God will help, my brother, Rebbie-ji, is reported to have responded with angelic calm. A Mottel Patel will appear to give me shelter. Those girls don’t turn me on, he was immune to that type. Anyway, with all his tzores over the last seven years, his yetzer harah had dried up and shriveled to the size of a raisin, as he liked to remind his tormentors. If ever he had lusted, he lusted no more. Besides, just for their information, the State of Israel had no jurisdiction over him whatsoever. This is because the crimes he is alleged to have committed were not committed in Israel but in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem, internationally contested no-man’s land; setting aside the fact that there was no crime, no one disputes the scene of the noncrime. Any charges brought against him by Israel would never stand, even in an Israeli court of law. Don’t worry so much, brothers, Rebbie-ji said. As Moses cried out when he laid eyes on the golden calf, and also Matathias the Maccabee echoing him down through the generations more than a thousand years later in the days of the idol-worshipping Hellenizers, Whoever is with Hashem, come with me! And by Hashem I mean God Almighty ruler of heaven and earth, not some Arab kid named Hashem picking his nose and flicking the snot into your hummus.

Stirred by my brother Shmelke’s words, they followed him into the breach to Uman, their hearts overflowing with pure joy. As the buildings all around them shuddered and quaked from the marathon dancing of the pilgrims, they too danced, but in the streets, around the plastic rubbish bins they set on fire, tossing in all the Israeli flags they could lay their hands on, cremating them. When no more could be found, they improvised with blue paint on white linen or underwear, oblivious to the yellow and brown stains, and on paper, two stripes, a Star of David, a simple design, child’s play, dumping these into the auto-da-fé as well, dancing rapturously in circles as the flames shot up toward the heavens, higher and higher. Reb Breslov, meanwhile, disguised as a Ukrainian peasant, in an embroidered shirt, homespun trousers tucked into his felt boots, and a sheepskin chapka, so as not, God forbid, to go bareheaded, was pushed in a wooden cart by Sheriff Buki ben Yogli, honored for the occasion to serve as my brother’s ba’al agalah, right up to the holy grave of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav. For the sake of good diplomatic relations with the host nation, the boss Hasidim in charge of the site for the holiday gave way, standing back alert, waiting to see what this goy would do, watching with eagle eyes for what would happen, their security squad ready to pounce.