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JANUARY 29, ‘25 // “Are you willing to sacrifice your life for this elevated goal?” bin Laden demanded, in a tone of voice that brooked no compromise. “Yes,” Ishmael-Yechezkel replied with utmost sincerity. “If I know that my death will cause them harm, just like they harmed me and my family.” September 11, 2001 The first rays of light from the east penetrated the wall of haze— a result of the pollution from millions of cars clogging the streets—that was the status quo in Los Angeles. Summer was drawing to an end, but the weather was still hot and humid. Rachamim walked down the empty street. No one was out at this hour of the morning. Everyone was still fast asleep in comfortable, airconditioned rooms. He stopped at the end of the block, in front of an imposing edifice. Above the front door was an elegant marble sign with “The Yechezkel and Yosef Synagogue” inscribed in large black letters. This morning, like every other morning, Rachamim paused for a moment to look at the sign. As always, he thought about his two sons and how they had been tragically taken away from him. More than twenty years had passed since that day, but the pain was still as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. Rachamim took a heavy keychain from his pocket. Using the largest key, he opened the ornate front gate. He was always the first one to arrive, so he was charged with opening the front door each morning. He came two hours before the prayers started so he would have enough time to recite the entire book of Tehillim. He had thought about reciting mishnayot for the sake of his sons’ souls, but could not bring himself to take such a step. That would be tantamount to admitting that they were dead, and that was something he refused to do, as long as there was no proof to that effect. He told Naomi that each morning he prayed for the souls of their two young children who had been so tragically taken away from them. He did not want to cause her any more pain. He did not want to admit that somewhere deep inside of him, he still nurtured a spark of hope that his children were alive. He continued to pray for their welfare and beseech Hashem that someday he would have the privilege of being together with them. The hall was dark. Just as every other morning, he waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before turning on the light switch. But this morning, to his surprise, there was a streak of light coming from under the last door to the right, which led to the janitor’s tiny cubbyhole. That small room was the domain of Jamil, the synagogue’s Kurdish janitor. The light should have been off. Rachamim knew that Jamil would never leave the light on. He had grown up in extreme poverty, and frugality was so ingrained in his nature that he would never waste a penny and leave the light burning all night like that. Had something happened to Jamil? It seemed a small thing, but in twenty years Jamil had never deviated from his routine. Rachamim knew that Jamil often napped on the grungy old sofa that was in the room, and that he occasionally slept there instead of returning to his tiny one-room apartment in a rundown area of the city. But whether he stayed or left, he always made sure to turn off the light. Rachamim turned on the hall light and silently walked across the heavy carpet to Jamil’s room. He stood outside the door and tried to decide whether or not he should enter. A private person by nature, Rachamim never liked intruding on others’ personal space. But maybe Jamil was in trouble. Rachamim owed it to Jamil to help him, if he needed it. (To be continued) 190

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