Wiretap - Safe House

Episode Date: August 31, 2020

After the death of his uncle, a boy turns to the comforts of spirituality to help cope with his own mortality. Pretty soon, he's on a road trip with a rabbi to meet the leader of a religious sect, a man known affectionately as The Lion.

A lot of news podcasts give you information, the basic facts of a story. What's different about your world tonight is we actually take you there. Paul Hunter, CBC News, Washington. Margaret Evans, CBC News, Aleppo. Jerusalem. Ottawa. Prince Albert. Susan Ormiston, CBC News in Admiralty Bay, Antarctica.

Correspondents around the world, on the ground, and at the source where news is happening. So don't just know, go. Your world tonight from CBC News. Find us wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC podcast. You're listening to Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein on CBC Radio 1. Today's episode, Safehouse. At the age of 15, while attending his great-uncle Saul Shiva,

the boy wandered into a bedroom off the living room where the coats of his relatives were piled in a great mountain atop the bed. As a child, he enjoyed rutting in such piles, cocooning himself in the furs and overcoats that held the familiar smell of cigar smoke and boiled meat. Safe inside, he'd listened to. the yelling and laughter from the living room, if not exactly forgotten, at least free from scrutiny. Alone in the bedroom, he was now tempted to execute a nose dive right in, but he knew

he was too old for that, and he could have used such comfort, too, as filled as he was with thoughts of death. His mother, believing the boy sad about his great-uncle Saul, a soft-hearted man who played Got Your Nose with him well into his teens, had grabbed hold of him that morning as he moped past her in the living room, trying to scoop him onto her lap, as she did when he was small. Are you nuts, he'd said, brushing her off? But I'm sad when you're sad, she'd said. Deal with it, he'd said. No, it wasn't just one person dying sadness that he was feeling. It was everyone dying sadness, or more specifically, he himself dying sadness. Seeing Saul lowered into the earth reminded the boy that his time would come too, and with that awareness came a tidal wave feeling of what's

the use, of school, grades, getting out of bed, when we all knew, let's face it, that the whole thing was a scam, that we were all going to the same place, no place. This seemed so obvious to him that he didn't understand how it wasn't all anyone ever thought about. What else could there be to think about? The feeling had been creeping up on him for about a year. Eating a Sunday at the zoo, he would find himself wondering just what was the point of eating Sundays at the zoo, when one day he'd be dead.

It was while the boy stood staring at the pile of coats that the rabbi, who'd led the funeral service, entered the room. Death is a natural part of life, the rabbi said, apparently coaxed by the boy's mother. The point of life is to illuminate the world, to reveal God's spirit in all things. What do you say we let the Almighty worry about the rest? All the boy's father ever wanted to talk about were stamps and collector's coins, and his mother, honey-dew melons, and how she never seemed able to find a ripe one. And so he was excited for the chance to talk about deep spiritual stuff like death.

Sure, the rabbi, bearded and dressed in black, looked like a bit player in a Sadie Bronfman production of Tevia the Milkman, but at least he was acknowledging the obvious, not like the rest of the sleepwalkers the boy was surrounded by. I don't get the whole God thing, the boy said. It just doesn't make sense. If he's there, why play possum? It is our faith that makes us strong, said the rabbi, and if we knew anything for sure, there would be no faith. The two sat on the edge of the bed and talked for almost an hour. He was soon after that that the boy began showing up to the rabbi's temple for Sabbath. Afterwards, he'd go to the rabbi's house where, over chicken, they'd discuss the nature

of God, reality, and the human soul. Is there an afterlife, the boy asked? When we die, we become a part of God, a part of the oneness, answered the rabbi. To the boy, that did not sound as much fun as floating around invisible, watching teenage girls strip for gym class, but it was better than nothing. So God created the universe, the boy said. And so, now what's he up to? Permanent vacation?

His creation is continuous and on-grateful. going, the rabbi said. God creates the light around us, the air, the flow of blood through our veins. He is creating at this very moment the very food at the end of your fork. The boy did not know if he believed all this, but the feeling such conversation gave him, the mood it created, would become something he'd chase all his life, with drink in dark barrooms, with women and with men. No matter where he was, such talk turned the world into a cozy, well-lit living room. It kept him from growing disinterested and laying his head down on the bar, only to wake up on the curb. It made him feel less like a man who was bottoming out,

and more like someone on a quest for truth in all its forms. But just then, he was only a boy and was simply happy for the attention. More than any other topic that he and the rabbi spoke of, the boy was most captivated by tales about the leader of the rabbi sect, a man known affectionately as Der Leib, the Lion. There were so many stories, like how he was a biblical scholar by the time he could crawl, how he could speak 50 languages, remember the names of people he'd only met briefly decades earlier, how he could drink a whole bottle of whiskey and walk away sober.

The president called him to wish him a happy birthday when he turned 80, the rabbi said. Who gets such treatment? There was one man in the congregation, a nervous type, who prayed while twisting his beard, who told the boy that he'd once gone to see Der Leib speak and witnessed red laser beam shoot from his eyes. Did anyone else see? the boy asked. Only me, the man said. The boy pumped the rabbi in anyone else for stories of Der Leib's miracles,

or even stuff that wasn't miracles per se, but still pretty cool. Could Der Leib outthink Einstein, out-arm wrestle Muhammad Ali? Could he punch a hole through someone's face while never losing his place in the ancient text he was reading? The boy's parents weren't thrilled when he announced his plans to go with the rabbi to New York. York to see Der Leib give a speech. But in the interest of his cultural education, and with no work necessary on their part, they acquiesced. Der Leib lived in a section of Brooklyn called Sheep's Head Bay, and the rabbi and the boy drove there from Montreal, stopping along the way to play mini-golf

and ride go-carts, all things the boy's father, a man happiest when napping with a fat Leon Yuris novel spread across his chest, had a low tolerance for. De Laib was to give a speech in the synagogue where he preached. The synagogue was connected to his house, which he accessed through a tunnel. As they rode there, the boy had more questions about the tunnel than anything else. Was it carpeted? Underground? How deep underground? It made the boy think of Batman.

When Der Leib entered the Great Hall, hundreds of men stood back to make a path. It reminded the boy of Moses in the Red Sea. Their lab shuffled through, stooped and quick, camouflaged by his prayer shawl. At the altar, he led services, and when he was done, everyone took their place on long benches, shoulder to shoulder, jam-packed, and waiting for him to speak. And speak he did for three straight hours. In Yiddish, a language in which, other than Schmuck, Puts, Kugel,

and canadal, the boy knew not a word. Don't worry about what you know and what you don't know, said the rabbi, seated beside him. Just to be in the same room as Der Leib is enough to absorb the divine. After speaking brilliantly on a wide array of religious topics, none of which the boy understood, tiny plastic shot glasses filled with sweet red wine were handed out. since they were so small and part of a traditional ritual the rabbi didn't see the harm

in letting the boy have one too it worked like this each person stood with their cup raised waiting for Der Leib to toast them with each person and there were hundreds he made individual eye contact nodded his head and murmured a quick

Lechayam to life and once you received your toast you sat back down Der Leib started at it with what appeared to be no rhyme or reason. A few toasts here, a few toasts there, toast one corner, rotate and catch a few over on the other side of the hall. It was like swatting flies, but who knew? Maybe he was adhering to some pattern that only a spiritual man such as himself could comprehend.

Der Leib tirelessly worked the room for what seemed like almost an hour, until almost everyone was seated. The boy, though, still stood. As the numbers of the standing dwindled, an idea entered the boy's head. What if he traveled all this way only to be forgotten? The boy could have stayed home for that.

Of course, as he grew older, being forgotten would become routine. Some days would be spent wandering streets as though he were nothing more than car exhaust, and he would learn to live with that kind of thing, as everyone does. But just then, standing with his tiny cup in the air, Being forgotten felt formidable, existential, the logical extension of all the loneliness in his soul.

It stood to reason that not just Der Leib, but God himself could forget about you too, and you could wind up crushed in the cogs and wheels of the universe's machinery. Maybe that's what death was, God eventually forgetting about you. Soon there were only a dozen or something. so left standing, and the boy began to worry that it was not mere forgetfulness. Maybe it was being consciously ignored, excluded. Maybe Der Leib, who appeared to pretty much know all, had built in antennae for doubters and was never going to offer him a toast. The boy felt his feet grow wet, as he imagined all the eyes in the ruin burning into him. If he looks over in my general

vicinity, the boy decided, I'll just sit right down like he looked at me, like I'm really thought he looked at me. Sure, it's a terrible thing to do, but I'll deal with all that afterwards. Maybe he'd even dedicate his life to great religious piety, but at the moment, his main priority was getting his behind on that bench and not being humiliated. When it came down to a half-dozen, the boy's anxiety knew no bounds. Maybe it wasn't just his lack of spiritual belief. Maybe Der Leib knew about stuff much worse, stuff that the boy himself only suspected, but couldn't know for sure. Maybe Der Leib saw right through him, straight to his crummy soul. Eventually, he would be the only person left standing in the massive hall, and he would be lectured

in Yiddish for hours on end. I'm sorry, he'd say, I don't understand. No comprende? Or worse, maybe Der Leib would never acknowledge him and he'd be left standing like an idiot, forever. There were only three of them left when Der Leib finally put him out of his misery. Lechayim, Der Leib murmured under his breath. The boy sat down, his legs wobbly,

and with trembling fingers brought the wine to his lips and sucked it from the tiny cup. with a quickness and force that surprised him. He would later recall the moment as the first time he'd ever felt drunk. Later, he would say that inside that little plastic cup was where he'd met the best friend he never knew he had. But just then, it felt like he'd simply been touched by God.

On the car ride back to Montreal, the rabbi drummed on the steering wheel while singing Niggins, inspirational tunes, while the boy pretended to sleep. When the car pulled up outside his home, he used his housekey to let himself in. He could hear the TV playing upstairs, but he went down to the basement, where he played video games until dusk. A few months after his return, the boy. boy started dating his first girlfriend, an Israeli girl, and his synagogue visits fell away to

almost never. The Israeli's mother was a single parent, and she was frequently out of town for work. She allowed the boy to sleep over when she was away, and she kept a well-stocked liquor cabinet that she never seemed to notice was constantly dwindling. The boy would drink of the cabinet with great gusto, and when he was feeling just right, like he was at the center of a massive pile of fur coats, like all the world smelt of old books and home-cooked food like his belief or lack of belief felt all the same when all that mattered was the booze flowing through him he would hold the little Israelis face in his hands

and talk and talk until falling asleep in her arms So we finally found a podcast that speaks to you, pure bliss. It's so good that when you finish the final episode, it leaves a hole in your heart and your schedule. What now? Personally is here for you. It's a collection of true stories that explore what it means to be, well, human. The best part, there are six incredible seasons to dive into, with more on the way. Personally, get lost in someone else's life.

Available now, wherever you personally get your podcasts. There's nothing more important than feeling safe. it's the only way a person can really thrive Yeah but you know According to mom you've been taking this home safety thing A little far You can't take anything too far Johnny I think you

I think there's certain things you could take too far I mean mom's worried you're getting a bit obsessive about it What obsessive! I'm just making sure the place is totally safe for my grandchildren Dad I mean you know that that's fair enough But I mean mom said that that the other The day you were out of the house and she got a headache, and she went to the medicine cabinet to get some aspirin, and you would put a combination lock on it? What is she talking about? I gave it a combination. Is it, this can't be true? She told me that you bubble wrap the toilet.

It germ proves it. I mean, it's a little out there, don't you think? Out there? There's nothing out there. Nothing that goes out there. Dad, she says that you've installed a... smoke detectors in every room? Yeah. And you're constantly changing the batteries like every few days? Absolutely.

How many smoke detectors do you have in the house now? I have two in the bedroom. I have one in the computer room. I don't know. Maybe 14, 15. You can't be too safe. Okay. And next time you sit down to a steak, how do you intend to eat it?

Without any knives in the house, Dad. Mom says that you packed up all the knives and put them in the... I carry around the knife my pocket, and I eat my steak. Coutlery in your pocket. Yes. Anyway, I took these utensils, and I put them in the basement. Right. When they're 18, I'll take them out.

When your grandkids are 18. Until 18. I want to be safe. In a safe house. Because otherwise, a 16-year-old is going to might harm themselves with a knife. Yes, they don't have brains yet. And speaking of food, you give them cold soup? You're afraid what?

Yeah, they could burn that palate, the tongue. They could have bliss. And when bliss is birth, they can have an infection. Who needs that? And you put on safety goggles for them when they're eating citrus fruits? Yeah, yeah. Yeah, because if the citric squirts, it gets in the eye, it's acid. A citric is acid.

You have any expression? Yes, I've heard of that. Citric acid. It can burn your eyeballs. Come on, Johnny, you know better than that. Safety first. A home is the place where you should feel safest and the most relaxed. Suggestions for notes to leave behind in the place where you just house at.

This is the desk. early morning productivity was achieved. This is the mirror, where, when late morning productivity dropped off, I stared at my face and assured myself that no one looks good in sunglasses. This is the couch where I flipped through a fashion magazine and saw how everyone looks good in sunglasses. This is where I made myself feel better by judging you for having a fashion magazine subscription. This is the counter with the single-serve coffee machine, where I most envied your life.

This is the dark, warm spot in the closet, where I most envied your cat's life. This is the bathroom wall, through which I listen to your neighbor play piano. This is the bowl that looks like it was your grandmothers, where I ate cashews and then rearranged the remaining cashews to make it look like I hadn't. This is the shower glass where I traced guesses. about your neighbor's name. This is where I felt closest to you because I knew half the people in the photos on your fridge.

This is where I wondered why I wasn't in a photo on your fridge. This is where your cat was indifferent to how much cable I was watching. This is the dresser where I compared the cuteness of your baby pictures to the cuteness of mine. This is the bedroom closet where I tried on three of your dresses.

This is the part of the living room With a light hit in such a way That reminded me in my first apartment This is where I looked up my old college A roommate online while cooking dinner This is where I spoke with a French accent To the delivery guy After not speaking all day

This is the quilt In the trunk at the foot of your bed Where I wondered whether I'd ever be able to have a family of my own Since I didn't have the kind of family where handmade quilts got passed down. This is where I caught the last five minutes of a movie my sister and I used to watch when we were kids and thought about calling to tell her I missed her,

but then a new movie started. This is the pile of mail, where I was tempted to read what appeared, judging by the hand-drawn hearts on the envelope and the wax seal, to be a love letter addressed to you. This is the old fact that. and rotary dial phone where a fight was picked with my boyfriend about why he doesn't write me letters with seals and hearts this is where I set down my bag after returning from the coffee place you recommended where I ran into the last person I expected to see the person I always want to see most this is where I laid on the floor and replayed the sound of his voice the smile on his face as he asked after you Hello, hello, hello.

Oh, hey, Howard. How are you doing? How's your week so far good? Pretty good. I mean, kind of uneventful. I need a safe house. Why do you need a safe house? Everyone needs a safe house sometimes. I've never needed a safe house. You've never been in trouble.

No, well, I mean, I've never needed to, like, hide out someplace until they... You never need to lay low. Why do you need a safe house, Howard? You know, I'm not going to tell you for the same reasons. I don't tell you about the other times I need a safe house, because you're not cool. Oh, I'm not cool. No, you're not cool, cat. You're very excitable.

You're liable to get me in trouble, get the heat back on me. All right, so why do you need a safe house? All right, well, Bruce, my pug, is basically at a very formative state to his life right now, This is what would be his school years if he were a little boy. Which he's not. But if he were a little boy, he should be his school years. He's not. I wanted to have advantages that I didn't have growing up.

Like what? What are you thinking of? Like love and dog toys being told no. And? I've been a little bit overboard, I guess, is what people are telling me. People are, how? They call me a helicopter parent. You're a helicopter mom now.

I'm a helicopter master would be, I guess, the right. I'm trying to think for a dog. I'm the master, right? So, you know, I signed them up for doggy school and a few extracurricular activities, the swimming lessons, Italian classes. Why would a pug need to know how to speak Italian? Well, not to speak Italian, but to understand Italian. He'd know how to sit and roll over and give paw in Italian.

Uh-huh. And that's important, right? You'd want to... Well, he likes meatballs. Oh, I see. Anyway, so I was at the dog park this morning. I went down with Bruce. Mm-hmm.

I was basically trying to show Brucey. had a drink out of a dog's bowl the right way how does he drink out of his bowl it's like sideways and it tips the water on the boat it has to be taught right that's all and how did you and how is he being taught this I did it I did it the way you have to do I got down at all fours stuck my face right in the bowl

no you did it right there I showed him you didn't drink lap lap lap lap there's a pattern you did not get on your all fours and drink out of a dog I most certainly did you're not embarrassed to to act like a dog like a dog I was acting like a mad I'm showing the dog how to drink the water out of the bowl.

Right. Anyway, this wise guy comes out to me, but he pulled it a snack, a dog snack, he throws it on the ground, he mussels up my hair. So I stand up and I brush off my pants. I'm like, excuse me, is there a problem? I'm teaching my dog how to drink out of a bowl. He goes, you go, oh, what do you do next? You get to teach him how to like your toilet. And at that moment I get right to ninja mode.

Uh-huh. And I just reached my back pocket, pull up my wallet like a shiriken, like a throwing star, rolling star, and I kind of knife hand throw it, and it goes spiraling right new. Your wallet. I'm going to throw the sandwich I have in my hand. No, I've got to go for what I have. Do you have? You had a sandwich in your hand this whole time with the...

Slow motion, dubstep style. Back, right into his throw, right to the hands apple. Could have been a better shot. The guy goes down one knee, boom, right into dog poop. So I grabbed Bruce, and I just ran the hell out of there, and fled. I just got out of there really fast. Well, I'm glad to hear that it didn't get messier

than it could have. He was a big guy. So the trouble is, I guess that in my hurry to get out of there, I forgot the wallet. I see. So you're worried he has your wallet with your address and your ID and all that, so he knows where you live. All right, so fine. So come and stay at my place for a while. No, are you crazy? Your house isn't a safe house at all.

We can't stay at your place. Why can't you stay at my place? That was your wallet that I threw at the guy. So he undoubtedly has all your information. Why did you have my wallet? I needed to do some shopping. Wait, what are you telling me? This guy knows where I live?

I say it was at my place, but it's really a pig style right now. Howard, am I in trouble? That is a very good chance this guy might murder you. The last thing he was saying, as he was going through a wall, when I was running, was I'm going to get you, Jonathan Goldstein. I mean... You're dead. You're dead man?

Yeah, you're a dead man, Jonathan Goldstein. Howard, you've put me in jeopardy. I mean, you, we're going to need a safe house together, which is why I was actually initially asking me if you know any safe houses. I was thinking maybe the day he's in. It would be pretty nice. I got those fried much of other cheese sticks. On Wiretap today, you heard Buzz Goldstein, Howard Chakowitz, and Starly Kine, reading her story, House Sitting Notes.

Wiretap is produced by Jonathan Goldstein, Mira Bert Wintonick, and Crystal Duhame. This week's episode of Wiretap is dedicated to Desmond, Howard's Pug, who recently passed away. For more CBC podcasts, go to CBC.ca.com slash podcasts.