FEBRUARY 5, ‘25 // the United States? You can live with us.” Jamil was clearly taken aback by the offer. “I don’t even know how to read or write Turkish, so how could I possibly travel to another country where I don’t know the language? I can barely pronounce the word ‘English,’ let alone speak it. And what would I do for a living there? No, it’s not for me!” He stared down at his muddy feet. “Go, Rachamim, go, and may you have success. But don’t forget that you have a devoted friend living here, on this side of the world.” Rachamim got out of the automobile and grabbed Jamil’s arm. “Come with me, Jamil,” he urged him. “You know that there is no future here. If you come to the United States, I’ll be there to help you.” Jamil was swayed by his friend’s concern for him. Somewhat hesitantly, he agreed to come along. Rachamim bought Jamil a new wardrobe in Ankara and then arranged a tourist visa for him to enter the United States. Rachamim settled in Los Angeles, California, which already had a large, well-established Iranian community. He opened a textile business, and before long he was nearly as wealthy as before. The moment he could, he started searching for his lost children. He hired the best American detectives who, for a hefty fee, were willing to travel to the area where the helicopter had supposedly exploded. The detectives asked all the tribes living in the region if any of them had seen Rachamim’s children. The detectives never found the boys, but the information they supplied gave him the impetus to continue his search. He still held on to the hope that his children were alive. Eventually, Rachamim became wealthy enough to build a synagogue and pay for its maintenance. He asked Jamil, who had never found a regular job, to become the synagogue’s janitor. Jamil was more than happy to accept the position. Rachamim provided him with a special room for his private use. He made the room as comfortable as possible, equipping it with a small refrigerator, electric burner and washing machine. Now Rachamim carefully opened the door to Jamil’s special room. He was greeted by a horrific sight. Jamil was lying on the bed in a drunken stupor. Rachamim saw an open bottle of whiskey on the floor next to the bed. Half of its contents had spilled out, creating an ugly stain on the carpet. Rachamim was shocked. Jamil never drank alcoholic beverages. Over the past twenty years, he had never seen his friend in such a state. Rachamim gingerly approached Jamil and started gruffly shaking his shoulders. “Jamil, Jamil, do you hear me?” he asked repeatedly. Jamil did not answer. The moment Rachamim stopped shaking him, he fell back onto the bed like a lifeless doll. Rachamim gave up and glanced at his watch. It was after fourthirty. The first members of the congregation would start arriving in an hour and a half—they were now saying selichot, and davening began an hour earlier than usual. He still had time to finish most of sefer Tehillim. Meanwhile, the effects of the alcohol would wear off. Maybe he would manage to speak with Jamil before he went to pray. Shortly before six o’clock, Rachamim closed his sefer Tehillim and returned to Jamil’s room. Jamil was awake now and sitting on his bed. He started violently when the door opened, and looked at Rachamim in terror. The two men stared at each other for a few moments without saying a word. “When did you start drinking?” Rachamim asked, breaking the heavy silence. Jamil did not respond. He simply continued staring at Rachamim. “Jamil, are you in trouble?” Rachamim asked in Persian. Although twenty-two years had passed since they had arrived in America, they continued to speak to each other in Persian. Jamil had never learned to speak English properly. Jamil lowered his eyes. Rachamim did not know if it was out of shame for having been caught drinking, or because he wanted to tell him something. When Jamil looked back up, Rachamim saw that there were tears on his cheeks. “Did something happen?” Rachamim made his voice gentle. “Tell me what it is. Perhaps I’ll be able to help you.” “Rachamim …” Jamil’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “Rachamim, this is important. You need to get away from Los Angeles. Run away as quickly as “When you leave,” Jamil went on, ignoring the question, “make sure no one knows where you are going. It should be done in such a way that no one realizes that you are leaving.” 176
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