Kitabı oxu: «The Lost Ark of the Covenant: The Remarkable Quest for the Legendary Ark», səhifə 2

It was about two o’clock in the morning when I arrived - along with Tagaruze, my tough police bodyguard - at the great meshunah tree where I had encountered the Lemba guardian of Dumghe during my first days in the village. From the tree all paths leading to the cave could be seen. The official guardian was reputed always to be on duty but that was difficult to believe and, in any case, as far as this occasion went, I had little to worry about for I had seen him at the rain party, drunk like all the others.

We paused for a moment and then made our way up the side of the mountain towards the rough track which led down to where the cave was. To one side the path hugged the rock face; to the other there was a sheer forty-foot drop into the void. It was a treacherous descent and stones kept plummeting into the abyss.

Even Tagaruze was scared. Tonight he was going way beyond the call of duty. He was as fascinated by the Lembas’ stories as I was. But he was beginning to regret having agreed to accompany me this night. He was not much given to words but finally he muttered, ‘Why are we doing this? What are we looking for?’ I was scared too, and did not reply.

I thought I heard a noise in the trees and brush above the stone face of Dumghe. We fell silent. One of the elders had seen a lion, a white lion, he had said, on the mountain, a few days before. The elders had told me that the ngoma was always protected by lions. These were the lions of God, the guardians of the king. We pushed on, slithering down the path which led down to the cave at the base of the rocks, pausing from time to time to listen for signs of danger. Tagaruze took the gun from its holster and stuck it into his belt. There was a damp, acrid smell in the air. My hands were wet with sweat from the effort of the walk and from fear.

Suddenly, the path fell away under my feet and it was only Tagaruze’s swiftness in grabbing my arm that prevented me from disappearing over the edge. Loose stones fell over the cliff in a tidy avalanche. A flat, neat echo sounded below us. We paused and looked down into the ravine. I could just make out the outline of the final stage of the descent which led down the cliff opposite the great wall of rock.

Carefully we edged our way down. Once there was a crack of branches; once the sound of a large bird and of rushing air, then silence. I wondered if this was the ‘bird of heaven’, the creature Sevias had claimed was one of the protectors of Dumghe.

We reached the base of the two great rocks. There was another sound of a branch snapping. Perhaps the Lemba did keep someone posted here all the time to guard their treasures, after all. There was only space for us to walk one abreast. I led the way, flashing my torch around until we reached what appeared to be the entrance to the cave. This, I thought, must be the Lemba holy of holies. Between the boulder and the cliff face there was a mound of loose scree. I placed my desert-booted foot on it, holding the torch with one hand and resting the other against the side of a boulder. There was nothing to be seen. Encouraged, I went through the narrow entrance and pointed my torch straight ahead. All I could see was a wall of rock.

But I could hear something: a sort of rasping sound, a cough or a snarl, and then a louder sound - a snort, perhaps, which became a deafening roar as it bounced off the surrounding rockface. My hand gripped the torch in terror. My legs turned to jelly. The gun, I thought, shoot it whatever it is. Tagaruze had the gun but when I turned around I realized that Tagaruze was no longer behind me. Tagaruze had disappeared. I was alone.

I retreated through the opening, back first, keeping my face to the sound and then scrambled up the narrow track after him and fled through the wooded slopes of Dumghe. The noise followed us, rising through the natural shaft made by the great rocks high into the mountain. It was a terrifying sound - it could have been a lion or a leopard or just about anything else. We did not wait to find out. We ran as fast as we could until we got to the meshunah tree.

Breathlessly we sat down at the base of the tree. As my rump hit the ground I felt something slithering away under me into the undergrowth. Shuddering, I stood up quickly.

‘What the hell was that?’ I asked.

‘That was just a snake,’ Tazaruze said offhandedly.

My blood turned cold and I felt like throwing up. I had been told that one of the guardians of the ngoma was a two-headed snake. I was a million times more afraid of even the smallest, most inoffensive grass snake than of any cat, great or small, on the face of the earth.

I shuddered. ‘And how about that thing in the cave?’ ‘It must have been a Lemba ancestor in the body of a leopard or a lion. Or it was the protectors of the ngoma, the lions of the Almighty, the guardians of the king. Everyone knows they prowl around this mountain. This was a terrible, big mistake.’

What the policeman had said was undoubtedly true. It was a mistake. I was to rue that mistake for many years to come. We did not find the elusive and mysterious ngoma lungundu, the strange artefact which played such an important role in the imagination of this remote African tribe, but the events of that night were to change my life and lead me on a quest which would only be resolved many, many years later.

The Sign Of His Kinship

S’ orry. It’s a forgery!’ It was my very first meeting with Reuven. The year was 1992, half a decade after my adventure at the mouth of the cave at Dumghe. We were in my vaulted study in the Old City of Jerusalem. A weird light seemed to be coming from a yellowing document, which was spread out on the table.

Reuven ben Arieh was a financier and diamond merchant, a highly orthodox Jew and a highly unorthodox everything else. He lived mainly in Jerusalem but also had homes in Paris, London, and Miami. He was a tall, full-bearded, well-built man. The first thing I noticed about him was his eyes. Those eyes were something. This man was something. He had a beautiful, soft-spoken wife, Clara, admired by everyone, and a lifeabsorbing mission.

His mission was stark in its simplicity and bound to fail: it was to end gentile hatred of Jews. To terminate anti-Semitism. For once and for all. It was as simple as that.

Hatred of Jews was a subject about which he had some personal experience: most members of his immediate family, including his father and mother, brother, and sister had been murdered at Treblinka. Reuven, who was about ten years older than me, was born in Holland in 1935. During the Nazi occupation, he spent three years hidden in a neighbour’s garret. In 1945 he emerged to discover that he was an orphan. Later that year he was claimed by some elderly and wealthy childless relatives of his mother’s who brought him up. They died in the early 1950s, leaving him their fortune. He studied chemistry in France, took up his father’s trade of diamond cutter for a few years, and then in 1953 moved to Israel.

By the time I met him he had fought in three wars against Arab states: the Sinai Campaign of 1956, the 1967 Six-Day War, and the Yo m Kippur War of 1973.

It was the hostility of Muslims and Arabs towards Israel and Jews that was of most concern to him. It was this hostility, particularly, that he wanted to eliminate from the world. Whenever I subsequently met him - and wherever I met him - it was Arab and Muslim resentment of Israel and how to combat it that he really wanted to talk about.

A few days previously Reuven had purchased the manuscript from Anis, one of the Jerusalem dealers. It could be dated more or less to the time of the Prophet Muhammad. So he said. It was going to change the world.

When he arrived at my house in the Old City that late summer’s day, clutching his tattered manuscript, Reuven was as excited as I have ever seen him, before or since.

He was wearing a very stylish version of the black hat, long dark jacket, and trousers worn by observant European Jews.

But everything was subtly wrong. Despite the heat and dust, his clothes were spotless, and immaculately cut by a Parisian tailor. The tropical weight woollen cloth of his suit was a very dark blue worsted with a herringbone pattern. He gave off a slight suggestion of Chanel Homme. As I was to discover later, he usually had his hair cut in New York, went for regular manicures, and his hand-made shirts came from Turnbull & Asser in London’s Jermyn Street. Although I am not Jewish, I had lived in Israel for many years and was familiar with many aspects of the Jewish religion and culture, and it was clear to me that Reuben looked like no other orthodox Jew in Jerusalem - and I told him so.

Grinning at me he said, ‘I want people to say - Hey! Reuven that handsome guy! That beautifully dressed orthodox Jew!’

He had ‘returned’ to Judaism just after the Yo m Kippur War. Before that, he had been a completely secular Israeli. He was now what is known as a baal teshuvah - a sort of born-again Jew. He maintained a fastidiously kosher home but elsewhere he would occasionally eat in a non-kosher restaurant. Since his conversion to Orthodox Judaism, he had immersed himself in the Talmud - the great Jewish collection of religious law - and the Jewish mysticism of the kabbala.

However, he also had what he referred to as his ‘principal interest’. For many years he had been scouring Islamic texts trying to find something that could be exploited to neutralize - or better, eradicate - Muslim hatred of Israel and Jews. What he was looking for was some ancient, unknown Islamic text praising the Jews or foretelling the return of the Jews to Palestine, something that would make the settlement of Muslim land by Jews seem ordained by Allah, something that would legitimize Zionism in the eyes of the Arab world, something that would destroy Muslim hatred of Israel. It was an extraordinary idea.

As he put it: ‘No peace will ever come to the Middle East until both sides - Jews and Muslims - re-orient their spiritual relationship. We need some document from the past which could allow us to put conflict aside and respect each other!’

And today, it seemed, he had found that document.

At first glance it appeared to be a letter from the Prophet. The astonishing thing about it was that it set out not to vilify and condemn the great enemies of Islam - the Jews - but to praise and defend them. In fact, the Sons of Israel, the Banu Israil, as they are called in the Quran, are lauded to the skies.

He explained to me that Muhammad had never, ever had the idea of trying to create a new religion. He wanted simply to introduce the older faiths of Judaism and Christianity to the polytheistic people of the desert. The original direction to which Muhammad’s first disciples prayed - the qibla - was actually towards Jerusalem. It was only after the Jews of Medina - one of the oasis towns near Mecca - proved to be disloyal and fought against him that he turned against the Jews and started to pray in the direction of Mecca.

‘What’s this got to do with changing the world?’ I asked.

‘Everything, my friend, everything. Yo u could say that the Jews’ disloyalty to the Prophet was the beginning of the conflict between Islam and the West. Yo u know the Middle East scholar Bernard Lewis?’

‘Yes, he used to teach at SOAS.’

‘Lewis calls this “the clash of civilizations”. This was the great fissure between the cultures.’

‘Yes,’ I acknowledged, ‘that is true in a way.’

‘But just listen! What I’ve got here could easily reverse all that. That’s why I wanted to meet you. I need you to authenticate it. This manuscript gives a radically new perspective on what the Jews of Medina really got up to. It’s explosive. Muslims could soon be joining Jews and even Christians in prayer. Can you imagine that? They could all be praying together towards Jerusalem. Praying in the same direction is the first step to thinking in the same direction.’

Reuven’s eyes were shining with the splendour of this vision. ‘This document is like a news broadcast from ancient times,’ he continued, ‘from the time these troublesome religions were spawned - a tattered fragment from the past that will permit us to put aside our conflict and actually try to love each other. Armageddon could be postponed for a century or two!’

This was the gist of the document he held in his hand: Muhammad swears in the letter that it was the Jews of Medina and the other oasis towns of Arabia who had always come to his aid in his many battles against the heathen tribes of the desert. The Jews were even ready to desecrate their holy Sabbath to help him. They never left his side. They never betrayed him. During a single bloody campaign, the Jews killed over 20,000 heathen enemies of the Prophet: 7000 knights, 7000 regular horsemen, and 7000 foot soldiers.

‘This is what the Prophet actually promised the Jews,’ declared Reuven reverently, raising one finger for emphasis. ‘Not centuries of contempt and persecution!’

‘Just listen.’ He put on a pair of reading glasses, scrutinized the document and read aloud. ‘“O men of the Children of Israel, by Allah I shall reward you for this…I shall grant you my protection, my covenant, my oath and my witness for as long as I live and as long as my community shall live after me, until they see my face upon the Day of Resurrection.”

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, his voice suddenly shrill, thrusting the document in my face and revealing an immaculately laundered cuff. ‘If the Muslim world knew about this, they would change their attitude to Israel overnight! There’d be no more Arab-Israel wars! No more terrorist attacks!’

Unfortunately, there was more to the letter than met the eye. It was probably quite old, I could see that. The body of the text was in Arabic and there was a short introduction in Hebrew. I knew something about Hebrew palaeography - the study of the form of ancient writing - and I could see this was a medieval Hebrew Yemenite script. This much was genuine.

Then I recalled that once in the Yemen I had seen an almost identical document in the home of an antiquarian in Sana’a, the capital of the Yemen. It was called Dhimmat al-Nabi (The Protection of the Prophet) and was an ancient Jewish fabrication, an old forgery, which the Yemenite Jews had created to counter the animosity of their Muslim neighbours. There was no Jewish community in the Muslim world quite as wretched and persecuted as the Jews of the Yemen. They needed all the help they could get. However, this document would not persuade many Muslim scholars to turn their received opinions upside down. It would not change the world.

‘It’s a shame,’ I said, ‘but it is a forgery. A very old forgery.’

A yellow hamseen wind was blowing in from the desert. It was stiflingly hot. Reuven’s face fell when I gave him my assessment of his document, and he grew silent. He just sat there grimacing, rubbing the side of his head where he had been grazed by an Egyptian bullet in the last of his wars.

Had it been genuine, the document he had just shown me could have served this purpose pretty well.

‘Are you absolutely sure it’s a forgery?’ he asked trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

‘Quite sure,’ I replied flatly.

One cold, damp Jerusalem evening, some months later, we were walking back to my house in the Old City. Reuven had just flown in from Miami. He was suntanned and exquisitely dressed as usual, but he seemed agitated and I wondered what was troubling him. We had just passed through the Jaffa Gate, one of the main entrances into the walled city of Jerusalem, when he said, ‘Redemption. That’s it, redemption.’

‘What do you mean?’

He said nothing. We walked silently down the alley leading to the Armenian Quarter. After a few minutes he turned to me and murmured, ‘Redemption is what it is all about. I think I have found what I have been looking for. I now know what to do.’

‘You’ve not bought another ancient document from your dealer chum, have you?’ I asked in disbelief.

Stroking his beard, he smiled.

‘I have found it.’

‘Found what?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘Wait until we get to your place.’

We passed Zion Gate, another of the historical entrances to the city, and walked in the shadow of the medieval walls towards the Western Wall, one of the great retaining walls built by Herod the Great to enclose the area of the Temple, and sacred to Jews ever since.

It had been a bitterly cold winter and was close to freezing when we arrived back at the house. I lit the Friedman paraffin stove in the study and put a match to a pile of olive wood in the sitting-room grate.

Finally when we sat down, he could no longer contain himself.

‘I think that I have found what I have been looking for,’ he announced quietly. ‘I think the solution is the Ark of the Covenant.’

We talked late into the night, huddled around the fire, drinking Israeli 777 brandy. He started by telling me about the efforts going on throughout the world to locate the ancient Temple treasure in Jerusalem. He explained the global religious importance of the Ark and its deep significance for mystics, kabbalists, and freemasons. He explained the history of the Ark as the Bible relates it.

The Ark had been made at God’s command shortly after the exodus of the Jews from Egypt around 1200 BC. It was essentially a coffer containing the tablets of the law which God had given to Moses on Mount Sinai and was believed to be the home of the Israelites’ invisible God. It was placed in a tentlike sanctuary called the tabernacle and could only be approached by priests of the tribe of Levi. The Ark punished by fire those that disregarded the strict rules which governed the way it should be treated. It was carried before the Israelites as they advanced through the desert and was said to have generated some kind of energy which blasted a dry path across the River Jordan.

The Israelites had to destroy Jericho if they wanted to conquer their Promised Land and the Ark was somehow, in some strange, mysterious way that has never been satisfactorily explained or understood, instrumental in making its walls come crashing down before the besieging Israelite horde. The first important religious site the Israelites created in Canaan was at Shiloh not far from Jerusalem. The tabernacle and the Ark stayed here for hundreds of years. During the battles against the Philistines - the great enemies of the Israelites - the Ark was used in battle.

It was seriously dangerous.

Finally at the time of King Solomon, the son of King David, it was placed in the magnificent new temple created to house it. From this moment on we hear precious little about the Ark and the assumption is that at some point over the next few hundred years, and probably before 587 BC, this fabulous artefact disappeared.

As Reuven was speaking, my mind was transported back five years to my perilous night on Dumghe and the vague associations I had imagined between the ngoma and the Ark. But Reuven was unstoppable.

The more he spoke about the Ark the more excited he became. ‘The Ark radiated mystical energy from the centre of the world,’ he said. ‘For Jewish mystics the Land of Israel - Eretz Yisrael - was in the middle of the world. Jerusalem was at the centre of Eretz Yisrael. The Temple was at the centre of Jerusalem. The Holy of Holies - the devir was at the centre of the Temple and the Ark of Moses was at the centre of the holy of holies. Directly beneath the Ark,’ he continued, ‘was the even Shetiyyah - the foundation stone - a stone drenched in mystic power. A kind of cosmic battery for the universe!’

Reuven’s face had taken on a strange radiance and his voice grew louder. ‘This,’ he boomed, ‘was the place where Adam was buried. This is where the patriarch Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. This is where Muhammad ascended to heaven. This is where the very creation of the world took place. The foundation stone was the critical element which separated the upper world from the pit of chaos below, and the Ark incorporates that elemental centrality.’

Breathlessly he described the construction of the Ark by the Israelite craftsman Bezalel shortly after Moses had led the Hebrews out of Egypt. He spoke of the exquisite golden cherubim which were placed on its golden lid - the Mercy Seat - which was nothing less than the actual throne of the Almighty. To be honest all these mystical, supernatural references left me cold.

‘Oh come on, Reuven,’ I groaned. ‘Anyway, according to the book of Deuteronomy it was Moses who made the Ark, not Bezalel, and it was just an ordinary wooden box. If you remember, God commanded Moses to make two stone tablets and an acacia Ark. He made the simple wooden Ark and took the stone tablets to the top of the mountain. The law was duly inscribed upon them and Moses brought down the tablets and put them into the Ark he had made. No gold, no cherubim, nothing.

‘Modern scholars think that the more elaborate description of the Ark with all its gold stuff was probably a scribe’s attempt to make the Ark match the glories of the Temple and was written hundreds of years after the period when it was made, which would have been about 1300 BC. The scribes who wrote the detailed descriptions of the Ark had never seen it. They simply described what they imagined it to be. Their imagination was infinitely more influenced by Egyptian and Assyrian models than by the Ark itself.’

‘Don’t try to diminish it,’ growled Reuven, seizing my arm. ‘The Ark was the holiest thing in the world, ensconced in the holiest place in the world. It was where the Shekhinah - the divine presence of God lived. The combination of the holiest place in the world and the holiest object in the world radiated its own force and the world is still trembling! My Kabbalistic teachers taught me that the Ark existed and still exists in a kind of hyperspace. It defied all physical laws. When it was put in the Holy of Holies it was attached to its carrying poles. We know that the space available was too small for the length of the poles yet the Ark still fitted in. The Ark was constructed on a heavenly original.’

‘So it was kind of fake like your document. Not even an original,’ I said grinning, hoping to deflate him a little or provoke him into a more rational discourse.

For a few minutes, he appeared to be lost in thought and then he plunged back into the magical and mystical aspects of the Ark which seemed very far from his central interest, his mission. He told me that his Kabbalistic teachers drew an analogy between the Ark, with the two tablets inside, and the brain and its two hemispheres. In the same way as the brain was central to the working of the body, so the Ark was central to the working of the people of Israel.

‘Reuven,’ I said patiently, ‘this is all undoubtedly of great interest, but how can the Temple treasure and the lost Ark possibly help you in your mission to placate the Muslim world?’

‘Because I have found this!’ he said triumphantly. ‘I have found an amazing passage actually in the Quran and this is no forgery.’ He took a copy of the Quran from his briefcase and read aloud in his faultless Arabic.

‘Their prophet said to them, “The sign of his kingship is that the Ark of the Covenant will be restored to you, bringing assurances from your Lord, and relics left by the people of Moses and the people of Aaron. The angels will carry it. This should be a convincing sign for you, if you are really believers.”

‘Muhammad considered the restoration of the Ark to the Jews to be a sign of the kingship of Saul, the first king of Israel. I have no doubt that contemporary Muslims would see the restored Ark as a convincing sign of kingship and political legitimacy today. This should be a convincing sign for you, if you are really believers. The Ark seen in the context of this verse from the Quran would be better than any manuscript. In any event who can say if the kind of manuscript I have been seeking really exists? But the Ark once existed and if I can find it, it would guarantee peace in our time between Muslims and Jews.’

I had never noticed this verse from the Quran. He went on to tell me what Muslim theologians and scholars had to say about the Ark. The Muslim version of events was based loosely on the well-known story in the Apocryphal Second Book of Maccabees, a late Jewish text, which relates that the Biblical prophet Jeremiah carried the Ark out of the Jewish Temple just before the Babylonians seized Jerusalem and destroyed the Temple in 587 BC. Jeremiah took it across the River Jordan into what is today the Kingdom of Jordan, hid it in a cave on Mount Nebo, the mountain from which Moses had gazed upon the Promised Land before the Israelite conquest of Canaan, and then sealed up the entrance to the cave. Some of the Prophet’s followers tried to find the path that Jeremiah had taken in order to find the Ark. He rebuked them and said that the Ark would remain hidden until God gathered his people together at the end of time.

Here the Arab historians take up the story and this was new to me. According to them the Ark was subsequently discovered on Mount Nebo by the Jurhum tribe. They took it to Mecca and there it stayed. According to some Muslims the Ark is still to be found beneath the Ka’aba - the construction at the heart of Mecca which is the holiest place in the world for Muslims. Reuven told me of other Muslim theories concerning the fate of the Ark. Abbas, a cousin of Muhammad, maintained that the Ark was hidden in the Sea of Galilee, Kinneret, in Hebrew - and would be found just before the end of time by the Mahdi, an Islamic Messianic figure.

Reuben’s handsome face was glowing as he added that Islamic scholars believed that relics of Moses and Aaron would be found inside the Ark, including the tablets of the law, Aaron’s rod, the sceptre of Moses and Aaron’s turban.

I smiled sceptically at this piously enunciated list. ‘Did Aaron have a turban?’ I asked.

He looked at me steadily. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Don’t you understand that if I can find the Ark I can bring peace and redemption to this part of the world? I’m not going to leave it for the Mahdi to find! Muslims will accept the legitimacy of Israel and this country will become what it was meant to be - a land of peace, a land flowing with milk and honey!’ His voice was hoarse with excitement.

I could see that Reuven was in the grip of a genuine passion and realized that there was little to be gained by teasing him.

‘Well, it’s a very interesting idea. In fact in some ways it’s an interest that we share. We just have different ways of expressing it. I’ve been fascinated by the Ark, in my own way, since my African days. What I find compelling is that the idea of the Ark has sent ripples throughout the world. I discovered what I think was the end of one long, sinuous ripple when I was in Africa and I imagine there are others.’

Reuven nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, its rays penetrated every corner of the earth as the Kabbalists teach us. Its impact upon the world when I find it will be overwhelming.’

‘When you find it? Come on, come back down to earth, Reuven. Yo u have no idea where it is. Yo u don’t really know if it ever existed. I don’t think it did. Personally I think it was an idea more than a thing. This is not, my friend, what I would call a realistic project. Anyway,’ I continued, ‘the Quran says that angels will bring it. Yo u don’t look much like an angel to me. But you could work on it.’

Brushing aside my objection and sarcasm with a dismissive movement of a manicured hand, he looked me straight in the eyes and said doggedly, ‘I have spent years combing the Islamic texts for the forgotten passage which would change the world. Thus far, I have failed. So now, realistic or not, I am going to broaden my search to include the Ark. The Ark, if I can find it, is going to give real legitimacy to Israel. It will give our spiritual sovereignty back. It will redeem us. It will redeem the world!’

I felt a shiver running up and down my spine. The firelight flickered on the stone, vaulted ceiling. Next to the passionate Reuven I felt prosaic. For me, the story of the Ark ensconced in its tabernacle tent took me back to my childhood in Wales and to the little chapel called Tabernacle where I had gone with my father. And when I had mentioned the Ark to my father en passant on my previous trip to England his eyes had lit up with interest.

But nonetheless my interest in it was historical, pragmatic. Reuven’s apocalyptic vision was quite the opposite. I wanted to deflate his rhetoric, bring him down to earth, but I couldn’t. It was as if his intoxication and passion had paralysed me. I began to sense that his passion was taking me over too. I refilled his glass and my own and stared into the flames. He pushed his well-shod feet closer to the fire and leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head, then began to intone in a tense, menacing rasp:

‘From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be the blade that was broken;

The crownless again shall be King.’

‘That’s Tolkien, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘from The Fellowship of the Ring. It just seems to catch my mood. Just think: political and religious redemption for the Jewish people. “The crownless again shall be king.” The redemption of Israel will be brought ever closer by the discovery of the Ark. For thousands of years it has been hidden somewhere, probably broken, crushed, worm-eaten. But “renewed shall be the blade that was broken”. I have a strong sentiment that in my lifetime that blade - the Ark - will indeed be renewed. I have a strong sentiment that the final redemption of the Jewish people is not far distant.’