They came out of the yeshiva to find the world transformed. They were three: at twenty-seven Moyshe was the oldest. All wore fedora hats. “Does not the Lubbavitche Rebbe say, ‘The time of our redemption is nigh’?” Moyshe murmured. There was a scream in the distance, and the wail of a siren, abruptly cut off.
“Long live our master, our teacher and our rabbi, King Messiah for ever and ever!” said Noam, half-singing. He was the youngest, and most recent to the yeshiva. Above their heads the stars seemed to form in crazy patterns. A strong wind blew across the street. There were gun shots in the distance, and more screams.
“But friends,” said the third, Daniel, and adjusted his fedora against the wind, “can there not be another interpretation? This is death and destruction all around us!”
“Really, Daniel,” Moyshe said. He pulled out a packet of Noblesse cigarettes and tried to extract one, but the wind snatched it from his hand and hurtled it away into the rising darkness. He stared after it with a mournful expression. “Did not the Rebbe’s son-in-law say, ‘Ask me what I say and I will tell thee that soon it will come true the words and the dwellers in the earth shall rise and rejoice and he, the Rebbe, will bring us from exile’?”
“It is true,” Daniel admitted. “Why, what then is your opinion of this carnage, Moyshe?”
“Clearly,” Moyshe said, “this is the end of days. As had been prophesied so it is. And as you know, when Moshiach comes — ”
“Long live our master, our teacher and our rabbi, King Messiah for ever and ever!” said Noam.
“Yes, yes,” Moyshe said. “Now, as I was saying — ”
A fire truck sped directly at them. A grinning, demented man was sitting behind the wheel. The three yeshiva boys leaped back as the madman drove past them. In the distance they saw a yacht floating in the air, upside down, with its sails dragging on the ground.
“You crazy bastard!” Noam shouted. There was a loud explosion. Soft, warm drops of rain began to fall, staining the three men’s heavy black coats.
“I think we should . . . we should go and see if we can help people!” Daniel said. He was surprised when Moyshe, who had assumed a half-crouching position with his hands on his knees and was breathing rather heavily, suddenly straightened up and leaped at him, pinning him against the wall. “Only the righteous shall live, you fool!” he said. “The Messiah is returned to us. What did you expect? This is not Jerusalem! This is Tel Aviv, the city of the shvarts-yor, the city of sin! What do you expect, that God would let the goyim and the non-believers rise alongside us?”
“I’m not sure about this, Moyshe . . . let me go.”
Moyshe released him. Daniel massaged his throat. “This is wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry. I . . . we must try and help.” He didn’t wait. Before Moyshe had time to react, Daniel moved. He sprinted down the street, shedding his heavy rekel coat as he ran.
Moyshe stared after him. It took him a moment to gather himself together at this affront. Then — “Ruen zolstu nisht afile in keyver!” he shouted after him, the Yiddish words like poison darts following him. May you find no rest even in the grave!
Beside him, Noam began rocking. “Mosiach,” he sang. “Mosiach, mosiach, mosiach, na na nana na. Mosiach, mosiach, mosiach — ”
“Oh, shut up,” Moyshe said. “Zol dir lign in keyver der eyver!” he shouted after Daniel. May your penis lie in a grave! Noam turned and looked up. “Oh, look,” he said. “It’s so pretty.”
There was a trail of fire in the sky. It looked strangely familiar to Moyshe. It looked like something out of — out of —
The Gulf War, he thought. The first one, he thought. Missiles, he thought. He started to run but there was nowhere to go. He heard the beginning of an explosion; then there was nothing. Nothing at all.