The Revenge of the Elders of Zion

by

Dan Sofer

Attracted by the intriguing title, I read this book in its ebook version on my phone, and as I tend to read books on my phone only when I’m waiting to see the doctor or dentist, it took me rather a long time to read it. The convoluted plot and considerable length (sixty-one chapters) also contributed to extend the time involved in finishing it. However, I persevered despite an ever-increasing need to extend the bounds of credibility, so that it was curiosity as to how a particular predicament would be resolved rather than intrinsic interest in the plot that kept me reading.

As the story begins we are introduced to David Zelig, a young man living in New York, who finds himself elbowed out of the family firm in the movie industry by the man appointed to manage it. David is doing his best to survive while at the same time trying to avoid being drawn into the well-oiled world of Jewish fund-raising. In a moment of inspiration, or perhaps desperation, he recruits two friends, young Jewish men living in New York, like himself, to attempt to combat the rising tide of antisemitism. Taking as their motto the derogatory term used in the notorious antisemitic text produced in tzarist Russian and then disseminated throughout Europe, i.e., the so-called Elders of Zion, the three set out to infiltrate and undermine the Moslem-financed antisemitic organisation which happens to use the same misnomer.

It is beyond my ability to recount the various surreal escapades, adventures and misadventures endured by the three in the course of the book’s sixty-one chapters, suffice it to say that priceless Fabergé eggs, esoteric Christian relics, desert islands inhabited by czarist dissenters, billionaires in private jets and Islamic terrorists are all involved at one stage or another. There is also a romantic side to the story, as David falls in love with the beautiful FBI agent appointed to help him, and their relations give rise to all manner of acts of derring-do and implausible acts of courage.

Without giving too much away, the book ends with a satisfying settling of accounts, and the prospect of everyone living happily ever after. Unless, of course, the author is already at work on a sequel of equal improbability.

Holy Days and Holidays

I suppose the etymology of the two phrases (Holy Days and Holidays) is the same, but their significance in this day and age is very different. Holidays are a time for enjoying oneself, whether relaxing on a beach or trekking up a mountain, whichever suits your taste. Holy Days are a time for contemplation, prayer and – in the case of the Jewish religion – observing the various practices that are enjoined by the religious authorities to which one adheres.

For most people, religious practice follows the pattern set out by one’s family, with traditions handed down through the generations. In my particular case I decided to break with the traditions of orthodox Judaism, finding that living in Israel was sufficient to satisfy any inclination I may have had to follow the customs I imbibed in the parental home. Each family, each ethnic group has different traditions and different ways of observing them, making for a wide variety of modes of observance.

Some traditional modes of marking the festivals, primarily those connected with food, seem to have become embedded in the way they are observed. Many of these traditions are determined by the availability or non-availability of certain foods at certain times of the year. Since the origin of many of the Jewish festivals is connected with the agricultural year and seasons, this is reflected in their observance even in countries for which this partiularl aspect has no relevance. After all, Jews were exiled from the Land of Israel over two thousand years ago, but clung to the traditional seasonal routine imposed by the Jewish festivals. Now that some Jews are back in Israel the festivals seem to be celebrated at their appropriate seasons, but that isn’t always the case for Jews living in the diaspora.

The same goes for the observance of the Jewish calendar day, starting the evening before the day of the festival, and ending when there is no more daylight. When I was growing up in England, which is situated further north than Israel, that meant that in the summer the Sabbath didn’t begin until ten o’clock at night on the evening before, and ended around midnight the next day. Thus, all the prohibitions and injunctions associated with the holy day (not driving, using electricity or cooking) had to be observed at times that caused a major disruption of our usual routine (when to sit down to eat the evening meal, for example). Even in Israel today those rules and regulations require setting routines and mealtimes in accordance with the time of the setting of the sun, which varies in winter and summer. I’ve ditched all adherence to such arbitrary rules and the family sits down to eat at 7 p.m. come rain or shine.

As the Jewish New Year approaches there is an upsurge in sales of honey in Israel because everyone (myself included) wants to partake of something that symbolizes a sweet year. I am even prepared to eat an apple with honey, remembering my mother’s table with its shiny, polished red apples waiting to be consumed. But I refuse to go down the road of various ethnic groups which consume an array of different foods symbolizing the plentiful bounty of our ancient forebears, culminating in that much-prized delicacy ‘the head of a fish.’ As far as I’m concerned that is the ultimate insult, both physically and psychologically.

Be that as it may, and however you mark the High Holidays, may you have a joyous year, with health, happiness and all you wish for yourself.

Back to Reality

The first thing that hits you as the plane starts the descent towards the airport in Israel is the difference in the colours on the ground. If you have just left one of the countries of Europe, as we did, there is a noticeable difference in the shades of green that you perceive. The brilliant emerald green of the fields of rural France (or Germany or England or wherever), even in the summer of 2022 when temperatures rose to unprecedented heights and there were restrictions on water usage, remained in one’s visual memory, only to be erased (or at least put in the shade) by the greys, browns and dusty dark greens of the Holy Land. And, of course, the ever-present white of the stone buildings.

Yes, it’s good to be home, to be back in our own comfortable home, in the bosom of our family, and to find a note on our door left by our kind neighbours welcoming us and inviting us to come and get the basic provisions they had bought for us. Who could wish for a warmer welcome? The neighbours in the village in rural France were hardly aware of our appearance in our house there, and wouldn’t dream of buying provisions for us. To each his or her own, and his or her own habits and customs.

The adaptability of the individual to changing situations is something that really deserves deeper study. In (almost) one bound we left behind the serene, silent tranquility of rural France, where the roads are wide and relatively empty, and drivers are almost invariably courteous and considerate, to find ourselves bogged down in endless traffic jams being hounded by anxious, stressed-out drivers who tootle their horns with glee whenever the fancy takes them.

After a couple of days back in Israel we are still driving as if we were in the Creuse, not hooting or pushing in but waiting patiently for every other car to join the lane we’re in. I’m not sure that the ‘Creuse effect’ will last very much longer though. I pride myself on having managed to drive to the supermarket, buy some provisions and return home more or less unscathed. It may be pathetic, but I consider that to be no mean achievement.

One of the great consolations of our life in Israel is the presence of friends and family. And also the cultural, especially the musical, life. We were fortunate enough to be able to attend a grand performance of Mahler’s monumental second symphony (The Resurrection) soon after returning, and that alone was enough to fill our spiritual and cultural batteries for some time to come. And of course, throughout the year there are the usual concerts, whether symphonic or chamber music, as well as operas, to look forward to. Not to mention our traditional Friday evening family meals when we’re able to catch up on the comings and goings of our children and grandchildren. The musical offferings in rural France are fewer and further between, and often involve driving for a long time to reach the venue.

In rural France we were more or less cut off from the news media, apart from the weekly French newspaper, but it so happened that the news of the passing of Queen Elisabeth reached us when we were visiting relatives in the south of France. It was interesting to see the involvement of the French media in the event as one TV programme after another focused on the life of the Queen and the developments in the Royal Family. It enabled us to exercise our French and share in the developments in England and elsewhere.

At home in Israel we’re enveloped by the news media, whether printed, broadcast or telecast, and the effect on one’s nerves is unavoidable. Add to that the constant barrage of information about political parties coalescing or separating, individual politicians bombarding us with news and views and predictions of impending election results, and it’s goodbye to tranquillity.

There really is no place like home.

The Mirror and the Light

Hilary Mantel’s weighty tome of over 870 pages follows the life and times of Thomas Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal and Viceregent of King Henry VIII from the execution of Anne Boleyn, Henry’s second wife, in 1536 to the execution of Cromwell himself in 1540. In the intervening period Cromwell was the king’s closest advisor, powerful administrator and the instrument whereby Henry furthered his aiims. Thesse included enriching the crown through the dissolution of the monasteries, finding another wife and ensuring that England severed its relations with the Pope in Rome and the Cathoic church and established Henry as the head of the church in England.

However, this book is no mere outline of history as we learned it at school, it goes far and away beyond that. It takes us inside the heart and mind of the man who was – next to the king – the most powerful man of his time in England, the scourge of those who adhered to the old faith and an individual whose low birth proved no hindrance to his rise to nobility and wealth.

Using the language of the period to best advantage, Hilary Mantel shows us the workings of Cromwell’s mind, the way he achieved his aims, the discussions he had with friends and family, his conversations with the king, his way of life and the machinations he employed to attain his objectives. We are shown the way he and other wealthy families lived, what they ate, what they wore, the furniture and furnishings of their homes, and the minutiae of their daily lives as well as the grand schemes they devised and executed. But the book does not describe only the lives of the nobility, but also shows us in detail the way the ordinary folk lived, including Cromwell himself in his youth, as the son of a blacksmith in Putney.

Of course, executions were rife in those days, albeit hedged around with legal and legalistic reasoning. The prevalence of violent and cruel ways of dispatching enemies and anyone who did not toe the official line as regards Christian religious beliefs and practices was taken for granted. Special consideration was given to Anne Boleyn who was decapitated by an expert swordsman brought over from France rather than having to lay her head on the block and be subjected to having it hacked off by an executioner wielding an axe. Heretics were burned at the stake as a matter of course, and in cases involving common folk partial hanging and subsequent disembowelling were the method of choice. And everything was done in public before a cheering or roaring or weeping crowd. The visceral brutality of the times is enough to turn even the strongest stomach.

Almost inevitably, Cromwell made enemies in high places, and in time they managed to turn Henry against him. The reader shares with Cromwell the surprise attack by fellow-members of the King’s Council, the weeks spent imprisoned in the Tower of London, in relatively comfortable quarters at first, able to write letters, have his books brought to him (he wanted to start learning Hebrew), but for th last week or so he was moved to a smaller cell. That was the sign that his end was near. He was also granted the relatively merciful death of decapitation rather than disembowelment, despite his low birth.

Personally,I found Mantel’s oblique writing style rather difficult to swallow at first, but eventually I came to accept it and recognize it for its ability to reproduce the feeling of being in that time and place and to experience more fully life as it was lived then. This is the third volume in the series of Mantell’s books about this period, and in her Author’s Note at the end she states that it has taken her ten years to write. She also thanks the many historians and scholars who have helped her in verifying her facts, and it is to her credit that she has managed to complete this mammoth undertaking in a convincing and intellectually satisfying way.