This war had, over the time of my brother’s stay, played itself out mostly in petty, even childish, skirmishes—puncturing each other’s tires, wrapping toilet paper around each other’s trees, chalking each other’s kaftans, fistfights, flicking spitballs, seltzer squirting, dumping slop from rooftops on passersby below, women from rival sects tearing off each other’s wigs and kerchiefs, and so on. Then one day it burst out into a full-scale gang war rumble involving knives from the slaughterhouse and other weaponry. The immediate provocation was a disagreement over which of the two groups could take credit for having inspired the conversion of an exceptionally desirable candidate, a six-foot, six-inch former sheriff named Buck, who came complete with a six-pointed silver star badge. The rumble took place in nearby Waterloo, at the National Cattle Congress fairground not far from the sheep and swine pens, the very same umschlagplatz where the illegal immigrants rounded up from the kosher slaughterhouse had been held, handcuffed and chained together in packs of ten like slaves on the block.

That very night, on the urgent advice of his lawyers and financial backers, my brother and all of his followers left town, and to play it super safe, they also bid farewell to the good old USA, his native land. Joining their ranks, in addition to the Mottel Patel of Postville, Iowa, and his entire extended family, was a mixed mob of leftover illegals who had managed somehow to hold on after the raid and deportations and become converts too, Mexican, Guatemalan, a Ukrainian, a Somali, a Micronesian, and also, as my brother, Reb Breslov, was so proud to inform me, the big prize, Buck himself (but this of course was public information, his figure so striking as he blissfully undercut the Bulvans at every opportunity to carry his beloved guru on his back around the ashram), who, upon his conversion, had taken a new name as if he were reborn. Thereafter he was known as Buki ben Yogli, cited as the leader of the Tribe of Dan in the book of Numbers, alluding in this fashion, for those paying attention, to that most famous Danite of all, the Jewish Hercules, our legendary strongman, Samson.

In consequence of that experience, Shmelke confided to me, he resolved that wherever in the world his wanderings would take him, under no circumstances whatsoever would he step foot on two continents—Antarctica or Australia. The reason for this was that the first was overrun by penguins and the second by Chabadniks, both in their black-and-white suits, an external physical manifestation that possessed deep negative mental and emotional associations for Shmelke, and even more negative inner spiritual signification, so far beneath his sacred mystical level in the aura of the divine. The five remaining continents were enough, he reasoned, in which ultimately to find a haven from his pursuers. On this point, he was immovable. He was going with his instincts, which since childhood had always been impeccable, empowering his survival and ultimate victory over his enemies, shaping him from Rabbi Shmelke Tabor into Reb Breslov Tabor—and ultimately, triumphantly, into Rebbie-ji, the world-famous guru whom the entire global congregation had come to recognize for his extraordinary spiritual access.