The Oath

  I saw them at work, my boy, just as you see me now. I heard them just as you hear me. They were incensed, and with good reason. And if they were angry still, it would be with good reason. Incensed with you for wanting to join them empty-handed, and with me for having deserted them. By speaking to you I am repudiating my mad friend Moshe hiding deep inside my gaze and my remorse. Never mind. I am not afraid of malediction and even less of punishment. And even less of suffering. I am afraid of only one thing: indifference.

  The beggars, the vagabonds, the simple-minded; the hungry homeless peddlers, the thirsty homeless drunkards crammed into the single dilapidated room of the shelter—the hekdesh—were chatting in whispers, their way of holding council.

  After partaking of the meal offered the poor by Reb Sholem, they had left before the actual festivities. In the face of the approaching storm they chose to stay among themselves.

  There was Leizer the Fat, with his misshapen, ill-proportioned body, his enormous head on a frail torso. People said of him that he could never see where he was going, only where he was coming from; his eyes and legs seemed to follow independent ways.

  And Yiddel the Cripple with his heartbreaking smile; he never complained. Neither of cold nor of hunger. And yet he suffered both, a suffering he translated into a smile. He had a thousand different smiles; one for every occasion, for every sorrow.

  And One-Eyed Simha, shrewd and eloquent. He dared you to point out his good eye. He confused you, made you lose. There were those who thought that, in fact, both his eyes were good.

  And Kaizer the Mute, weeping as though he were drunk although he had not even emptied his glass. Quietly, silently he wept.

  Seated on the floor with his back against the wall, Avrom the Wise, while meditating on the endlessness of his problems and worries, fingered his beard, putting it into his mouth whenever he felt that he had found a solution.

  “I am not scared,” claimed Yiddel, trembling with fear.

  “And my name is not Leizer the Fat,” sneered Leizer the Fat.

  “And I am Sholem the Rich,” trumpeted Simha. “And he is living off my benevolence.”

  “Amen,” said a voice coming from the doorway.

  Somebody stood up and went to place more logs on the hearth. Nobody objected. Ordinarily there would be a discussion. Some would appeal for economy in expectation of the heavy cold spells. Others would reply that the hearth was the responsibility of the community, let it worry about lumber, not us. Was it the threat of the pogrom? Or perhaps the bitter cold? But this time no quarrel ensued concerning the policies governing public heating.

  “As for me, I am really not afraid,” said Avrom the Wise, his beard in his mouth.

  “And why would you not be afraid?” asked a voice coming from the farthest corner.

  “Because unlike you I have a brain. And that brain is stuffed with problems—meaning thoughts. And among all these thoughts, which are beautiful and marvelous even if the problems are not, there is one more precious and rare than the others—it is called logic. Ever hear of it? No, and I am not surprised. It’s not a piece of merchandise one buys or begs. One has it or not. I have it, you don’t. Wisdom is the most inequitably divided of gifts. That’s the way it is and I can’t help it. For your enlightenment I shall simply say that logic, then, is a superior thought, yes, su-pe-rior, for all others depend on it. And it never errs; it is always right. That’s it.”

  “And it is logic that tells you not to be afraid?” sneered Leizer the Fat.

  “Yes, indeed. It doesn’t just say things in the air, unaccountably, foolishly. Logic explains things. And what’s more, in order to listen to it, all the other thoughts in my head keep still.”

  “If only you could do as much!”

  “You ungrateful idiots. You don’t deserve what I am offering you!”

  His listeners, some insulted, others amused, protested noisily, except for Simha, who raised his arm and demanded quiet: “Let’s have some order, please! This is not the Community Council! A little decorum, gentlemen, otherwise I shall have to clear the hall!”

  Even his detractors conceded that he possessed certain qualities. Nobody gave a better imitation of the president.

  “All right, go on. We are hanging on your every word, our good and generous friend. Tell us what you know, let us hear the voice that commands all that respect.”

  Avrom indecisively rubbed his left thumb, then his right. He would have enjoyed being coaxed, if only for form’s sake, but this was no time to play hard-to-get. “Since I am being asked so politely by this gathering, I shall condescend to throw some light on the subject before us. Firstly: our enemies—may the plague take them before lightning strikes them, amen—are jealous, that is why they are dying to see us die. Secondly: what are they jealous of? Of us, here? Whatever for? Could they be envious of our misery? But we are ready to let them have it, and multiplied by two, if possible! Of our ailments? Our worries? Our sorrows? Why don’t they take them, and today rather than tomorrow morning! Well then, I proceed. Thirdly: they are supposed to be interested only in the rich, the satiated merchants and the grocers stuffed with money, the fat landowners and their jewel-bedecked spouses. The rest of us, the deprived, the have-nots, the disinherited, the last on every list including God’s, have no cause to fear—who would be stupid enough to covet our fate? That is what my logic is telling me in a most solemn voice. Consequently, I have the right to claim that I am in no way frightened. And let whoever does not agree with me speak up. I shall consider it a privilege to punch him in the nose.”

  A vague murmur greeted his comments.

  “Who am I to contradict you?” said Yiddel the Cripple. “All this is very nice. But how can we be sure that our enemies—may they burn like funeral candles—are listening to the same voice as you?”

  Taken aback—after all, he wasn’t going to punch a cripple—and unwilling to engage in polemics, Avrom dismissed him contemptuously: “You are a bore.”

  “But a logical one,” said a voice from the other end of the room.

  Avrom remembered that he had never liked that fool of a Yiddel, an irritating clown whose place was in the circus, if in fact there were a Jewish circus. “Ah, Yiddel, Yiddel,” he said. “How lucky you are to be unlucky! Otherwise …”

  “Hey, Yiddel,” advised the same faraway voice, “why don’t you wish him your luck too!”

  “Why should I be nasty?” said Yiddel. “I simply wonder whether our enemies know what logic is. If you ask me, they only know one thing: how to pillage and massacre. Without logic.”

  Avrom became annoyed, and the others, as always, split into two camps. There followed shouting, arguing, howling and ancient recollections of grudges long considered buried: You shoved me with your elbow at the house of Temerl the Widow. You pushed ahead of me at Yekel the Melon Vendor’s. You played on Shlomowitz’s pity by inventing a terminal illness for yourself. You didn’t tell me about Shimshonski the Wine Merchant’s only daughter’s wedding. You stole old Nissel’s money box. They were about to come to blows.

  Once more One-Eyed Simha took it upon himself to restore order. “Aren’t you ashamed?” he thundered. “At so serious a time you have the heart to fight? The fate of our community is at stake and you have nothing better to do than brawl like enemy dogs? If this became known, people would spit on us, and they would be right! Have a little dignity! We can handle this situation! We can show ourselves worthy of our poverty, worthy in spite of our poverty!”

  He evidently convinced his cronies. Finished, the argument. Forgotten, the disagreement.

  “He started it,” grumbled Avrom the Wise.

  “Me? I only asked a very simple question,” said Yiddel.

  “You see? He is starting again!” Avrom was indignant.

  “Enough!” ordered One-Eyed Simha so as to forestall another flare-up. He waited, checked that the truce was not being violated behind his back and made a conciliatory summing-up: “Like you, Avrom, I respect logic. Like yo
u, Yiddel, I believe that our foes couldn’t care less. In other words, even if the entire world persuaded me that I am wrong to worry, I would still not be reassured. This is bigger than me. Moreover, let’s not forget that this matter concerns us directly. Moshe is poor. He was what we are. Consequently, if our enemies are contemplating vengeance, they will start with us, not with the rich!”

  Not one voice spoke up against him. One could hear the wood crackling in the hearth and the wind shaking the roof. Odd-shaped shadows stretched over the damp walls and Yiddel made a concentrated effort not to see them in order not to smile at them. Avrom touched him on the shoulder as though to ask his forgiveness.

  A gesture which did not fail to astonish One-Eyed Simha, who reacted by opening wide his eyes—both of them—himself no longer sure which was the good one. “It remains to be seen,” he continued in the same tone of voice, “whether this is a matter of vengeance or not. Since we don’t know, let us adhere to the following principle: the community is threatened, we have no right to dissociate ourselves from it. Whatever will happen to it, will happen to us; let us be equal in the face of the enemy. Since our brothers on the outside are frightened, let us be frightened too.”

  It will not be said that the beggars and the poor of Kolvillàg did not have a sense of honor and duty. They all applauded their inspired leader. Moreover, their freely accepted roles brought them closer to one another: forgotten the petty quarrels, the foolish grudges. Yiddel smiled at Avrom, who as a token of their reconciliation offered him a piece of cake recovered from the shadowy depths of his pocket. In the far corner they were indulging in shoulder-slapping, hearty laughter and self-parodies of fear. Everything seemed to be settling into harmony and order when suddenly a voice was heard, somber and prophetic: “Mercy! We are digging our own graves! Mercy!”

  The gravedigger’s hollow voice created its usual effect. They all withdrew into themselves, lumps in their throats, their hearts drained of all gaiety. Because of his profession Adam cast a pall on people. They avoided him, fled from his touch. They lowered their eyes when he passed so as not to carry away his gaze. They said: He’ll see us in any case; he’ll be the last to see us, we might as well be patient and not think about it. At the same time they took pains not to offend him; he was capable of taking his revenge—after. His very presence made them vaguely uneasy. Even Simha, mortal like the rest of us, notwithstanding his position as leader, was loath to cross him.

  “Blind fools, that’s what you are,” scolded the gravedigger. “We bring on our own misfortune. You and I. If man did not fear death, he would not die. If a pogrom strikes us, this time it will be because we dread it and speak of it. Why can’t you hold your tongues? Or discuss other things, why?”

  “But what about the danger?” Simha asked timidly, to justify himself.

  “Exactly! Because danger there is, let’s not discuss it! Or even refer to it! In the beginning of evil and death there was the word. Read the Bible! It’s all there! The word announces what it names, it provokes what it describes—didn’t you know that? But what are you doing on Saturday mornings? What are you thinking of during the reading of the Torah? Unthinking fools, that’s what you are!”

  They could do nothing but nod their heads. Yes, he was telling the truth. Nobody listened to the biblical tales with enough attention. Yes, they should. Yes, they would. Nobody was going to get into an argument with the gravedigger over some story from the Bible. Yes, he was right all the way. They would keep silent. And thus save the holy community of Kolvillàg.

  “Thank you, Adam,” said Simha. “You are setting our responsibilities squarely before us. It is not enough to share our brethren’s fear; we must save them. Let us be prudent, sparing of our words. Our fate depends on it. This community exists thanks to its beggars. Were it to disappear, it would be because of them. Let us be proud of the mission entrusted to us—and may God have mercy on us!”

  Did they believe these things he told them? Did he believe them himself? All we know is that these unfortunates, these orphans without memory, these dreamers without a future, withdrew into themselves, mute with fear, remorse and pity—above all, pity.

  As for Leah, she was sleeping. Since her husband’s departure, she had only one wish: to sleep. She alone was not afraid. But she suffered. And was ashamed of it.

  Before he went to give himself up, Moshe had made her sit down facing him in the single room they occupied together. “I am going to have to hurt you,” he had told her gently as he took her hand in his.

  She had not answered. At the touch of his fingers she was afire. She ached and she liked her aching. Her body was at once abyss and sanctuary, sin and ecstasy.

  “You have given me much joy and pride,” he had told her with infinite gentleness. “Yes, much.”

  She shivered as at the birth of desire, as at a vision that modesty rendered imprecise, nebulous. “Don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t say it or I shall cry.”

  “I should like this pride to remain. Will you help me?”

  “I shall do whatever you wish,” she said, her eyes blurred with tears. A new sadness had taken possession of her, endowing her face with ethereal beauty.

  “Promise me not to suffer too much,” said Moshe.

  “I can’t,” she answered in a toneless voice. “I cannot promise, I would not be able to keep my promise. But I do promise you that I shall not cry.”

  And she was keeping her promise. Courageously, obstinately. And yet the temptation and opportunities were not lacking. For people were now kindly disposed toward the martyr’s wife. And all that warmth, all that solicitude made her want to cry. She was no longer permitted to wash floors for the rich, do their laundry or take care of their chickens. People watched over her. They brought her the most succulent dishes, warm bread fresh from the oven and a new dress for Shabbat. They treated her like a princess. Though absent, her husband was still protecting her. She knew full well that it was to him they were paying homage through her. Every time she thought of him, her eyes filled with tears. She succeeded in holding them back only by remembering her promise. But how much longer would she be able to restrain herself? To make sure, she slept. Of course, there were times when she cried in her sleep, but that was permissible; Moshe had not forbidden it. Not explicitly. And so Leah liked to sleep in order to be free to cry.

  Today she had been warned not to stay at home and been invited to come and spend the night at Davidov’s home. She was marked, she was a target. If a pogrom broke out, she would become its first victim. She refused to understand that and nobody dared tell her openly. People said to her: “Leah, Leah, you must hide somewhere, anywhere.”—“Why must I? Because my husband is in danger?”—“Yes, Leah. Because Moshe is in danger.” She could see no connection. Had they let her, she would have gone to hide in prison. To be with her husband. And in her own way that was what she did. To be reunited with Moshe she took refuge in sleep. There, she and Moshe were safe. And since he was the only one to see her, Moshe could not become angry when she stupidly began to cry.

  Notwithstanding the omens, there were optimists who trusted immanent justice more than forebodings and rumors. They did not exclude the possibility of a trial, but it would naturally be preceded by a bona-fide inquiry. The aroused mob would shatter a few windows, provoke incidents and riots, but surely they would stop short of a pogrom. A pogrom would take place only if, after deliberation of the court, Moshe were to be declared guilty. What they really needed was to build a case for the defense.

  Though he was skeptical, Davidov discussed the suggestion with my father. “We must not neglect any possibility. I don’t have much faith in it … But if you have a moment, glance through our reference books. You never can tell … it could turn out to be useful.”

  “I am not a lawyer.”

  “I know, I am not asking you to plead, nor to compose a legal document, only to draft an outline, a historical summary of the problem. As for the lawyer … I know where to find one.”


  And so my father immersed himself in martyrology. Names, dates, numbers. Sources, motives, consequences. Gloucester, 1168. Fulda, 1235. Lincoln, 1255. Pforzheim, 1267. Stupidity recognizes no borders; it transcends the centuries. The accounts followed and resembled one another. A Christian boy disappears and the Jews are massacred. Trente, 1475. Tyrnau, 1494. Bazin, 1529. With every approaching Easter, the Jews tremble. In Prague the Maharal creates a clay golem and entrusts him with the mission of outwitting the enemy. There are cases of fanatic Christians hiding corpses in Jewish homes and subsequently accusing them of ritual murder; the golem discovers the corpses and denounces the murderers.

  Question: Why did the famous Maharal choose a golem rather than a man as his instrument? Answer: Israel’s foes had fallen so low, had shown such intellectual baseness that they would have been unworthy adversaries for a man. Frankfort, 1712. Posen, 1736. Tasnad, 1791. Bucarest, 1801. Vitebsk, 1823. A long, bloody list. Damas, 1840. Saratov, 1857.

  The world evolved, society was emancipated and rejected obscurantism, but on this particular subject the myth lived on. Newly liberated nations moved toward enlightenment, trusting in reason, but the slander of ritual murder continued to spread from country to country, from town to town. Galatz, 1859. Kutaisi, 1877. Tisza-Eszlar, 1882. Accounts, reports, expert testimonies. The inanity of the accusations was demonstrated, sources quoted. The Bible was invoked, the Talmud, the Gaonim. Legend roused tempers, blinded reason, poisoned the heart. It was enough to make one despair, despair of mankind.