the conditions were right, if the Jews of this generation were worthy, then he might reveal himself as, uh, as Messiah.”

“It’s ridiculous, nu, Detective Landsman,” the rebbe says. “The very idea makes you smile.”

“Not at all,” Landsman says. “But if your son was Messiah, then I guess we’re all in trouble. Because right now he’s lying in a drawer down in the basement of Sitka General”.

“Meyer,” Berko says.

“With all due respect,” Landsman puts in.

The rebbe doesn’t answer at first, and when he finally speaks, it is with evident care. “We are taught by the Baal Shem Tov, of blessed memory, that a man with the potential to be Messiah is born into every generation. This is the Tzaddik Ha-Dor. Now, Mendel. Mendele, Mendele”.

He closes his eyes. He might be remembering. He might be fighting back tears. He opens them. They’re dry, and he remembers.

“Mendel had a remarkable nature as a boy. I’m not talking about miracles. Miracles are a burden for a tzaddik, not of the proof of one. Miracles prove nothing except to those whose faith is bought very cheap, sir. There was something in Mendele. There was a fire. This is a cold, dark place, Detectives. A gray, wet place. Mendele gave off light and warmth. You wanted to stand close to him. To warm your hands, to melt the ice on your beard. To banish the darkness for a minute or two. But then when you left Mendele, you stayed warm, and it seemed like there was a little more light, maybe one candle’s worth, in the world. And that was when you realised the fire was inside you all the time. And that was the miracle. Just that”.

Excerpt from The Yiddish Policemen’s Union by Michael Chabbon