THERE IS A FIRE BURNING!” The whites of Avremel’s eyes were blood-red, his eyeballs protruding, his bony hands tightened into fists as he raised them beside his head. “The flames are rising from within these very walls! This sacred edifice, built by that sacred smoldering ember saved from the inferno of the Holocaust, our saintly old rebbe, is now crumbling from within! And our present rebbe carries the weight of preserving it….” His voice cracked and we, too, held back the sting in our eyes, our hearts melting for the rebbe’s weary shoulders. It was shortly before dawn on a Sunday morning. Fifteen of us sat around two old tables in a dank room in the yeshiva basement. We were the elite, handpicked by Avremel to be part of a special group. Once a week, we would gather here to read from one of our mystical texts and Avremel would provide elucidation and commentary sprinkled with condemnation of all things impure. The timing was deliberate, to weed out those who preferred warm bedsheets to the fiery words of the Hasidic masters.
