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Uzi Weil | from:Hebrew

The Man Who Moved the Western Wall

Translated by : Sondra Silverston

David Lugasi, I think, never knew how much he really loved the Western Wall until he saw it completely dismantled, stone by stone by stone, and piled onto the three trucks of his hauling and renovations company, A.A. America Hauling and Renovations. Until that moment, the Western Wall had been a place. Just a place. But the Rabin assassination changed everything.

Lugasi is one of those rare types: people born to pray. No wonder he felt at home at the Wall. He wasn’t “religious” to the extent that he could marry the grandchild of a learned rabbi – any learned rabbi – but there are people who, when they pray, are happy. On Friday nights, for example, he’d go to synagogue with his father, return to his parents’ house for kiddush and a festive meal, and then get into his car and drive to a party. In the Lugasi home, that was considered an excellent Sabbath eve.

And that’s why he loved the Western Wall and hated Jerusalem: because the minute you pass Sha’ar Hagai on the road leading to the city, you have to choose. Right wing or left, religious or secular, orthodox or ultra-orthodox – like in a poor neighborhood in Hollywood movies, you have to choose a gang, or else you’ll be alone in a violent and sour city. Lugasi, who hated choosing and loved praying, would come back more and more upset from those visits to his beloved Wall. Until the last time, when he cracked. One night, a week after the assassination, he called me. It was one in the morning.

“You have to come,” he said. “Take a taxi and come to Jerusalem. I need your advice urgently.”

“Advice about what?”

“Where to put it, brother. The Western Wall. I finish loading in an hour. Come, I have no time to talk. The battery in my Nokia is conking out.”

 * * *

Half a kilometer away from the square in front of the Western Wall, I came to a barrier put up by the Border Police. A Druze policeman stopped me and said, “No entrance, sir. The Wall is being renovated.”

“What?”

“Renovated. They’re cleaning it. For Rabin’s shivah, a special operation.”

“Ah.”

The policeman waited. I scratched my head.

“Listen,” I said, “I have to go in. I’m on the advisory team.”

“What’s your name?” the policeman asked and pulled a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pants pocket.

“Uzi Weill.”

“You’re the famous Uzi Weill?”

“Famous?” I said. “Famous for what?”

“Why didn’t you say so right away,” the policeman said and tapped me on the shoulder. “The contractor told us to let you in. I want you to know that I’m with you a hundred percent. My people and yours are blood brothers.”

“I see,” I said cautiously.

He shouted for his colleague standing next to the barrier to move it, and added, “That’s why, even if I am Druze – I’m for your father.”

“My father?” I said, puzzled.

“A great man,” said the policeman. “Too bad there aren’t more like him. May he rest in peace.”

“My father’s not dead.”

He froze. “Really? Not dead? Begin?”

I didn’t know what to say. I smiled at him politely.

“You don’t say,” the policeman continued, shaking his head in growing amazement. “You don’t say. Begin’s not dead, ah? So – he’s hiding out?”

I shrugged cautiously.

“Good for him,” the policeman said, “he got really good at hiding out when he was in the underground. When’s he coming back?”

I said, “Another year or two.”

“Tell him we’re waiting,” the policeman said. “Even though I’m a Druze, I’m waiting. You know why?”

“Because my people and yours are blood brothers?” I tried.

He looked at me with new respect. “Good for you!” he said. “I see your father taught you well. Good for you! You’re a good family.”

“True,” I said. “Benny turned out a little…”

“Too serious,” the policeman said.

“Oh well…” I shrugged.

“Never mind. A Begin is a Begin. You’re all a good family.”

“I’ll tell my father,” I promised.

He lowered his hand from my car window and I drove in.

The square in front of the Wall was brightly lit, and dozens of workers were dismantling the stones. All that remained of the Wall itself were the two bottom rows of stones. Two workers worked on each stone, and after detaching it, carried it to the huge truck parked at the edge of entrance area. The other twenty-nine trucks were already waiting in line, full of stones, on the street leading away from the Wall.

On the roof of the last truck, which was in the process of being filled, sat David Lugasi. Next to him sat the driver, and they were drinking coffee from a large thermos. I stood rooted in place, stunned. Lugasi saw me.

“Brother!” he called to me and stood up. “Come on up and have something to drink with us.”

I climbed onto the door of the truck, the driver gave me a hand, and I found myself looking down at the workers who had begun destroying the last row. It was a shocking sight. The Western Wall looked like a stone path. I sat in silence.

A few minutes later, Lugasi said, “It’s really something, huh?”

“Tell me…” I began, but couldn’t go on.

“I’ll explain it to you in a minute,” Lugasi said and moved his head very very slightly in the direction of the driver. He didn’t want to share his plan with too many people.

“Good coffee, huh?” asked the driver.

“The best.”

“Terrific. Listen, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a few professional matters to discuss.”

The driver looked at me suspiciously. Then he spilled out the remains of his coffee, stood up and jumped to the ground.

Lugasi watched him move away. “What do you say?” he asked when we were alone.

“What can I say?” I extended my arm. “It’s…”

“Great, ah?”

“Yes,” I nodded, “you could say it was great. You could definitely say that. But why?”

“Those Jerusalemites don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve to have the Wall.”

“Aahh.” I looked around. The workers had started taking apart the last row.

“You tell me,” Lugasi put his hand on his heart. “Tell me if I’m not right: last week, two days after they killed Rabin, may he rest in peace, I went to the Wall to pray. For Rabin, and for the country, and for… I don’t know. My heart, from so much sorrow, became… especially after his funeral. Did you see how his granddaughter cried?”

“I saw.”

“Then, do you understand? It was tough. On the way to the Wall, I put on my father’s kipa, may he rest in peace, and there I was, with my beard and all, you know – at least five people grabbed me, told me how good it is that Rabin’s dead.”

I nodded. Lugasi took a deep breath, and shook his head incredulously.

“Then I finished praying,” he went on, “took off the kipa – and on the way back, three other people jumped on me, told me to come to an anti-religious happening, they’re all murderers. So I decided – I, David Lugasi, am moving the Western Wall.

“Where to?”

“Tel Aviv.”

I didn’t know what to say. Under us, the workers were finishing their job. They worked diligently. Another twenty stones, and the Wall might never have been there.

“Some operation, ah?” Lugasi smiled proudly. “A hundred and twenty workers.”

“And where will you put it in Tel Aviv?”

“That’s what you’re here for. Advise me where the best place is. A pretty place, no arguments, no politics, where people will come to pray with goodness in their hearts. A laid back kind of place?”

“The beach?” I suggested. Lugasi smiled.

And that’s how it was.

 * * *

Half an hour later, the convoy of trucks began leaving the place that once was the Western Wall, and was now a naked hill. Lugasi and I, in the Peugeot, passed the canvas-covered trucks and the bus carrying the workers, and reached the Border Police post. Lugasi got out and tapped the policeman on the shoulder.

“Finished for the day?” the policeman asked.

“Yes,” said Lugasi. “You can move the barriers. Do you have the permit from the City?”

“Right here,” the policeman said, patting his shirt pocket. “ Do you need it?”

“Keep it,” said Lugasi, “in case they ask any questions.”

He got in and closed the door. “An original permit,” he said, “from the City. From the time I fixed the sewer in the Convention Center. It says: please follow the contractor’s instructions.”

The policeman knocked on the window and waited for me to look at him. He pretended to be locking his lips with a key. I gave him a thumbs-up as a gesture of thanks.

The convoy began to move.

“Tell me,” I said to Lugasi, “aren’t I little young to be Begin’s son?”

He shrugged. “Policemen,” he said.

And so, smiling and serene, Lugasi continued leading his convoy of trucks along the deserted Ayalon Freeway. At three in the morning, we reached Sheraton Beach. We got out to survey the territory. The workers waited in the bus.

“What do you say?” he asked, looking around, hands on hips. “Maybe between Sheraton and the marina?”

I tried to imagine it. “I don’t think so,” I said, “the strip of beach is too narrow. You need enough room for the prayers and for the sunbathers too.”

“You’re right,” Lugasi said. “And it has to be far from the water. So the waves won’t erode the stones in winter.”

We looked around, and all at once, our gaze fell upon the slope leading down from the Hilton, under Atzmaut Park. We shook hands, and Lugasi went to the workers’ bus.

Ya’allah, let’s go, everybody out,” he told them.

They started whispering to each other in Romanian. One of them got up and acted as interpreter.

“Mister Lugasi, we’re all very tired,” said the chosen leader. “All night work, work,” he said in English.

“Tell them everyone gets another two hundred dollars,” said Lugasi. “They work till morning.”

In a flash, they were all outside, unloading the stones. Some of them began setting up scaffolding on the slope under Atzmaut Park. They worked with astonishing speed, unloading the stones in the exact order they’d been put on the trucks, but despite their diligence, they’d only managed to put up a third of the Wall when the sun rose. Lugasi, who saw in advance what the problem would be, sent them to sleep. At six in the morning, the second shift arrived.

This time, they were Arabs, and Lugasi managed without an interpreter. At seven, we collapsed in the Peugeot. Lugasi turned on the radio. We listened to four news broadcasts, switching from one to the other: none of them mentioned the fact that during the night, someone had stolen the Western Wall.

“Maybe they’re keeping a lid on the investigation,” I said. “Censoring it.”

“They’re censoring the Voice of Cairo too? And the BBC?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” I told Lugasi. “My father, may he rest in peace, always used to say: a man needs to have faith and never to worry, except when he hears the hoo-oh of a police car approaching. Now, let’s go to sleep.”

We nodded off on each other’s shoulder for three hours of fitful sleep. At ten-thirty in the morning, a knock on the window woke us. It was a City inspector. Lugasi lowered the window.

“Are you the contractor?” the inspector scratched his head.

“Yes.”

“What is that thing?”

“The wall of peace,” said Lugasi, “in memory of Itzhak Rabin.”

“Ah,” said the inspector. “It looks familiar, that wall.”

“There’s one like it in Jerusalem.”

“Ah,” said the inspector. “My wife’s from Jerusalem. Maybe that’s why.”

Lugasi called to one of the workers and asked for coffee. The inspector sat and drank with us, and told us how much he earned working for the City. When he left, we turned on the radio again: still, not a word about the Western Wall disappearing.

Lugasi got out and stretched. Then he said, “Strange, isn’t it?”

“Let’s go,” I said.

He looked at the laboring workers and said, “Wait, we’ll wash our faces and then take off.”

* * *

We reached Jerusalem at noon. We parked not far from what was once the Western Wall, and approached cautiously. Twenty different scenarios passed through our minds, but none of them even came near what we actually saw: everything was going on as usual.

The prayers prayed. Men on the left, women on the right.

Policemen, as usual, guarded the square.

Tourists, as usual, had their pictures taken wearing cardboard kipot on their heads. The only thing different was that the Wall wasn’t there. We walked towards the square. A policeman stood there in his regular place and handed us black kipot.

“Tell me,” – Lugasi asked the policeman – “where’s the Wall?”

“Being renovated,” said the policeman.

“Renovated where? Where are they renovating it?”

The policeman shrugged. “Ask the Rabbi of the Wall, that’s what he said. Are you going in or not?”

We went in. A large group of chassidim was praying very intently, but their attempts to push notes into the dry hill failed utterly. They occasionally looked around in puzzlement, but in general, it seemed that the explanation given by the Rabbi of the Wall satisfied them. We left the square and went to eat at a small place Lugasi knew, not far from there.

Lugasi ate hummus and pita, and drank tea. He looked preoccupied. When he finished, he took out his cell phone.

“Hello,” he said when someone answered him, “is this the office of the Rabbi of the Wall? I wanted to ask something. I was at the Wall just now, and it wasn’t there.”

“That’s impossible,” the clerk replied, “the Rabbi has been here since the morning.”

“Not the Rabbi,” said Lugasi, “not him, it. The Wall. The Wall wasn’t there.”

“Ah,” replied the clerk. “It’s being renovated.”

“You don’t say,” said Lugasi. “Who’s renovating it?”

“The City,” she said. “I don’t know exactly. This morning, the Rabbi spoke to the Border Police, they took the stones away for the renovation. It’s a special operation.”

“The Border Police? Who’s that, the Druze guy at the barrier, you talked to him?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the clerk. She was starting to lose her patience. “It’s from the City, a special operation. In honor of Jerusalem’s three thousandth anniversary.”

“Thank you,” Lugasi replied and hung up. We looked at each other.

He said, “We pulled it off. I think next week, I’ll move the vault from the Leumi Bank.”

* * *

We worked like crazy that whole day and night along with the workers, and the next day – right before sunrise, at the end of the Romanian’s second shift – it was all finished. We stood in the water, the waves lapping at the edges of our rolled-up pants, and looked at the new Western Wall. It looked great.

“The Jewish people’s holiest site,” said Lugasi. There were tears in his eyes.

“Atzmaut Park?”

“Don’t be cute.”

He paid the workers and they got on the bus and disappeared. We remained standing there, looking at the fruit of our labors. A few minutes later, I started feeling hungry, and remembered that we hadn’t eaten since that humus in Jerusalem. We went up to the Café Regatta, took a table near the window, sat down silently and looked at the beach.

“The Temple Mount is ours,” said Lugasi, like a general after a successful battle.

* * *

At first, everything went smoothly. The beach-goers did show a certain puzzlement, but the wall had yet to be born that would keep them from getting a tan. The tourists, on the other hand, were very enthusiastic. A rich American from Chicago named Joe Rivlin, Chairman and owner of Rivlin & Rivlin Buttons and Zippers, outdid himself, and sent the mayor a letter of congratulations from Milan, enclosing a check in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.

“A brilliant way to bring tourism to Tel Aviv and  to Israel in general, period,” he wrote, “if only the American government had your courage, we wouldn’t have to travel to Beijing Grand Canyon to see the Beijing Grand Canyon, period.”

The religious public in Tel Aviv received the new Western Wall with mixed feelings, but quickly got used to the idea. First of all, no one said in so many words that it was that Western Wall – The Rabbi of the Wall still insisted that the original was being renovated – and secondly, even if it was that one, what was so terrible if it stayed in Tel Aviv for a few years? Pilgrims came from the four corners of the country and proclaimed that the new location was not only more convenient, it was also a lot safer – considering the security problems Jerusalem’s Old City had been having for years.

Amazingly enough, even the sacred status quo was not damaged, despite the dangerous proximity of the prayers and the sunbathers. The former faced the Wall, the latter faced the sea, and they all met on the number five bus, of which there were now another fifty. Even the homosexuals in Atzmaut Park finally got used to the idea. Many of them, so the city council representative of Meretz, the leftist liberal party, discovered, came from a traditional background, and the proximity of the Western Wall surprisingly improved their sex lives.

The problem began when the mayor realized what he had. After the shock of the first week, when all he did was throw one fax after the other into the waste basket and fire any person who dared suggest that the Western Wall be moved to his jurisdiction, he finally decided to go down to the beach and see what was happening there. When he realized that the people – again, dammit – were right, the trouble started.

First, he declared that the Western Wall was now to be called “The Kings of Israel Wall” – compensation for the Kings of Israel Square, a name which, after the assassination, was taken from them and changed to Rabin Square. The next thing he did was commission Yaacov Agam to paint the Wall in shifting iridescent colors. “Yaacov Agam,” he said at a press conference broadcast live from the seashore – “is an international artist who combines kinetics and Judaism, and he will put the Wall on the map of the next millennium!”

And then a special sound system arrived and was installed next to the Wall. It broadcast commercials from the Municipality and Israeli music twenty-four hours a day.

Before a day had passed, Channel Two announced that it would broadcast live a series of summer performances to be called “Rock ‘n Wall”, direct from the new, revolving, pneumatic stage purchased expressly for that purpose in Germany and flown to the Wall. Dudu Topaz, the TV entertainer, would be the emcee, Dudu Dotan, the comedian, would tell jokes, and Dudu Shmulevitz – head of the city’s electrician’s union – declared that if the City didn’t reach an agreement with the union before the program, the beach would be blacked out.

At that point, Lugasi stopped returning my calls. But he too could take no more when the army championship games were held there, and hundreds of infantry fighters hang-glided down from the Wall. On that day, at four in the afternoon, he called me.

“Did you hear?” he asked in a defeated voice.

“That’s nothing,” I said. “The local newspaper is organizing a squash league on the beach. Guess what they’re using for a wall?”

“One hour, at the Hilton,” he said and hung up. I guessed that he would bring a rotten mood with him, but I never imagined how rotten. When I got there, I saw him from a distance, standing stooped over next to a kiosk on the beach, a cigarette in his hand. That was the first time we had dared approach the Wall since we moved it from Jerusalem, and it did not look good.

On the top of it, along the uppermost row of stones, an electronic sign was flickering: “The Western Wall brought to you by Yediot Aharanot newspapers and Isracard.” And David Lugasi didn’t look any better than his Wall.

“What are we going to do?” he asked. His eyes were red. He dragged hard on his cigarette.

“Maybe people will calm down. Give them time. It’s still new.”

He nodded. We moved closer to the police barricade separating the swimmers from the prayers. At one end of it was a small booth. We took kipot from an old worker wearing an orange uniform with a drawing of the Wall facing the sea on it. The kipa was also orange and had the same drawing, along with the words: “Sunset at the Wall – An Experience!”

We passed the barrier and went inside.

“Wait, wait a minute!” the old man called after us in a Russian accent.

“What?” I turned to him.

“Fifty shekels to go in, please,” said the old man in the orange uniform.

I looked at Lugasi. He returned the look.

“Ten tonight,” he said. “Be ready. I’ll pick you up.”

 * * *

That same night, we returned the Wall to Jerusalem. We finished the whole job in eight hours of strenuous labor. The two crews, Romanians and Arabs, worked together and when the sun rose, the Wall was back where it belonged.

Lugasi stood and looked at his Wall. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “We tried,” he said.

The workers were already on the bus, ready to go. The empty trucks left the parking lot one after the other. We were standing quietly when suddenly, from behind us came the sound of the bashful clearing of a throat. It was the Rabbi of the Wall.

He said, “Ah… the renovations are finished, sir?”

We turned to him. His eyes were red, his hair slightly disheveled, and he looked as if he’d aged a hundred years in a single week.

“Finished,” Lugasi said gently. He looked at the old man, and he was filled with great, inexplicable sorrow.

“And… everything’s okay?”

“Everything’s shiny and shipshape, Rabbi. We added screws to strengthen it, poured cement, it’s like new. A cinch to last another three thousand years.”

“Thank God. Thank God!” the Rabbi heaved a huge sigh and was silent. Then he said, “More power to you, young fellow. Just tell them at City Hall that next time, I’d like to know in advance when they do something like this, fahrshteist?”

“There won’t be a next time,” said Lugasi. “If I take it away again – you better believe I won’t bring it back.”


*The story is published in cooperation with The Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature

*Translation © The Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature.

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