1/11/99
The
bright
side
of
darkness
It's
early
morning
in
Jerusalem,
and
Haim
Markowitz
walks
to
shul.
He
enters
the
Moreshet
Yisrael
Synagogue
on
Agron
Street,
takes
a
seat
off
to
the
side,
and
joins
in
the
unison
of
murmurs.
He
is
merely
one
tenth
of
one
minyan
in
a
city
of
ten
thousand
minyans,
but
there
is
something
special
about
this
man's
commitment
to
morning
prayers.
His
thoughts
are
not
cluttered
with
the
minutiae
of
the
day's
itinerary,
of
where
to
be,
whom
to
see,
appointments
and
schedules
and
obligations.
Haim
does
not
rush
through
prayers,
because
when
they've
finished,
there's
nothing
left
to
do.
The
sun
has
barely
risen
when
Haim
Markowitz
calls
it
a
day.
He
walks
slowly
back
to
his
room.
It
has
been
a
wonderful
day.
He
is
absolutely
content.
It's
a
privilege
to
pray
in
Jerusalem
if
you're
from
Kansas.
It's
a
hard-wrought
privilege
if
you've
traveled
so
far,
and
you're
87
years
old.
It's
mind-boggling
to
be
that
old,
coming
from
so
far
away
...
And
to
be
blind.
After
three
weeks
in
this
spectacle-filled
city,
he
will
grope
through
the
dark
back
to
his
remote
farm,
never
having
seen
a
thing.
But
his
memory
will
nourish
him
with
the
joy
of
just
having
been
here.
This
is
his
fourth
visit
in
the
last
eight
years,
the
fourth
time
he
has
packed
a
suitcase,
arranged
a
ride
from
his
farm
in
Leavenworth,
Kansas,
to
the
airport
in
Kansas
City,
Missouri,
flown
to
Chicago,
navigated
through
the
vast
expanse
of
O'Hare
to
find
his
connecting
flight
to
Tel
Aviv,
endured
the
exhausting
procedures
that
air
travel
entails,
been
jostled
about
in
the
mayhem
of
Ben-Gurion
Airport,
located
his
luggage
and
lugged
it
to
a
taxi,
and
survived
the
careening
journey
to
Jerusalem.
Even
after
all
that,
he
starts
looking
for
a
hotel
room
only
after
he
arrives.
Heck,
most
people
can't
get
across
a
room
in
the
dark.
ABOUT
THE
only
person
not
impressed
with
Haim
Markowitz
is
Haim
Markowitz.
It's
no
trouble
at
all,
he
says
in
his
tuneful
twang.
"Neighbor
takes
me
to
Kans'
City
Missour',
and
sees
I
get
on
the
plane,
says
Missuh
Markowitz
here,
he
gonna
need
some
help,
so
they
say
we'll
take
care,
they're
good
'bout
it,
oh
yeah.
They
put
the
disabled
first.
"So
I
get
to
Chicaga,
get
t'
th'
airport,
and
then
I
hadda
go
to
the
El
Al.
Different
part
of
the
building.
It's
a
big
place
that
airport
in
Chicaga,
oh,
it's
big.
They
put
me
in
a
wheelchair,
they
say
ohh,
it's
a
long
walk,
and
boy,
I
don'
know
how
many
miles
long
it
is.
An'
then
they
check
me
in.
"They
wanna
know
what's
in
the
suitcase,
anybody
give
you
a
package,
I
say
no,
no,
they
say
you
wanna
open
it
up
and
put
it
all
ona
table,
and
they
take
ev'thing
out.
An'
they
say
who
packed
this,
an'
I
say
nobody,
just
me,
in
my
own
house.
Anybody
ride
with
ya?
Just
the
driver,
he's
the
neighbor.
Yeah?
Yeah.
Then
I
got
on
the
plane
an'
it
didn't
stop
anywhere,
no,
no!
Then
in
Tel
Aviv
there,
they
got
the
shuttles
out
in
front.
Fella
says
'where
ya
goin'?
That
fella,
he
speaks
English."
And
just
like
that,
he
finds
himself
in
Jerusalem.
Then
comes
the
hard
part.
"I
went
to
King's
Hotel
three
years
ago,
went
with
m'
suitcase,
they
say
$120.
I
said
five
years
ago,
I
paid
$69,
now
it's
$120?!
She
says,
well,
that
was
five
years
ago.
So
what!
Same
bed,
same
room,
oh
man!
I
say
no,
put
the
gun
down,
I'll
go
down
the
street.
So
I
walk
down
to
th'
Moriah,
walk
in
there
with
m'
suitcase,
I
say
what
is
it
for
the
night?
Says
'$200.'
I
says
what?!
I'd
sleep
inna
street
first.
They
see
you
from
a
mile
away
--
he
mus'
be
from
th'
Uni'd
States,
he's
another
chump!
Oh
no,
not
me.
Two
hunn't
bucks
a
night!
Idn
'at
awful?
"This
time
I
was
in
the
King
Solomon,
the
first
four,
five
days,
an'
then
I
got
the
suitcase
and
went
down
to
Beit
Shmool
(Shmuel).
Had
help
all
the
way,
no
question
'bout
't.
Beit
Shmool,
it
isn't
the
best
in
town,
but
Shani,
the
receptionist,
she's
real
nice,
oh
yeah.
"I
don't
mind
movin',
packin',
movin',
packin'."
Where
he
comes
from,
a
Jew
is
a
Jew
and
that's
it.
"I
used
to
drive
mornin's
into
Kans'
City
to
go
to
the
synagogue,
but
now?
Can't
drive,
got
all
goyim
around
me,
can't
ask
'em
to
take
me
to
synagogue!"
Here,
he's
staying
at
the
Reform
center
and
praying
at
a
Conservative
shul,
although
he's
Orthodox.
The
Yiddish-speaking
Kansas
cattleman
was
raised
dirt-poor,
one
of
nine
children,
his
father
a
tailor
from
Lithuania.
"When
I
was
a
li'l
boy,
this
big,
my
mother
olive'sholom,
may
she
rest
in
peace,
talkin'
Yiddish
o'
course,
she
says
'Nexteh
yor
in
Yerush'layim.'
She
said
it
many
a
time,
none
o'
us
had
any
money,
but
I
said
someday
I'm
gonna
go,
I
had
it
in
my
mind.
So
I'm
gettin'
older,
and
I
can'
work
no
mo',
so
I
said
I
don'
owe
anybody
anything,
I
got
a
little
money,
now
I'm
gonna
go."
He
lost
his
eyesight
to
glaucoma
in
the
1970s
(his
hearing
is
failing
him
now
too),
and
only
since
then
began
to
travel,
in
the
US
as
well.
"Came
here
first
time
in
'91,
stayed
three
months.
Worst
winner,
Rabbi
Green
said,
in
a
hunn't
years!
Rain,
sleet,
snow,
you
name
it.
I
din'
bring
no
winter
clothes.
I
ain't
gonna
spend
the
winner
here
again
no
mo'!"
Although
he
has
never
seen
Jerusalem,
he
can
sense
what
it's
like.
"Yes
I
can,
yes
I
can.
It's
an
ancient
city,
goes
back
to
bib'cal
times.
Lots
o'
new
buildings,
they
say.
They
got
museums
ev'where
here,
this
one
lady
took
me,
y'know,
but
what
can
I
see?
"Naw,
doesn't
bother
me
I
can't
see
all
them
places.
I
don't
look
at
the
dark
side,
I
look
at
the
bright
side.
Yeah.
But
I'd
like
to
go
to
a
kibbutz,
see
how
they
live.
An'
Massada,
I
heard
about
it."
He
did
get
to
the
Old
City
once.
"Fella
got
off
the
plane
with
me,
he
says
Hymie,
I'll
take
you
down
there
tomorrow
o'
next
day.
We
walk
down
all
them
steps,
oh,
man!
An'
there's
two
fellas
from
New
York,
hustlers,
down
by
the
Wailin'
Wall,
an'
they
say
c'mere,
we'll
take
your
picture.
How
much?
He
says
five
dollars.
So
I
says
