Come Thursdays and Derli was not with us. Physically he was, but he would sit back in the corner, not disturbed at all by the turmoil of people moving at the hive-like busy-busy headquarter of the Israeli National Television in Jerusalem. He would close his eyes, whispering his own versions of prays, seeking one particular thing – the results of the upcoming Saturday football matches for his betting. “1”, “2”, or “X”? This was the question. Derli was not interested in any of the so-called specialists, expressing their superficial forecasts in the newspapers, on the Radio, or even those he could literally touch daily, here in the temple of Israeli broadcast. He could get straight answers from heaven, so why would he be bothered with some mere guesses? He didn’t care about the weather forecast or the teams’ injuries rosters. He had his own trusty source of precious information. He tried to explain to me once how does he calculate his betting. It was a combination of prayers and Gimatria [Gimatria involves reading words and sentences as numbers, assigning numerical instead of phonetic value to each letter of the Hebrew alphabet]. When read as numbers, they can be compared and contrasted with other words or phrases. OI . Due to his deepest belief, Derli relied on it with blind eyes.
After a whole eight hours doing only this he was ready to walk to the nearest kiosk and put his bets. Did he win every Saturday? Of course he didn’t. Did he lose faith, or quit the betting? Never.
We were a small diverse-three-men-security-team in a shift - two ex-military young students, and a much older Police-guard.
Derli was the older police-guard. He was short, thick, with gray hair, white moustache over his fleshy lips, round face with reddish prominent cheeks, small hidden good eyes, when you could see them. He always arrived on time; always in clean ironed uniforms, his face shaved to its red skin. He was born somewhere in Kurdistan, probably never finished any formal schooling, simple, good mannered, humble, quiet mid-forties weary-old-man.
Derli had fourteen children. Yes, fourteen, it’s not an error ... He was poorer of the poor, working the same eight hours for half of what we made; He was a good man; harmless and honest, practicing his religion with a deep faith. No doubts, no complaints. Always smiling and thanking G-D for what he had. There was not much communication between us. After all, what did we have in common? But, He was one of those people that you could not disrespect.
A colleague of mine once told me when I asked him about mysterious Derli, that he was the first Israeli who won the Lottery; literally, on the very first draw! This helped him to bring up his large family. I had never verified this story with Derli, until this one special day in my life, when I witnessed firsthand the amazing miracles that occurred to Derli the righteous.
It was one beautiful clear Friday-afternoon. Derli and I were on the same shift. Derli was relaxed and sleepy, as he just finished his lunch, which would always be one of his wife’s authentic Kurdish delights that we all envied. His duties for the week were about to be accomplished, and he would patiently wait now to welcome the Shabbat with his family in a few hours.
“Can I go and buy cigarettes”? He approached me at my post whispering, as exchanging with me confidential information. “Yes, of course” I answered and added – “can you do me a favour Derli?” He looked at me “You don’t need to ask” he said firmly but still very quietly. “I’ll do anything for you”, as if we were the best and closest friends ever.
“I am allowed to eat now only an apple” I tried to fill him in with the basics of my strict diet.
“An apple? I don’t have an apple”.
“I know. But you’re going to the grocery shop”.
“There are no fruits there, you know that, and there is no fruit shop anywhere near” he rightfully echoed known facts.
“Ach, just try. Ask the man, maybe he has one apple in the back” I urged, not expecting much of this mission.
He nodded, turned around and left.
Long hour later Derli walked into the lobby. He was all smiles, red than ever, his eyes glowing and in his proudly lifted palm he held a huge glimmer red apple.
“Well done” I said surprised.....”Where did you get it?” I asked, honestly wondering.
“I must tell you a story”.
“A story? OK. I love stories”.
He sat back on his chair.
“One day, long before I won the lottery”, he looked at me as if I must have already heard about this episode in his life, “it was Friday afternoon like now and I was supposed to get home for Shabbat, but I didn’t have a penny. My pockets were empty and I just couldn’t make my way home. What would I tell my wife? How do I bless on the wine and the Chalah if I can’t have them on my Shabbat table? I couldn’t ask the shopkeeper again for credit, as my account there was higher than the Tower of David. I was ashamed, embarrassed and depressed. I found myself wandering aimless in the streets...and praying to G-D.
...Suddenly, while walking and staring down at the pavement, I noticed a hundred Liras bill. I looked around to find the person who dropped it. It was on Malchey-Israel, extremely busy street on Fridays, when people prepare for Shabbat. And now, with no explanation, the entire street was vacant. Not a soul; just me, the bill and G-D...
...I raised my eyes, thanked him, picked the bill up and rushed to do my last minute shopping for Shabbat.”
Derli’s eyes were glazing while telling me his amazing story.
“Wow” I said, not really knowing what to say, “But why are you telling me all of this?”
“Ha” he sighed, holding to his big mysterious ear-to-ear-smile. “I’ll tell you why. You sent me for an apple. And there was no apple at the grocery shop. I bagged the shopkeeper to look in the back, but no luck. I took my cigarettes and left disappointed and sad. I prayed to G-D. ‘Please what am I asking for? One apple only...’
... And then, while I was walking back, I noticed an apple resting on the bordering wall alongside my way. I looked around, and amazingly enough, this busiest street in Jerusalem was suddenly quiet and dead like a cemetery...
...No one around, just the apple, me and G-D...
...I looked up to him, thanked him, grabbed the apple and brought it to you. Enjoy” he concluded triumphant.
I swear that I had never in my life eaten such a delicious, juicy, sweet and fresh apple.
And Derli? He’s probably sitting now where only fine people deserve to be, praying and looking forward to the next Shabbat dinner and the football matches which their results he surely already knows.
***
All of the above really happened to me in the spring of 1977 in Jerusalem.
(1273 Words)
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