After the Yom Kippur War of 1973, which he prophesied was a herald of far worse future shock and disaster, a forshpeis of hurban, as he put it, his tikkun activities intensified, spilling out into the streets. It was imperative to descend to the depths to dredge up the divine sparks in order to forestall the coming annihilation, he believed, and to do so at once, without delay, with the greatest possible alacrity. Toward that end he instituted the tikkun of pursuit of the holy man, calling upon his followers to pursue him every night after midnight as he set out at top speed on his motorcycle from Jerusalem to the Galilee to pray and beseech for mercy at the graves of the righteous. Behind him rode his inner circle, heaven’s angels, and in their train, scores of followers in all kinds of vehicles in a wild and raging caravan, including taxis and buses, and also some on horseback, donkeys and camels. They rode without helmets or seat belts or saddles, heedless of danger, which was beneath them spiritually to contemplate. They rode at top speed, two hundred kilometers an hour and more, defying all civic laws and regulations, never stopping for lights, flouting all road signs, cutting through traffic, jumping onto sidewalks and highway shoulders, leaping over dividers, zigzagging lanes, plowing through to the opposite side of the road wherever they spotted an opening, leaving the laggards far in the rear, leaving behind the fallen and casualties and smashed up as necessary sacrifices in pursuit of their rabbi as he headed at breakneck speed to the graves in the North, in Tiberias, Safed, Meron, of such luminaries as Rabbi Simeon son of Yohai, Rabbi Moses son of Maimon, Rabbi Meir Master of the Miracle, Honi the Circle Maker, Rabbi Hutzpit the Interpreter, and all the other lofty souls with power to intervene and prevent the looming catastrophe.

Every night on their wild ride in pursuit of my brother, the pursuers would be pursued in turn by the police with shrieking sirens and flashing lights, and even occasionally by the military, a veritable chase scene as if from the movies to electrify the heart and leave the viewer breathless, but at some point the authorities would inevitably fall away, their wallets fattened, or simply wander off on the strength of the conviction that the world will be a better place if all of these nutcases simply self-destruct of their own accord without official interference. On the occasions when the speeders were forced to halt by an uptight rules-and-regulations type, it would be patiently explained to this obsessive-compulsive that religious law required obedience to the rabbi, and the rabbi required pursuit. There was no higher mitzvah than chasing the rebbe; the officer was welcome to join in the pursuit if he liked. Nothing could be done to stop it; it was a decree from heaven. If the earthly powers had a problem with the free and unimpeded exercise of these religious rights, they were welcome to go take up the matter with the holy rabbi himself. There he is, up front—see him? And they pointed to the posse riding furiously ahead astride their motorcycles, every one of its members with exceptionally long black sidelocks and long black beards whipping in the wind, large white crocheted yarmulkes pulled low over their heads, long black kaftans draped over the seats of their motorbikes, and fluorescent crash goggles. Which one of these bikers was the holy rabbi? They all looked exactly alike, like creatures of another species from outer space, you couldn’t tell them apart.