“Father, listen!” Azriel was shouting with amazement. “Am I going crazy or …”
Shmuel the Chronicler stood still and listened. “Or what?”
“Don’t you hear?”
Strangely festive noises pierced the hush that enveloped the town.
“Have you forgotten?” my father explained. “The Rebbe has decided not to cancel the celebration.”
“But the noise is not coming from the House of Study. Listen!”
It was coming from the direction of the asylum.
“Who is mad?” I asked. “They or I?”
“Let’s go and see.”
We were on our way home from one of our strolls. Rivka was waiting for us with dinner, she must be worrying—never mind, she would wait another hour. A celebration in the shelter was worth the trouble.
We had to use our elbows in order to get inside the overheated hall. Drenched with perspiration, breathless, the beggars were surrounding the Rebbe and his meager retinue, drinking to his health, encouraged by Adam the Gravedigger, who for the first time in his life seemed gay and exuberant.
Father inquired left and right, and finally found out what had happened.
The celebration could not take place in the House of Study simply because there had not been enough people. Shaike and his followers had carried out their mission well. Their warnings had brought results. In the face of a possible pogrom, the Hasidim, though filled with remorse, had felt compelled to stay home with their wives and children. And so, when the Rebbe, accompanied by a few disciples, among them Reb Sholem and the scribe Reb Hersh, arrived at the House of Study at the prescribed hour, they found the hall empty.
The Rebbe had staggered under the blow and had to be supported by Reb Sholem. “They didn’t listen to me,” the Rebbe whispered. “But I don’t hold it against them. What right have I to judge?”
“What if we postponed the celebration?” Reb Sholem asked, “Until the situation calms down and people are more at ease.”
“Yes, we have no choice. And yet … it’s an insult to the Torah. We are depriving her of her celebration tonight.”
“A private celebration just among ourselves would also be an insult,” said Reb Sholem.
“Out of the question,” decided the Rebbe.
A long silence followed. The Rebbe covered his eyes with his hands and, sighing, lost himself in meditation. After a while he said: “Since the people will not come to the celebration, we must take the celebration to them.”
“What do you mean, Rebbe?”
“Is there a place where Jews live together? In numbers?”
“No, not really.”
“Not one?”
“Not one, Rebbe. Except …”
“… the shelter, the asylum.”
The Rebbe shook himself. “Are those beggars not Jews like ourselves? Let us go there. What are we waiting for?”
There remained the task of convincing the beggars. To everyone’s surprise, the gravedigger took it upon himself. One-Eyed Simha seconded him; Yiddel applauded. Motke the Porter and his colleagues were dispatched to bring a table from the House of Study, as well as chairs, wine and food. Reb Hersh the Scribe went with them to carry the holy scrolls on this memorable evening; he did not trust anyone else. Scarcely a half-hour later the celebration was in full swing.
Presiding at the table, the perspiring Rebbe, dressed in his Shabbat clothes, was mopping his forehead with a red handkerchief and singing with all his might. His head was constantly moving up and down, up and down, wavering between the need to forget and the need to remember.
“Perils and persecutions come and go,” he cried out, “the Torah remains. Is that not reason enough to rejoice?”
“Let’s make room for joy!” roared the gravedigger. “Who needs sadness and fear! Let us sing! Show us, Rebbe, show us the true way to sing!”
“Through song,” said the Rebbe, “man climbs to the highest palace. From that palace he can influence the universe and its prisons. Song is Jacob’s ladder forgotten on earth by the angels. Sing and you shall defeat death, sing and you shall disarm the foe. Let us sing and we shall live, let us sing louder than ever before, with more fervor than ever before so that our very song may become our shield!”
He pounded the table, rattling the half-filled bottles and glasses. The gravedigger followed suit, and taking his task seriously, urged all those present to do the same.
And as the noise kept swelling, making the building sway, the Rebbe’s face was lighting up more and more. At his right, Reb Sholem was clapping his hands wildly. His singing was out of tune but he was forgiven; his voice was drowned in the din. For once, the beggars had the Rebbe all to themselves, and they paid attention to nothing but the pure and savage passion he projected. Their most irrational, their most childish hopes were vested in him, and him alone. Successor and heir to a name dating back to the Maggid of Premishlan, he had the power to exorcise evil.
Legend has it that as long as he lived, the famous Maggid of Premishlan granted his protection to all those who came to bind their souls to his, then to all those who participated in his New Year services, then to all those who heard him welcome Shabbat on the threshold of his house, then to all those who offered him their gaze, and lastly to anyone who remembered a story about him.
And so, with such an ancestor, the Rebbe surely could countermand threats and decrees and impress his will on fate.
“Well then,” bellowed the gravedigger, “that justifies our gaiety! Let us drink, let us sing!”
Leizer the Fat was roaring with laughter. Yiddel the Cripple was hopping up and down. At the approach of the storm, all these beggars seemed to want to celebrate one last time, to kiss the Torah and go away drunk with ecstasy, dazzled and singed by a Jewish celebration unlike any other.
The Rebbe paused to catch his breath, and the noise subsided abruptly. All leaned forward to get a better view. The Rebbe poured brandy into his silver cup and offered it to Reb Sholem, who took it but did not raise it to his lips. The two men gazed at one another, sharing the wait heavy with memories and nostalgia of another age.
“Lehaim,” said Reb Sholem, moved. “To life.”
“Lehaim,” answered the Rebbe. “To survival.”
Reb Sholem took a sip. Unable to empty the cup, he set it on the table. He was not a Hasid in the usual sense of the word. He did not even live in Kolvillàg. His attachment to the Rebbe transcended his own life. It had been his great-grandfather’s custom to journey on foot to be with the Maggid of Premishlan every year on the particular Shabbat when the passage describing the exodus from Egypt is read. Once, at the Maggid’s insistent request, he had stayed another week so as to hear him read the next passage, the one that describes the spectacular and majestic scene at Sinai.
“You understand, Sholem?” the Maggid of Premishlan had said. “Thanks to the Torah, the oppressed have acquired the dignity of princes. From this moment on, you must behave like a prince, do you hear me, Sholem?” Shortly thereafter the Hasid’s fortunes rose like stars. As a token of his gratitude, he had a House of Study built in honor of the Maggid. Thus there were intimate ties between the two families. To express his own admiration and devotion, Reb Sholem commissioned a Sefer Torah from the most illustrious scribe, Reb Hersh, to be executed on the most supple parchment to be found, and to be set into an especially built Ark in the Rebbe’s study.
“All of us, lehaim!” the gravedigger was yelling. “To life!”
“To life! In spite of our enemies!” Under his fur hat—his shtreimel—the Rebbe was soaking wet, but he was smiling. Great warmth, infinite kindness shone from his dark eyes.
“Let them rot!” shouted Leizer the Fat.
“Let us sing,” ordered the gravedigger.
In the uproar, the Rebbe turned toward Reb Sholem. “My great-grandfather, the Maggid of Premishlan, liked to say: ‘When Jews form a holy community under the sign of the Torah, they personify it; they become the Torah and the Creator beholds
them with pride.’ ”
“Protect us from vanity,” whispered Reb Hersh the Scribe, seated at the Rebbe’s left. “As for me, I dare not identify with one letter, any letter of the Torah.”
“That is not vanity,” the Rebbe reprimanded him. “It is not vanity that moves us to pay tribute to the Torah.”
“The most sincere intentions risk turning into vanity,” mumbled the scribe.
“I am speaking of all of us collectively,” said the Rebbe. “You speak of the individual. Of course temptation exists for the individual. To say that one is driving away vanity means one has succumbed. To believe that one is stronger than pride is to prove the opposite. Is there a way of circumventing the trap? As Rebbe Bunam used to say …”
Outside, a few steps away, a mob was prowling in the shadows, preparing to attack. And the Rebbe was still speaking of the struggle against pride, of the personal and timeless attachments that every man forms with the Torah while studying it, of the great Rebbe Bunam of Pshiskhe who …
“The great Rebbe Bunam liked to say that every man should keep two scraps of paper in his pockets. One reminding him that he is the crowning achievement of creation, and the second that he is but a handful of dust. The point, of course, is not to confuse the pockets.”
“And what about the man with nothing in his pockets?” asked the scribe.
Reb Hersh’s head was bowed; he seemed forever to be listening to a distant echo. Humble, diffident, frail, he spoke little and in a barely audible voice. His favorite expression: “Oh, me? I have nothing to say, since it has all been said before.”
He considered the holy scrolls that were to be completed that evening—by calligraphing the last two verses of the Pentateuch—his masterwork. All his science, all his passion had gone into them. For every single letter of the tetragram, he had run to purify himself in the ritual baths. For every new chapter heading, he had invented an appropriately symbolic ornament. The aleph contained the troubling mystery of the beginning; the yod, the austerity of the cry. The hey suggested the heartbreak of revealed divinity. And yet at this moment when his glory was about to be sanctioned, he seemed more preoccupied than the Rebbe. Perhaps he regretted that his labors were coming to an end.
The Rebbe started to sing again and the assembly enthusiastically joined in; as long as the song continued they felt invulnerable. And it was then that an extraordinary incident took place. A heavy-set man wearing a black greatcoat and muddy boots cleared a passage for himself all the way to the table of honor. “I must speak to you!” he said.
The song died on every lip. People were shouting:
“But it’s … impossible … incredible. But it’s … Kaizer … Kaizer! The mute!”
“Kaizer! You realize? Kaizer! And he speaks!”
“What’s happening to him?”
Even the gravedigger, his mouth wide open, seemed stunned. Simha was rubbing his eyes and Leizer his head. They stared at Kaizer, bewildered.
“I am a simple man,” said Kaizer, addressing the Rebbe. “I attended no school, followed no Master. I barely know how to pray and love God. You, on the other hand, a descendant of the Maggid of Premishlan, can and must be obeyed down here and up above. You, one listens to in both worlds. Why don’t you tell God to make his presence felt to other peoples as well? And to grant us some respite, some rest?”
His neighbors, who had recovered from their surprise in the meantime, began pushing him back toward the rear to question him. But the Rebbe gave orders to let him go on speaking.
“Time is short,” said Kaizer tersely. “The sword is hanging over our heads the blood will soon flow; it may already be flowing. Say something, great-grandson of the Maggid, say a word, just one, but let it be heard!”
Breathing heavily, the Rebbe savagely bit his lips as though determined to hurt himself.
“Well? You don’t say anything?” shouted Kaizer, stamping his foot. “The great-grandson of the Premishlander Maggid has nothing to say? They are readying themselves to slaughter his community and he remains silent? They are going to massacre innocent children and he remains silent, as I remained silent until now?
Staring into space with almost demented intensity, the Rebbe clenched his teeth, clenched his fists with such passion that everyone expected an explosion to make the universe tremble. Finally he spoke up. “My great-grandfather possessed powers I was not granted,” he said sadly. “One day he came to a village where the Jewish population feared a massacre. He was begged to repeal the sentence. He went to the synagogue, opened the Ark and pronounced the following words before God: ‘Your Law commits You, Your commandments bind You. I could remind You of Thou shalt not kill. I shall not do so. I shall remind You of something else. You entered into a covenant with Your people. We were to defend Your Torah, and You, in turn, would defend us. Are You going to honor the clauses of that contract or not? If You hand us over to the enemy, know that he will take possession of Your Torah as well.’ And my great-grandfather won his case. I do not have his strength.”
“Then I was wrong to break my vow, wrong to speak,” said Kaizer. He made a movement as though to step back and leave. “We counted on you!” he cried out, changing his mind. “I counted on you! I beg of you, in the name of your great-grandfather, put aside your doubts! Speak up! Shout! Awaken the heavens, shake those who dwell in them! Tell God that we deserve His mercy, we deserve it more than our assassins, don’t we? Tell Him! For He doesn’t believe me! Swear if need be, swear that we have not shed a drop of Christian blood, swear that every punishment would testify against Him! It is by keeping silent that you are perjuring yourself, Rebbe!”
Having spoken, Kaizer lowered his head. Drained of arguments, exhausted. Now there was nothing left to do but wait. And all those present waited with him. The Rebbe himself seemed to participate in the wait. His eyes burning with fever, he remained motionless. The silence became heavy, unbearable. Something had to happen, was going to happen—how could one doubt it? The Rebbe was going to change the course of events, impose grace … No. The wait had been in vain.
“Too many obstacles are obscuring our vision,” said the Rebbe as if to excuse himself. “The accusation is too severe, the opposition too powerful. All the gates are closed. Our impulses fall back, inanimate. Our prayers are riveted to earth. Could God be turning his face away from His people? My great-grandfather found his way. Not I. I do not even know how to use my grief. The shadows are closing in. All that we have left is the Torah—may it intercede in our behalf.”
My father had never seen him so resigned. Thousands and thousands of lives weighed on his eyelids, wept through his uncontrollable sobs. What did he see? His father, who resembled the Maggid of Premishlan? The Maggid himself? What grievances did he hear? Once more, as earlier in the House of Study, he hid his eyes. Was it to prevent those present from seeing the future, from beholding the gaping eye of the abyss?
“Let us begin!” he cried out abruptly. “It is getting late, let us begin the ceremony!”
At this signal, the crowd went into motion. Doors were opened. Outside in the courtyard a blue and purple velvet and satin canopy was erected, the ritual resembling that of a wedding. In the meantime the parchment was unrolled on the table, in front of the Rebbe and Reb Sholem. The scribe took his quill from the inkwell and carefully set it down. The Rebbe, Reb Sholem, the gravedigger, One-Eyed Simha and two beggars of lesser renown took turns: each wrote one word. The transcription completed, they wished one another good luck: Mazal tov, mazal tov. Then they wrapped the scrolls in their satin sheaths on which Reb Sholem’s name could be seen in golden letters embroidered by his childless spouse. The Rebbe rose and the congregation stood aside to let him pass. He was followed by Reb Sholem and the scribe.
Under a sky whose stars seemed fixed in misty pallor, the canopy was barely visible. The wind played with its folds, slapping the damp faces. The first snows were not far away.
Carrying the Torah in his arms, the Rebbe recited the customary prayers
, and the congregation, more subdued since the incident with Kaizer the Mute, repeated verse after verse. Then came Reb Sholem’s turn to recite a chapter from the Psalms. He was followed by Reb Hersh, who after pronouncing one verse, burst into sobs and could not go on.
Pressing the scrolls to his heart, the Rebbe then started to dance with such frenzy and elation that one might have mistaken him for a bridegroom eloping with his young bride; he whispered words of love, and tears could be seen streaming down his face.
After the ceremony they filed back into the House of Study. The Rebbe replaced the scrolls in the Ark. In the great hall the tables were set.
“Sit down, let us sit down!”
At a signal from the gravedigger, Simha and Leizer intoned a Hasidic tune. But their hearts were not in it. Exhausted, the Rebbe fought against the ruthless invader, the one who in his black wings hides doubt and darkest gloom.
“I should like to understand,” he said almost to himself. “I should like someone to explain it to me.”
Those in the first row had heard him. The word was passed along. The beggars leaned forward in anticipation.
“They persecute us, they expel us, they nail us to the stake—why? They hand us to the torturer, to the hangman—why? They accuse us of all the sins, all the faults: we have too much money or not enough, too much influence or not enough. We are too educated or not enough, too devout or not enough, too Jewish or not enough. What do they want from us? Who is our adversary, who is the foe? I should like to have it explained to me. I never did understand it. But the question is not to understand but to believe, to study, to prepare by our deeds, by our intentions and by our suffering, the palace where the Redeemer is to reside.
“As a child, I remember questioning my father: I can perhaps understand the man who endures pain but not the one who inflicts it, I can understand the purpose but not the instrument. Teku, he answered, the Messiah will come and everything will be explained. Is he then the explanation? I asked, frightened. Whereupon, he quoted something the Maggid of Premishlan had said: ‘When the Messiah will come, he too will demand an explanation and there will be nobody to provide it.’ This reconciled me to him. I wanted to know why he was so late in coming, and I was told: ‘Because of you.’ This is what every Jew—adult or child—is told over and over again: ‘If the Messiah is late, it is your fault; if he should appear, it will be thanks to you.’ I remember protesting: ‘Why make the Jews responsible for such events? And what if it were our enemies’ fault? What if their persecution of us prevented the Redeemer from saving them?’ ”