Standing over six feet tall with bulging biceps taut under the sleeves of his black suit jacket and a scar that snaked down the side of his face, starting somewhere under the brim of his black fedora hat and ending somewhere in the thickets of his black beard, he resembled a bouncer at the entrance of an exclusive private Jewish club. The outline of a holster was traceable at his belt, not to be mistaken for a cell phone pouch, for only a weapon would trump the Sabbath in a situation where there is potential danger to life. He had been a decorated hero of the most elite combat unit of the Israeli Defense Forces, hailed throughout the land as the number-one Krav Maga champion wrestler, a celebrity raptly spotlighted for his beautiful women, hard partying, underworld pals. A terrorist would think twice before messing with this guy. With a broad pugilist smile that showcased a wide gap, the space of a missing tooth top center, he welcomed us into a grand salon brightly lit by a private generator and flickering Sabbath candles on a long banquet table covered with a white linen cloth, weighed down by gleaming silver and china and crystal goblets and golden braided challah loaves yet unblessed.

“Eh, just in time,” he greeted us in heavy Israeli guttural, seasoned by Brooklynese, acquired during his return-to-faith apprenticeship years in the Chabad universe of Eastern Parkway, Crown Heights, following his sensational penance voraciously detailed in all the Israeli media. “A guten Shabbes to the ladies from the family of the heiligen Rabbi Tabor, may he live on for many good and long years.”

So he had been briefed on our personal data. “Are you referring to Rabbi Tabor senior or junior?” I inquired coyly.

“Eh, you mean Shmelke, your brother. The Holy One Blessed Be He never makes a mistake. There is also a reason for Jews like Shmelke Tabor, though we might not be blessed with the divine wisdom to understand it.”

Just as I was about to correct his reference to my brother by pointedly adding the title Rabbi, the rebbetzin Mindy came forward to take over host duties, as all three of us new arrivals were female and therefore her responsibility in the division of labor department. Her bitumen-black Sabbath wig streamed down her back in thick straight tresses, certified kosher imported from China due to the rabbinical ban on locally grown Indian hair from the heads of idolaters. “Sorry about all the security hassles, ladies,” she immediately said, “but you know the situation. The Indians don’t want another embarrassment like at Nariman House—need I say more? Anyways, you can never be too careful.” Her accent I could GPS exactly—the heart of Crown Heights, specifically President Street between Brooklyn and Kingston Avenues, there was more than a fifty-fifty chance that she was Chabad royalty, matched up in heaven with this rising star from the Holy Land. “Good Shabbes, Manika darling,” she exclaimed, as if just noticing the presence of the background support staff. “Thank God for our little nannies—am I right or am I right?” Leaning over as we stood there observing her, she gave Manika a warm hug. “Go and sit down by your girlfriends, Manika darling, fress to your heart’s content.” She indicated the section of the table where the nannies were clustered, already dipping their fingers into the serving bowls of hummus and potato salad even before the chanting of the blessing over the wine.