The fox from the Prophets' Steps who knew the secret to long life

Most of us don't read more than the first two lines. Maybe three, but what if I told you that in the following story lies the secret to a long and healthy life?

"I have a simple recipe that can help and along the way will solve many more problems for you and even prevent them from reaching you."
"Yes?"
"Yes, but then, come on, you're the tenth."

I stood at the end of the wide staircase of Ma'alot HaNevi'im, facing the lower city.
You can't turn back time, and there's no way to stop it even for a moment, unless you're Joshua Ben Nun who stopped the sun at Gibeon and the moon in the Ayalon Valley, and even then you have to have a good reason. Luckily, we have the dedicated drawers in our brains that file away the things that seemed important to us at that point in time. It could be an event that happened a long time ago, even if by the world's definition it's a negligible matter in itself, but it left a strong impression on you even if it happened decades ago.

An old, old matter like this just popped into my mind from one of its wonderful drawers, as I began descending the Stairs of the Prophets.

I returned from the Borochov Library, where I used to borrow reading books every week or two. I walked to the end of Hehalutz Street and after the row of falafel stands I turned right onto HaNeviim Street towards the lower city.
In general, I felt unwell. I had an unpleasant feeling of pressure in my upper abdomen and an inexplicable general malaise. Maybe it was a kind of reminder of countless months when I felt great and forgot to be grateful for each and every day like that. A reminder that nothing is taken for granted. Proportions.

I descended the wide steps of the prophets and, from a distance, I noticed an old man who stood almost constantly at dusk in front of the Hadrat Kodesh synagogue, located in the middle of the long street of stairs, waiting for one or two people to complete the missing minyan for prayer.

The embracing gaze

When you are sixteen, a thirty-year-old boy seems to you like an adult. Fifty is old, and if he is over sixty, it is as if he has passed away and is no longer alive. But what does a sixteen-year-old boy understand?
He already knew me from the countless times I had responded to his request, and it was clear to me that he would turn to me now as well.
If he hadn't been missing someone to complete the minyan, he wouldn't have been out.

My mood strongly conveyed, 'Leave it, go home and rest, this is not your day.'
I raised my hand to Leah when I saw him smiling at me from afar. "I don't feel well today," I blurted out to him in a not-so-brilliant attempt at escape. He studied me for a moment and nodded slightly. "Yeah, you don't look the best. But come on, you're the tenth and then I'll give you a recipe that will probably solve your problem."
His embracing gaze and kind eyes lifted the mood.
When we left, fifteen minutes later, he accompanied me. "I really meant it, you know?"
"What, when you were talking about that recipe?"
"Yes."

I've always loved old people's stories, especially the stories of miracles that bordered on the mystical, with the wonders of grandma's remedies also falling into that category. But now, the only thing I fantasized about was lying on my back on the bed.
The kind old man, seeing my hesitant expression, told me curtly, "It's short and it's worth its weight in gold, you won't regret it."
My shoulders slumped in surrender, impossible for him. "I'm listening."
We sat on the sloping stone surface next to the stairs.
"Sauerkraut." said the old man.
"what?"
"Sauerkraut every day, that's the recommendation. I got it from my grandmother and it came as an addition to the ancient recipe, of course."
I looked at him with tired eyes, but I didn't get up to leave yet so as not to offend.
"Pickles, are you talking to me about pickles?"
"Yes, but not like the ones at the falafel stands, where they kill them."
"And why do you think it's so good?"
"Because my grandmother died at the age of one hundred and two and she ate this every day."
Well, there's a limit. "Tell me," I said, trying to sound calm. "What time did your grandmother usually get up every morning?"
"Oh, early, around five."
I got up. He remained where he was on the flat stone. "So maybe this is the recipe for a long life, getting up at five in the morning every day or doing morning exercises and maybe there are countless other things, it's impossible to know. In any case – thank you very much."

fox

I started walking towards the stairs, with the longed-for bed floating before my eyes. As I placed my foot on the first step, I heard him behind me.
"In principle, you're right, except that it's the only thing she recommended to me for health and even emphasized eating it every day. 'Sauerkraut every day,' she said."
I stopped, turned around, and looked at him. He remained in the same position with a smile.
I must admit I was intrigued. "And Grandma Methuselah maybe also told you how exactly it helps?"
I didn't know the old man's name then, and even today, decades later, I have no idea, but to myself I called him Gershon. So Gershon scratched his forehead and a kind of expression spread across his face that made you think he was trying to remember something. Nonsense, he's making plays. A fox.

"Yes, in fact she said it's very good for the stomach, solves a lot of issues there, puts in order the war of the good bacteria against the bad and also helps avoid countless diseases, the names of which we are even afraid to pronounce."
The stomach thing took its toll. I was convinced. "Well, tell me how to make this magic, but I don't have a pen and paper to write it down."
"No need, it's very simple, you'll remember." He said, detailing and explaining slowly.
When he finished, I commented. "Sounds too simple for the wonders you say he can do. Wait, how old are you today?"
He laughed. "If we refer to Grandma's precedent, I'm a little behind halfway and in general, I have a slight forgery. When I immigrated to Israel, they accidentally listed me as one year younger, maybe because I was short and thin. When I told my mother about it, she told me it was good, 'That way you'll have a year's advantage with life experience and you'll be smarter than all your friends in class.' That's what she said. As for the recipe, it's true, it's really simple and easy to follow, but you probably know that in most cases the solutions are right under our noses, especially for things that seem complicated to us." He said, stood up, waved goodbye to me and entered the house of prayer.

Dangerous bypassing of authority

In the five minutes of the journey I had left to get home, I memorized the recipe that I was afraid I would forget, even though it was the most basic and simple recipe in the world. Probably.
I wasn't sure I would remember, but it turns out that things our brains categorize as important are burned and preserved. The first thing I did when I got home was sterilize a glass jar with boiling water.
I recreated Gershon's recipe and got to work. The whole thing took me about fifteen minutes, and if I'm going to live to be a hundred and two without disease, this is probably the most worthwhile investment there is.

I buried the precious treasure on a shelf behind the stove, not before attaching a sticker to the jar with the inscription
'S – 102' and I muttered to myself, 'Grandma Methuselah's secret password.'
It was early evening. Later that evening the leak was discovered.

"What are those pale pickles in the jar you hid behind the stove?" my mother asked me, knowing that nothing escapes her or is hidden from her eyes. I was caught.
“Oh, it’s sauerkraut. A recipe I got from a friend, he said it was healthy.” I mumbled apologetically.
Why an apology? Because doing something in my mother's kitchen falls under the definition of 'overriding authority,' plain and simple. "Sauerkraut? He looks really pale and weird, like he's about to die. What, is this Romani your friend?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, let's see what you come up with." She said with a wry nose and walked away.

I exhaled. Wow, wow, this is not just an abuse of authority, more than that, it's a kind of defiance, as if I were declaring, 'You don't know how to make it, so I'll make it from a recipe I got from someone who does.' May God protect, forgive, have mercy and have mercy. The next morning before I left for school, I peeked behind the oven.
The jar looked completely different.
Between the cabbage strips were small pieces of carrot, thin strips of red pepper, sprigs of dill, hot green pepper, small balls of allspice, and I thought I smelled vinegar too. A dash.
The jar looked like a Kandinsky painting on steroids and reminded me of the flower festival that used to come to Kiryat Eliezer every year. Only now did I understand Mom's comment from yesterday, when she discovered my cabbage, that 'it will die soon.' Next to this colorful art, there's no doubt.
The Festival of Colors was amazing, but I was skeptical. This is not the original recipe, and the original one comes with receipts. Receipts with an exempt business certificate, grandma – 102 and free from diseases. Worth a consultation.

The next day at the same hour of twilight, Gershon stood in his same meerkat pose, looking out at the stairs, those going up and those going down. Watching, hoping and wishing for one or two more to complete the number that had been dwindling year after year.

Side Dishes

He welcomed me as usual, with a smile.
"A question." I shot back without preamble. "I worked according to Grandma Long Life's recipe, except that my mother added all kinds of other vegetables to the jar and even a little vinegar. Wouldn't that mess up the result?"
Gershon laughed heartily, perhaps at the addition of my nickname for his grandmother. "Listen, in Romania during my grandmother's time, people lived at a level of survival that you can't imagine. Everything was calculated and reduced and there wasn't always everything, so adding a few more things is great, the main thing is to have cabbage every day because that's the main thing."

After a much-needed sigh of relief, I asked, "Last time you mentioned that the cabbage was an addition to the ancient recipe. What did you mean, what is this ancient?"
"Ah, cabbage is really the tiebreaker in this particular matter, but there's something even stronger than cabbage that I try not to skip and that I learned abroad as a kid in a room."
He paused for a moment, letting the words linger in the air and prompting me to ask. The fox succeeded, I wondered. "Yes, what's stronger than cabbage?"
"In one of the lessons we studied a passage from the book of Proverbs written by the wise man. Do you know who it is?"
"King Solomon."
"That's right. In chapter 4, he wrote the following sentence: 'For life is for their issue and healing for all their flesh.' And the teacher simply explained to us that those who keep the commandments of the Torah will also be granted healing, among other things. So I add this element. I arrive at the synagogue an hour before time and study, so that I know what and how to observe and observe, and of course I also snack on some sauerkraut every day," he added with a wink.
That was a long time ago.

Now I stood in front of the rusty gate of the synagogue courtyard, which hung diagonally and looked as if even if a fly landed on it for a moment, it would collapse under it. The entrance, filthy with rubble and garbage, with weeds and brambles growing up to knee height and making it impossible to pass, testified that the place had been abandoned for a very long time. I felt a pang in my heart.

I thought about Gershon. When I last spoke to him, I was about sixteen years old, and on one of our few occasions together, he mentioned that he had recently celebrated his seventyth birthday. Since it had been about thirty years since then, I concluded that according to his root tree, he might still be alive and well and might even break Grandma's record, as he had added another element of the book of 'Proverbs' to the menu.
"Gershon," I muttered toward the deserted and neglected synagogue. "I don't think there will be a minyan here today, but note that I arrived."

This is not Gershon and he is no longer a child.

I started down the stairs towards Shivt Zion. I glanced to the right at one of the entrances to an old stone building. Years ago, a struggling elderly couple lived there, whom Gershon would occasionally pass by. I had no idea why, but something in my mind whispered that he was supporting them in some way. A woman about my age came out and headed toward the stairs. You might ask, what could it be? I turned to her.

"Excuse me, years ago I knew an elderly couple who lived here. I don't know their names, but they were in contact with the collector of the nearby synagogue. Do you know them, perhaps?"
She considered me for a moment and then smiled. "This couple are my grandparents and it's true, they were in contact with the collector of the Hadrat Kodesh synagogue, he helped them a lot. My grandfather passed away and only my grandmother lives here now. Did she know you?"
"No, I knew the synagogue collector. Is it possible to ask her if she knows what happened to him, where he lives, or if he is still alive?"
"Wait a minute, she's in bed, but I'll try to ask her." She said and turned into the building.
After many minutes she returned. "I have to tell you that Grandma was moved. She said that Alex wasn't really a human being, but an angel. In recent years, after the synagogue was abandoned, he used to call them, especially before the holidays, to ask if anything was missing or who they would be with for the holidays. The last time she heard from him was about three or four months ago, when he called from the Fliemann Hospital. He fell, broke his pelvis and was hospitalized there for rehabilitation." She shrugged slightly and added with a half-smile. "There's no doubt, a generation of Nephilim, where are we and where are they. In any case, I hope I helped."
"You helped me a lot, thank you very much and get well soon to Grandma." I replied and said goodbye to her.

All the way to the parking lot, snippets of conversations I had with Gershon came to mind, and only now, decades later, did I realize that his name was Alex, and I did the math to try to figure out how old he was today. It was hard.
I got into the car, started it, and in a split second, I changed my destination and drove toward the Fleiman Hospital.
After a brief inquiry, I walked towards the appropriate department. Two nurses manned the counter at the entrance to the department and because I walked slowly I could hear fragments of conversation. They were chatting among themselves about shopping and end-of-season sales. Women.

Need to sort out the records

I cleared my throat. The shopping spree was supposed to stop. It did, albeit gradually, and they turned to me.
"I'm looking for someone named Alex who broke his pelvis and came here a few months ago. He's not a kid, in fact, he's supposed to be around a hundred."
Something very slight, almost imperceptible, changed in their body language. I saw a kind of screen that came down on their faces and conveyed – no matter what you want, the answer is no.
"And who are you to him?"
I didn't need any more information than that, the body language and the question gave it all away. I was late, Gershon is no longer with us.
"I'm not a relative, just an old friend. He was a tax collector at the synagogue that I visited from time to time."
The muscles of their shoulders softened and their faces took on the expression appropriate to the news they intended to deliver. "Alex passed away a week ago, in good health."

Even though I felt the reality a minute ago, it didn't stop the pinch in my heart. Maybe it just made it come gradually. After a few seconds of silence, I muttered to them in a weak voice. "Ah, well, too bad I didn't get to see him." I said goodbye to them and walked towards the exit.
They didn't respond and just put on the same expression. I didn't envy them, not a heartwarming role. Before the exit door I stopped for a moment, turned around and went back to them. Curiosity bothered me. "Do you have any idea how old he was when he died?"
One of them smiled. "Actually, yes, because everything here is documented and he really was old. You weren't far wrong when you said around a hundred. According to his ID card, he was a hundred and three when he died, and I have to tell you that he was independent and vital, but the fall and the fracture in his pelvis worsened his condition."
"It seems that after the fall and being confined to the wheelchair, he lost interest in his surroundings and seemed to be waiting for the end," her friend added.

An old drawer suddenly opened in my mind. After a few seconds of digesting the information, I was attacked by an involuntary spasm of laughter to the point of stomach ache. The good nurses looked at me with frightened eyes and perhaps a kind of suspicion mixed with pity. 'Poor thing, the guy's gone crazy. Well, everyone takes it differently.'

They approached me. "Is everything okay?" one asked with genuine concern.
I wiped away the tears of laughter that had welled up in my eyes and looked at them with a look that tried to convey apology. "He was a special person. A man of kindness, a true righteous man, funny in his own way and quite a fox."

They looked at each other and then nodded slightly at me. As if to say – we didn’t really understand, but if it makes it easier for you then so be it.
A second before I finally said goodbye to them, I felt the need to put their records in order.
"Since everything is meticulously organized and documented with you, I just want to point out that the date of birth on his ID card is inaccurate; in fact, he is a year older. He died at the age of one hundred and four."
The two nodded at me with a serious and compassionate look, the kind reserved for comforting mourners during the mourning period, and returned to their fateful shopping conversation.
Half an hour later I stopped at the supermarket to buy cabbage.

This is one chapter from the book "Stanton City" which was recently published and is the third in the series after "Gathering Gifts from the Floor" and "The Whiplash". Details in the link: