Barabbas

  All at once he gave a start. In one of the beams of light he saw the girl with the hare-lip standing with her hands pressed against her flat chest and her pallid face turned up to the light that was streaming down on it. He had not seen her since that time at the sepulchre and she had become even more emaciated and wretched, clad only in rags and her cheeks sunken in from starvation. Everyone present was looking at her and wondering who she was; no one knew her apparently. He could see that they thought there was something odd about her, though they couldn’t say what; except that she had nothing on but rags, of course. They were evidently wondering what her evidence would be.

  What did she want to witness for? What was the point! exclaimed Barabbas within himself. Surely she realized she wasn’t fitted for it. He was quite worked up, though it was nothing whatever to do with him. What did she want to witness for?

  It didn’t seem as though she herself were so very happy about it, either. She stood with her eyes closed, as if unwilling to look at anyone around her and anxious to get it over. What did she want to do it for then? When there was no need …

  Then she began to witness. She snuffled out her faith in her Lord and Saviour, and no one could possibly think there was anything moving about it, as there was presumably meant to be. On the contrary, she spoke even more absurdly and thickly than usual, because of standing in front of so many people and being nervous. And they showed clearly that they were ill at ease, that they thought it was embarrassing; some turned away in shame. She finished by snivelling something about “Lord, now I have witnessed for thee, as thou didst say I should do,” and then sank down again on the earthen floor and did her best to make herself inconspicuous.

  They all looked self-consciously at each other; it was as if she had ridiculed what they were about. And perhaps she had. Perhaps they were quite right. Their only thought after this seemed to be to put an end to their meeting as soon as possible. One of the leaders, one of those who had said, “Get thee hence, thou reprobate!”, got up and announced that they would disperse now. And he added that everyone knew why they had met here this time and not right in the city, and that next time they would meet somewhere else, none as yet knew where. But the Lord would be sure to find a refuge for them where they could be safe from the world’s evil; he would not desert his flock, he was their shepherd and …

  Barabbas heard no more. He had crept out before the others and was glad to be well away from it all.

  The mere thought of it made him feel sick.

  When the persecutions began, the old blind man, led by the youth who was always panting, went to one of the prosecutors in the Sanhedrin and said:

  —Among us out at the Dung Gate there is a woman who is spreading heresies about a Saviour who is to come and change the whole world. All that exists shall be destroyed and another and better world arise, where only his will shall be done. Should she not be stoned?

  The prosecutor, who was a conscientious man, told the blind man to give more detailed reasons for his accusation. First and foremost, what kind of Saviour was he? The old man said that it was the same one that those others had been stoned for believing in, and if there was any justice then she ought to be stoned too. He himself had heard her say that her Lord would save all people, even the lepers. He would heal them and make them just as clean as the rest of us. But what would happen if the lepers became like other people? If they went about all over the place—perhaps even without having to carry bells any longer—so that no one would know where they were, at least no one who was blind. Was it lawful to spread such heresies?

  Some little way from him in the darkness he could hear the councillor stroking his beard. He was then asked if there were any who believed in what she proclaimed?

  —Indeed there are, he answered. Among that scum out there by the Dung Gate there are always those who are ready to listen to such things. And the lepers down in the valley like it best of all, of course. She hob-nobs with them, what is more; several times she has been inside the enclosure and taken the most shameful interest in them, it is said. She may even have had intercourse with them, for all I know. I wouldn’t know anything about that. But she’s no virgin anyway, from what I hear. And she is supposed to have had a child which she killed. But I don’t know. I just hear what’s said. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing; it’s only my eyes that are missing, so I am blind. And that is a great misfortune, noble Lord. A great misfortune to be blind like this.

  The councillor asked if that “Saviour” as she called him—who should really be called the crucified man—had gained many adherents out there amongst them through her?

  —Yes, he had. They all want to be healed, you see, and he heals them all, she says—lame, moonstruck and blind—so that there will be no more misery left in the world, either at the Dung Gate or anywhere else. But latterly they have started getting angry out there because he never comes. She’s been saying for so long now that he will come, but when he never does they get annoyed of course and mock her and abuse her, and it’s not to be wondered at either and nothing to lie and snivel about at night so that a body can’t sleep. But the lepers still cling to it, and it’s not surprising the way she has dinned it into them. She has even promised them that they shall be allowed into the temple square and go up into the Lord’s house.

  —The lepers!

  —Yes.

  —How can she promise anything so absurd?

  —Well, she’s not the one who does the promising, but her Lord, and he is so powerful that he can promise anything at all and change anything at all. He sees to everything, for he is the son of God.

  —The son of God!

  —Yes.

  —Does she say that he is the son of God?

  —Yes. And that’s sheer blasphemy, because everyone knows he was crucified, and I shouldn’t think there’s any need to find out any more. Those who sentenced him surely knew what they were doing, didn’t they?

  —I myself was one of those who sentenced him.

  —Oh, well then, you know all about him!

  There was silence for a while; all the old man heard was the councillor there in the darkness stroking his beard again. Then the voice declared that the woman would be summoned before the council to answer for her faith and defend it if she could. The old man expressed his thanks and withdrew, bowing meekly; then began scrabbling on the wall to find the doorway by which he had come in. The councillor sent for his attendant to help him out; but, while they were waiting, he asked the blind man, for safety’s sake, if he bore a grudge against the woman in question.

  —Bear her a grudge? No. How could I? I have never borne anyone a grudge; why should I? I have never even seen them. Not a single soul have I ever seen.

  The attendant helped him out. In the street outside the entrance stood the youth from the Dung Gate, panting in the darkness; the blind man groped for his hand and they went home together.

  When the girl with the hare-lip had been sentenced she was led out to the stoning-pit that lay a little to the south of the city. A whole crowd of yelling people went with her and a subordinate officer of the temple guard with his men; they, with their plaited hair and beards, were stripped to the waist and had iron-studded ox-hide whips with which to maintain order. When they reached the pit the inflamed mob spread out along the edge, while one of the soldiers led her down into it. The whole pit was full of stones, which down at the bottom were dark with old blood.

  The commanding officer called for silence and a deputy of the high priest pronounced sentence and the reasons for it, saying that he who had accused her was to cast the first stone. The old blind man was led forward to the edge and told what it was all about, but he would not hear of it.

  —Why should I cast stones at her? What have I to do with her? I have never even seen her!

  But when at last they made him understand that such was the law and that he couldn’t get out of it, he muttered crossly that he supposed he’d have to. A stone was put into his hand and he th
rew it out into the darkness. He tried again, but there was no point in it, as he had no idea where the target was; he merely threw straight out into the darkness which was the same in all directions. Barabbas, who was standing beside him and who up till now had had eyes only for the girl down there whom the stones were going to hit, now saw a man step forward to help the blind man. The man had a stern, aged, withered face and on his forehead he wore the law’s commandments enclosed in leather capsules. He was presumably a scribe. Taking the blind man’s arm he tried to aim for him, so that they could get on with the stoning. But the result was the same as before. The stone went wide of the mark. The sentenced woman was still standing down there with wide, shining eyes waiting for what was to happen.

  The true believer grew so impatient at last that he bent down and picked up a large sharp stone, which he hurled with all his senile might at the hare-lipped girl. It did in fact hit her, and she staggered and raised her spindly arms in a rather helpless way. The mob gave a wild shriek of approval and the true believer stood looking down at his work, clearly well pleased with it. Barabbas, stepping right up to him, lifted his mantle slightly and stuck a knife into him with a deft movement that bespoke long practice. It happened so quickly that no one noticed anything. And, besides, they were all so busy casting their stones down on to the victim.

  Barabbas pushed his way through to the edge, and there, down in the pit, he saw the girl with the hare-lip stagger forward a step or two with outstretched hands, crying out:

  —He has come! He has come! I see him! I see him!…

  Then she fell to her knees, and it was as though she seized hold of the hem of someone’s garment as she snuffled:

  —Lord, how can I witness for thee? Forgive me, forgive …

  Then sinking down on the blood-stained stones she gave up the ghost.

  When it was all over, those immediately around discovered that a man lay dead amongst them, while another man was seen to run off between the vineyards and disappear into the olive-groves over towards the Vale of Kedron. Several of the guard gave chase, but were unable to find him. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up.

  When darkness fell, Barabbas crept back to the stoning-pit and climbed down into it. He could see nothing, and had to grope his way. Right at the bottom he found her lacerated body, half buried under stones that had been cast quite needlessly, long after she was dead. It was so small and light that he hardly felt it in his arms as he carried it up the steep slope and away into the darkness.

  He carried it hour after hour. Now and then he would stop and rest for a while, with the dead girl lying in front of him on the ground. The clouds had blown away and the stars were shining; after a time the moon rose too, so that everything was visible. He sat looking at her face, which oddly enough was hurt very little. Nor was it much paler than when she was alive, for this was hardly possible.

  It was quite transparent, and the scar in the upper lip had become so small, as though it didn’t in the least matter. And it didn’t either, not now.

  He thought of the time when he had hit on the idea of saying that he loved her. When he had taken her—no, he put that out of his mind … But the time when he had said that he loved her, so that she would not give him away but do just as he wanted—how her face had lighted up. She was not used to hearing that. It seemed to make her happy in some way to hear it, though she must have known it was a lie. Or hadn’t she known? In any case he had got things the way he wanted them; she had come every day with what he needed to keep himself alive, and he had got her, of course—more than he wanted really. He had made do with her because there was no other woman to hand, though her snuffling voice had got on his nerves and he had told her not to talk more than she had to. And when at last his leg was healed he had gone off again, of course. What else was he to do?

  He looked out across the desert opening up before him, lifeless and arid, lit by the moon’s dead light. It extended like this in all directions, he knew. He was familiar with it without having to look about him.

  Love one another …

  He glanced at her face again. Then lifting her up he resumed his way over the mountains.

  He was following a camel- and mule-track that led from Jerusalem across the Desert of Judah to the land of the Moabites. There was nothing to be seen of the track itself; but droppings from animals, and occasionally the skeleton of one of them picked clean by the vultures, showed where it twisted and turned. When he had been walking for more than half the night the path began to lead downwards and he knew that he had not much further to go. He made his way down through one or two narrow clefts and then out as though into another desert, but even wilder and more desolate. The track continued across it, but he sat down to rest for a while first, tired after the strenuous descent with his burden. Anyway, he was nearly there now.

  He wondered whether he would be able to find it himself or whether he would have to ask the old man. He would much prefer not to look him up, would rather do all this alone. The old man might not understand why he had brought her here. Did he understand himself, for that matter? Was there any point in it? Yes, she belonged here, he thought. That is, if she belonged anywhere at all? Down in Gilgal she would never be allowed to rest, and in Jerusalem she would have been thrown to the dogs. He didn’t think she ought to be. Though what did it matter really? What difference did it make to her? What good did it do her to be brought here where she had lived as an exile and where she could find rest in the same grave as the child? None at all. But he felt he wanted to do it all the same. It is not so easy to please the dead.

  What was the use of her having gone off like that to Jerusalem? Of joining those crazy desert fanatics who raved about the coming of a great Messiah and said they must all make their way to the Lord’s city. Had she listened to the old man instead, this would never have happened to her. The old man wasn’t going to unsettle himself; he said he had done it so many times for nothing, that there were so many who made out they were the Messiah but who weren’t at all. Why should it be the right one this particular time? But she listened to the madmen.

  Now here she lay, battered and dead for his sake. The right one?

  Was he the right one? The saviour of the world? The saviour of all mankind? Then why didn’t he help her down there in the stoning-pit? Why did he let her be stoned for his sake? If he was a saviour, why didn’t he save!

  He could have done that all right if he’d wanted to. But he liked suffering, both his own and others’. And he liked people to witness for him. “Now I have witnessed for thee, as thou didst say I should do” … “Risen from hell in order to witness for thee” …

  No, he didn’t like that crucified man. He hated him. It was he who had killed her, had demanded this sacrifice of her and seen to it that she didn’t escape it. For he had been present down there, she had seen him and gone towards him with outstretched hands for help, had snatched at his mantle—but not a finger had he lifted to help her. And he was supposed to be the son of God! God’s loving son! Everyone’s Saviour!

  He himself had knifed that man who had cast the first stone. He, Barabbas, had done that much at least. True, it meant nothing. The stone was already cast, it had already hit her. There was absolutely no point in it. But all the same … He had knifed him, all the same!

  He wiped his hand across his wry mouth and smiled scornfully to himself. Then he shrugged and got to his feet. Lifted up his burden, impatiently, as though he had begun to tire of it, and started off again.

  He passed the old man’s hermit’s-cave, which he easily recognized from that time when he had come here by chance. Then he tried to remember where they had gone when the old man showed him the way to the child’s grave. They had had the lepers’ caves on their right and the desert fanatics’ straight in front, but they hadn’t gone as far as that. Yes, he recognized it quite well, though it looked different now in the moonlight. They had been walking down here towards the hollow while the old man told him that the child was
still-born because it had been cursed in the womb and that he had buried it at once as everything still-born is unclean. Cursed be the fruit of thy loins … The mother had not been able to be present, but later on she had often sat there by the grave.… The old man had talked the whole time.…

  It should be somewhere here, surely? Shouldn’t it? Yes, here was the stone slab.…

  Lifting it up, he laid her down beside the child, who was already completely withered. Arranged her torn body, as though to make sure she would be comfortable, and finally threw a glance at the face and the scar in the upper lip which didn’t matter any more. Then he replaced the slab and sat down and looked out over the desert. He sat thinking that it resembled the realm of death, to which she now belonged; he had carried her into it. Once there, it made no difference really where one rested, but now she lay beside her withered child and nowhere else. He had done what he could for her, he thought, stroking his red beard and smiling scornfully.

  Love one another …

  When Barabbas came back to his own people he was so changed that they scarcely recognized him. Their companions who had been down in Jerusalem had said that he seemed a bit queer; and no wonder either, being in prison for so long and then so nearly crucified. It would soon wear off, they thought. But it had not done so, not even now, so long afterwards. What lay at the back of it all was more than they could say, but he was no longer himself.

  He had always been queer, of course. They had never really understood him or known just where they were with him, but this was something else. He was just like a stranger to them and he too must have thought they were strangers he had never seen before. When they explained their plans he paid hardly any attention, and he never offered any opinion himself. He seemed completely indifferent to it all. He took part, of course, in their beats along the caravan routes and the raids down the Jordan Valley now and then, but rather half-heartedly and without being of much use. If there was any danger he didn’t exactly keep out of the way, but very nearly. Perhaps even this was due to sheer apathy; there was no telling. He didn’t seem in the mood for anything. Only once, when they plundered a wagon with tithes from the Jericho region for the high priest, did he run completely amuck and cut down the two men from the temple guard who were escorting it. It was quite unnecessary, as they made no resistance and gave in the minute they saw they were outnumbered. Afterwards he even outraged their bodies, behaving so incredibly that the others thought it was going too far and turned away. Even if they did hate all those guards and the whole of the high priest’s pack, the dead belonged to the temple and the temple belonged to the Lord. It almost frightened them, his violating them like that.