“And if you ask for the master of the house,” John added, laughing, “he prepared everything and then disappeared.”
Jesus smiled. “That is the supreme hospitality: for the host to disappear.”
They all quickened their pace. The streets were full of people, lighted lanterns and myrtles. The Passover psalm resounded triumphantly from behind the closed doors:
When Israel went forth from Egypt,
when the house o f Jacob was delivered
from the barbarians,
The sea looked and fled,
Jordan reversed its course;
The mountains skipped like rams,
the hills like lambs.
What ailed you, sea, that you fled,
and you, Jordan,
that you turned front to back?
What ailed you, mountains,
that you skipped like rams,
and you, hills, like lambs?
Tremble before the Lord, O Earth,
before the God o f Israel,
Who with his touch turns the rocks into lakes;
and stones spout cool waters!
As the disciples marched through the streets they too began to chant the Passover psalm. Peter and John went in front and led them. All, with the exception of Jesus and Judas, had forgotten their cares and fears and were running toward the waiting tables.
Peter and John halted, pushed open a door marked with a fingerprint made with the blood of the slain lamb, and entered. Jesus and the hungry procession followed. Passing through the yard, they climbed up a stone staircase to the upper story. The tables were set. Three seven-branched candelabra illuminated the lamb, the wine, the unleavened bread, the appetizers, even the staffs they were supposed to hold as they ate, as though they were ready to depart on a long journey.
“We’re delighted to meet you!” said Jesus. He lifted his hand and blessed the invisible host.
The disciples laughed. “Whom are you greeting, Rabbi?”
“The Invisible,” Jesus answered, and he looked at them severely.
He tied a large towel around his waist, took water, knelt, and began to wash the disciples’ feet.
“Rabbi, I’ll never agree to let you wash my feet!” Peter cried.
“Peter, if I do not wash your feet, you will not join me in the kingdom of heaven.”
“Well, in that case, Rabbi, wash not only my feet but my hands and head too.”
They seated themselves around the tables. They were famished, but no one dared put out his hand. The teacher’s face was stern this evening and his lips embittered. He looked at the disciples one by one: at Peter on his right, John on his left—all; and opposite him, at his grave, unaccommodating accomplice with the red beard.
“First of all,” he said, “we must drink the salt water, to remember the tears which our fathers shed in the land of slavery.”
He took the pitcher with the salt water and started by filling Judas’s glass to overflowing, then poured a few sips into the glasses of the others, and lastly filled his own brimful.
“May we remember the tears, the pain and the anguish men suffer for the sake of freedom!” he said, and he emptied his brimful glass in a single gulp.
The others drank with contorted mouths. Like Jesus, Judas emptied his glass in one gulp. He showed it to the master and turned it upside down. Not a single drop remained.
“You’re a brave warrior, Judas,” Jesus said, smiling. “You can endure even the most severe bitterness.”
He took the unleavened bread and divided it. Next, he served the lamb. Each one put out his hand and took his share of the bitter herbs prescribed by the Law: oregano, bay and savory. Then, red gravy was poured over the meat in remembrance of the red bricks which their ancestors manufactured during their captivity. They ate hurriedly, as the Law prescribed, and each one grasped his staff and kept one foot raised in the air, prepared to depart.
Jesus watched them eat, not eating himself. He too held his staff and kept his right foot in the air, ready for a great journey. No one spoke. The only sounds were from the clacking of jaws, the clinking of wineglasses, and tongues licking the bones. The moon entered through the skylight above them. Half of the tables were brightly illuminated, half plunged in purple darkness.
After a deep silence Jesus opened his mouth. “Passover, my faithful fellow voyagers, means passage—passage from darkness to light, from slavery to freedom. But the Passover that we celebrate tonight goes even further. Tonight’s Passover means passage from death to eternal life. I go in the lead, comrades, and clear the way for you.”
Peter shuddered. “Rabbi,” he said, “you’re speaking about death again, and again your words are a double-edged knife. If any calamity hangs over you, speak freely. We’re men.”
“It’s true, Rabbi,” said John. “Your words are bitterer than these bitter herbs. Have pity and speak to us clearly.”
Jesus took his still-untouched portion of bread and divided it mouthful by mouthful among the disciples.
“Take it and eat,” he said. “This is my body.”
He also took his glass of wine, which was still full, and passed it from mouth to mouth. They all drank.
“Take it and drink,” he said. “This is my blood.”
Each of the disciples ate his mouthful of bread and drank his sip of wine. Their minds reeled. The wine seemed to them thick and salty, like blood; the portion of bread descended like a burning coal into their very bowels. Suddenly, terrified, they all felt Jesus take root within them and begin to devour their entrails. Peter leaned his elbows on the table and began to weep.
John bent over to Jesus’ breast. “You want to depart, Rabbi, you want to depart ... to depart ...” he mumbled over and over, unable to utter anything more.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Andrew yelled. “The other day you said, ‘Let him who has no knife sell his cloak to buy one!’ We’ll sell our clothes, we’ll arm ourselves; and then let Charon come in—if he dare—to touch you!”
“You shall all abandon me,” Jesus said uncomplainingly. “All.”
“I never!” shouted Peter, wiping away his tears.
“Peter, Peter, before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.”
“I? I?” Peter bellowed, beating his chest with his fists. “I deny you? I’m with you to the death!”
“To the death!” groaned all the disciples, jumping to their feet in a trance.
“Sit down,” Jesus said tranquilly. “The hour has not yet come. This Passover I have a great secret to confide to you. Open your minds, open your hearts, do not let yourselves be afraid!”
“Speak, Rabbi,” John murmured, his heart trembling like a reed.
“You have eaten? You are no longer hungry? The body is filled? Will it finally allow your soul to listen in peace?”
Trembling, they all hung on Jesus’ lips.
“Beloved companions,” he cried, “farewell! I depart!”
The disciples cried out, fell upon him and held him so that he would not leave. Many were weeping. But Jesus turned calmly to Matthew.
“Matthew, you know the Scriptures by heart. Get up and in a strong voice tell them Isaiah’s prophetic words in order to steady their hearts. You remember: ‘He grew up in the eyes of the Lord like a small, frail tree ...’ ”
Rejoicing, Matthew jumped to his feet. He was stoop-shouldered, bow-legged, desiccated, and his long, slender fingers were endlessly smudged; but suddenly, how straight he stood! His cheeks caught fire, his neck swelled, and the words of the prophet echoed in the high-ceilinged attic, full of bitterness and strength:
He grew up in the eyes of the Lord like a small, frail tree
which sprouts out o f unwatered ground.
He had neither beauty nor luster that we should turn
our eyes to see him; his face had nothing to please us.
He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
We turned awa
y our faces and esteemed him not.
But he took upon himself all our pains;
He was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities;
And with his stripes we are healed.
He was scourged, and he was afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth;
Like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
he opened not his mouth. ...
“That’s enough,” said Jesus, sighing.
He turned to the companions. “It is I,” he said quietly. “The prophet Isaiah is speaking about me: I am the lamb that is being led to the slaughter, and I shall not open my mouth.” After a pause, he continued. “They have been leading me to the slaughter ever since the day of my birth.”
The amazed disciples stared at him with gaping mouths, struggling to understand what he had told them; and suddenly, all together, they hid their faces against the tables and raised the dirge.
For a moment even Jesus lost heart. How could he abandon these wailing companions? He lifted his eyes and looked at Judas. But the other’s hard blue eyes had been pinned on Jesus for a long time. He had divined what was happening inside the master and how easily love could paralyze his strength. The two glances joined and wrestled in the air for a split second, the one stern and merciless, the other beseeching and afflicted. A split second only—and straightway Jesus shook his head, smiled bitterly at Judas, and turned again to the disciples.
“Why do you weep?” he asked them. “Why are you afraid of Death? He is the most merciful of God’s archangels, the one who loves man the most. It is necessary that I be martyred and crucified, and that I descend to hell. But in three days I shall jolt out of my tomb, ascend to heaven and sit next to the Father.”
“Are you going to leave us again?” John shouted, weeping. “Take us with you to hell and heaven, Rabbi!”
“The task on earth is also a heavy one, John, beloved. You must all stay here on the soil, and work. Fight, here on the earth; love, wait—and I shall return!”
Jacob had already become reconciled to the rabbi’s death and was spinning in his mind what they would do when they were left on earth without him.
“We cannot oppose God’s will and the will of our master. As the prophets tell us, Rabbi, it is your duty to die, ours to live: to live so that the words you spoke shall not perish. We’ll establish them firmly in new Holy Scriptures, we’ll make laws, build our own synagogues and select our own high priests, Scribes and Pharisees.”
Jesus was terrified. “You crucify the spirit, Jacob,” he shouted. “No, no, I don’t want that!”
“This is the only way we can prevent the spirit from turning into air and escaping,” Jacob countered.
“But it won’t be free any more; it won’t be spirit!”
“That doesn’t matter. It will look like spirit. For our work, Rabbi, that’s sufficient.”
A cold sweat flowed over Jesus. He threw a quick glance at the disciples. No one lifted his head to object. Peter looked at Zebedee’s son with admiration. His was a creative mind: he’d taken on all the shining traits of his father, the captain; and now you would see—he was going to set everything in order for the master himself. ...
Jesus, despairing, lifted his hands. He seemed to be asking for help. “I shall send you the Comforter, the spirit of truth. He will guide you.”
“Send us the Comforter quickly,” John cried, “so that we won’t be led astray and fail to find you again, Rabbi!”
Jacob shook his hard, obstinate head. “It too—this spirit of truth you’re talking about—it too will be crucified. You must realize, Rabbi, that the spirit will be crucified as long as men exist. But it doesn’t matter. Something is always left behind, and that, I tell you, is enough for us.”
“It’s not enough for me!” Jesus shouted in despair.
Jacob felt troubled when he heard this painful cry. He approached and took the master’s hand. “Yes, it’s not enough for you, Rabbi,” he said. “That is why you are being crucified. Forgive me for contradicting you.”
Jesus placed his hand on the obstinate head. “If God wills it thus, let the spirit be eternally crucified upon this earth, and may the cross be blessed! Let us bear it with love, patience and faith. One day it will turn to wings on our shoulders.”
They did not speak. The moon was now high in the heavens, and a funereal light spilled over the tables. Jesus crossed his hands.
“The day’s work is done,” he said. “What I had to do, I did; what I had to speak, I spoke. I think I have done my duty. Now I cross my hands.”
He nodded opposite him to Judas, who rose, tightened his leather belt and grasped his crooked staff. Jesus waved his hand at him, as though saying goodbye.
“Tonight,” he said, “we shall be praying under the olive trees of Gethsemane, past the Cedron Valley. Judas, my brother, go—with God’s blessing. God be with you!”
Judas parted his lips. He wanted to say something, but changed his mind. The door was open. He rushed out, and his large feet were heard stamping heavily down the stone stairs.
Peter felt uneasy. “Where is he going?” he asked. He started to get up in order to follow him, but Jesus held him back.
“Peter, the wheel of God has begun to roll. Do not step in the way.”
A breeze had arisen. The flames on the seven-branched candelabra flickered. Suddenly there was a vehement gust of wind and the candles went out. The entire moon entered the chamber.
Nathanael was frightened and leaned over to his friend. “That wasn’t the wind, Philip. Someone came in. Oh God! do you think it was Charon?”
“And what do you care if it was!” the shepherd answered him. “He isn’t looking for us.” He slapped the back of his friend, who still had not recovered his equilibrium.
“Big ships, big storms,” he said. “Thank God we’re only rowboats and walnut shells.”
The moon had seized Jesus’ face and devoured it. Nothing remained but two pitch-black eyes. John was frightened. He stealthily held his hand to the rabbi’s face to see if it still existed. “Rabbi,” he murmured, “where are you?”
“I haven’t left yet, John, beloved,” Jesus replied. “I was lost for a moment because I thought of something an ascetic on holy Mount Carmel once told me: ‘I was immersed in the five troughs of my body,’ he said, ‘like a pig.’
“ ‘And how were you saved, Grandfather?’ I asked him Was it a great struggle?’
“ ‘Not at all,’ he answered me. ‘One morning I saw a flowering almond tree and was saved.’ ...
“A flowering almond tree, John, beloved: that is how death appeared to me for an instant just now.”
He rose. “Let us go,” he said. “The hour has come.” He took the lead. The disciples followed, deep in thought.
“Let’s leave,” Nathanael whispered to his friend. “I sense complications.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” Philip answered, “but let’s take Thomas too.”
They searched in the moonlight to find Thomas, but he had already disappeared into the alleyways. They remained by themselves in the rear. As soon as the group reached the Cedron Valley they allowed the others to outdistance them and then ran for their lives.
Jesus descended the Cedron Valley with those who remained, climbed up the opposite side and took the path which led to the olive grove of Gethsemane. How many times he had stayed awake all night under those ancient olive trees and talked about God’s mercy and the iniquities of men!
They halted. The disciples had eaten and drunk a great deal this evening and were sleepy. They cleared the soil by pushing away the stones with their feet, and then made themselves ready to lie down.
“Three are missing,” said the master, searching around him. “What happened to them?”
“They left,” Andrew said angrily.
Jesus smiled. “Do not condemn them, Andrew. You will see: one day all three shall return, and each will be wearing a cr
own made of thorns, which is the most royal of crowns—and unwithering!” When he had spoken he leaned against an olive tree, for he suddenly felt greatly fatigued.
The disciples had already lain down. They found large stones for pillows and made themselves comfortable.
“Come, Rabbi, lie down with us,” said Peter, yawning. “Andrew will keep watch.”
Jesus drew his body away from the tree. “Peter, Jacob and John,” he said, “come with me!” His voice was full of affliction and command.
Peter pretended not to hear. He stretched out on the ground and yawned again, but Zebedee’s two sons took him by the hands and lifted him up.
“Let’s go,” they said. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
Peter approached his brother. “Who knows what will happen, Andrew. Give me your knife.”
Jesus marched in front. They left the olive trees behind and reached open land. Opposite them gleamed Jerusalem, dressed all-white in the moonlight. The sky above was milky, and starless. The full moon, which earlier they had seen rise in such a hurry, now hung stationary in the center of the sky.