“You can’t go in the streets,” he said solicitously.
“I’ve poured myself a glass of wine in the kitchen.” Zaki could say nothing, so she tugged at his arm. “They’re calling for you,” she said and opened the door. This invitation he could not refuse, and when he came sore-hearted to the synagogue he saw a gaunt, bearded stranger standing at the wall next to a beautiful girl, and it was Rabbi Eliezer from Gretz, newly arrived with his daughter Elisheba.
The appearance of the German rabbi, last of the three whose work in Safed would modify subsequent Judaism, had a sobering effect upon the city. He was neither a simple good man like Zaki, nor a mercurial mystic like Abulafia. Nor was he any longer a handsome young rabbi who loved dancing and good German beer, for seven years of exile had aged him noticeably. He was now an austere man burned out by the fires of persecution and personal misery. All that remained was a vision crystal-clear as to how the Jews of the world could be salvaged from the chaos which must overtake them in the years ahead, and it was his undeviating dedication to this one concept that would make him immortal.
In Safed he did not teach, nor did he build his own synagogue, as did many of the other leading rabbis. When wealthy Rabbi Yom Tov offered to erect one for him he refused. Instead, he gathered all the books available in the Galilee and applied himself to them, day after day, year after year. Anyone who wished could consult with him, and as the years passed, practically the whole of Safed did so, even the Arabs, for he was acknowledged the leading legalist of the Galilee. The Kabbala he refused to investigate, saying, “That is Dr. Abulafia’s field. He has the mystic vision and I do not.” Nor did he concern himself with the daily ministry of a man like Rabbi Zaki, of whom he said, “He is the greatest of the rabbis, and I hope that in the future every community finds one like him. But I must tend my books.”
Eliezer’s self-appointed task was the codification of Jewish law: he would put down in simple terms those things a Jew must do in order to remain a Jew. The Torah contained 613 laws, the Talmud scores of thousands, and the decisions of later rabbis like Maimonides and Rashi hundreds of thousands. On any given topic, say, marriage, no Jew could any longer know what the law was and this confusion Rabbi Eliezer proposed to remedy. Furthermore, in his travels through Germany, Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey he had seen many communities where knowledge of even the Torah law was dying out and where the Talmud was not known, let alone Maimonides. The legal structure of Judaism was vanishing, and if this continued, the Jewish people must perish. For all such Jews, Eliezer would provide one massive book containing a summary of all law. His ambition was to save Judaism, no less.
He had started his work in Constantinople in 1546, but that city was not conducive to systematic thought; the Jews had few books and the Turkish government put men of obvious talent like Eliezer under considerable pressure to accept administrative posts. Three times the gaunt rabbi had been invited to become a counselor at court, and doubtless his talents would have insured him advancement, but he felt called to serve in a different capacity. “In Safed,” his friends had told him, “you’ll find both books and a spirit of scholarship.” And they had collected a purse of gold which would last him for many years, and promised him more if he needed it, so that he was free to concentrate his whole energy on the question: “What must a Jew do to remain a Jew?”
On the question of marriage alone he had already filled two notebooks, and his researches had reminded him that each man must have a wife, so in Constantinople he had married a Jewish widow who found her fulfillment in looking after his books and his attractive daughter. He was now codifying the laws of inheritance, adoption and divorce, and this would require another two books. After that would come land tenure, the clean and the unclean, business practice and each intimate detail of human life. For every conceivable human action there could be found a law, and the Jew must know what that law was.
In later years certain liberal philosophers of Judaism would deplore the fact that the iron-willed German ever reached Safed, for after he completed his codification the Jews of the world were hemmed in by a body of law so specific and rigid that any normal growth seemed impossible; harsh critiques were written of Eliezer bar Zadok’s deadening influence on Jewish thought, but in the end even his censurers had to acknowledge that only his iron will had brought order into chaos; if it was true that he had forged chains of bondage, it was also true that he had built those sturdy bridges on which Jews marched from past to present and on into the future. It was not forgotten that the first problem to which Eliezer bar Zadok addressed himself was one of the most permanent in world history: “How can a man and woman live together in harmony?” And his second problem had been: “What are the duties and privileges of children?” If Jewish family life grew constantly stronger while that of its surrounding neighbors weakened, it was because Eliezer the German Jew had spelled out the most intimate laws regarding these matters: “There is no aspect of sexual relationship between husband and wife that may not be discussed, but we have found that there are four things which a man ought not ask his wife to do, and there are three which no wife must ask of her husband.” And in simple language he stated what those seven restrictions were. He also gave the most succinct reason for abandoning plural marriage: “Torah and Talmud agree that a man may have more than one wife, but the law says that if a man does have three wives, each has a right to sleep with him one night in turn, and if he begins to show favoritism either sexually or emotionally to one at the expense of the other two, the latter have a right to complain that they are being neglected, and if he cannot serve each properly and in her regular turn, which few men can do, then let him have one wife only.”
The world knows about this golden period of Safed, when Zaki taught love and Abulafia mysticism and Bar Zadok the law, because of an accidental traveler. In 1549 a Spanish Jew who had fled to Portugal and then to Amsterdam foresaw the Spanish-Dutch war that was about to sear his new homeland, and he concluded that this was as good a time as any to visit Eretz Israel, so after two years of dangerous travel he reached Jerusalem, where all men spoke of Safed as the jewel of Israel, and in the winter of 1551 he came north to Tubariyeh and then over the hill to Safed. Dom Miguel of Amsterdam was a perceptive traveler, one much concerned with Judaism, and the comments in his journal, while sometimes naïve, were always enlightening:
From afar I had heard that the great rabbis of Safed earn their living by doing each in his own way manual labor, but I was not prepared to find that Abulafia the Mystic holds daily doctor’s hours or that Zaki the Good mends shoes. One saintly man from Portugal, much respected by his fellows, cleans chimneys, and the poet who wrote Lecha Dodi, which all in these parts sing, makes his living selling fodder to the caravans bringing wool from Akka.
And wives work too. At home they are expected to clean, sew, cook and care for their children. But many go to the factory of Rabbi Yom Tov ben Gaddiel ha-Ashkenaz, where they spin and weave. Others work in the fields of farmers, but all who work expect to be paid in Turkish coins which, to my disgust, proclaim Allah, the God of Moses, is God.
If I were asked to name the glory of Safed it would be the children. Those who recall the pale-faced youth of the Jewish quarters in Europe would be surprised to see the children of Safed. During the recent snowstorm I saw them rolling in the drifts with ruddy cheeks and now that summer has come I watch them playing games with Arab children and their faces are brown. They’re noisy. They sing songs brought here from all parts of Europe, but at ten or eleven the girls become proper household helpers and boys begin their study of the Talmud. I would that the Jews of Germany and Portugal might produce such children.
The daily life of Safed, I am happy to report, is governed by the commandment which Moses our Teacher gave us after he had delivered the tablets of the Ten Commandments: “And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine
house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be as frontlets between thine eyes. And thou shalt write them upon the posts of thy house, and on thy gates.” These warnings were observed by all Jews in Safed, for the Torah was constantly in the heart of the great rabbis like Zaki and Abulafia. I found that it also governed the behavior of businessmen like Rabbi Yom Tov. Even children were taught the laws, for the words of God were discussed in each home I visited. If I met Rabbi Zaki walking through the streets, he was reciting the Torah. The first thing we did each morning and the last each night was to pray, and I wish the Jews of Amsterdam did the same. I am pleased also to report that when a man prays he binds the leather phylacteries, one about his left arm, the other to his forehead. And each Jewish home I saw in Safed bore on its right-hand doorpost a small metal container in which rested the great law of the Jews: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” It was a most sweet and pleasant experience to be living within the law, and to be reminded of it at all times, both in the going out and at the coming in.
Like most strangers who visit Safed, when I walked into town cold and dirty from my travel, I was taken at once to the shoemaker shop of Rabbi Zaki, for he used to have three daughters, but all are married, and he finds pleasure in entertaining strangers. His good wife Rachel complains at times, but Zaki takes no notice of this nor do his guests. Sharing a home with this simple man is like living with the sages in the old times, and the seven days of his week are a string of amulets, each with its peculiar significance.
Half an hour before dawn each day throughout the year, a messenger from the synagogue comes tapping down the alleyways and at our door calls softly, “Rise, Rabbi, and greet the dawn.” Zaki dresses, brings a candle for me, and leaves his house in darkness to join with other men who head for the synagogue, where candles have been lighted and where in brief joyous ceremonies, joyous that is, except on Sunday, the new day is hailed. “O God!” Rabbi Zaki cries at these dawn services. “We men of Safed dedicate ourselves to Thee.”
Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Rabbi Zaki sets aside for hard work, applying himself to the making of shoes. But on Mondays and Thursdays he looks forward to additional religious services. He is so faithful in fasting on these days, touching neither water nor food till sundown, that I wonder at his fatness. Sometimes he spends the better part of Thursday at the synagogue, either reading or leading his Jews in prayer. In Safed, as in all Jewry, Monday is also the market day, observed since the time of Ezra, and Zaki enjoys moving along the stalls and greeting his friends.
But for Rabbi Zaki, Friday is the memorable day, complex and encrusted with those hidden meanings we Jews love. It is, in many ways, the best day of the week, not even excepting Shabbat with its special responsibilities. On Friday, Rabbi Zaki lies awake in the darkness, listening for the running feet and the knocking at his door, and he says to himself, “What joy! Another Friday.” He comes to my room and kisses me, crying so that his breath makes the candles flicker, “Rejoice, Dom Miguel! It’s Friday.” Then he takes me to the synagogue, where he sings in a loud voice, after which he stands at the door and breathes deeply, saying to himself, “Same sun. Same breeze. But somehow this day is different.” He spends his morning winding up his week’s business, and tries always to attend one of the yeshivot, where by tradition each Friday the great teachers sum up the principal truth of the week’s discussion or expound the basic tenets of Judaism.
In this report I have spoken much of Rabbi Zaki, and perhaps you would rather hear about Dr. Abulafia or Bar Zadok, but when I tell you what Zaki does at Friday noon, before he lunches, you will understand. He leaves the synagogue where the great ones are expounding and he goes to his shoemaker shop, where he studies the box in which he keeps the money earned by mending shoes. “This week, Dom Miguel,” he tells me, “we can spare a little more,” and he takes from the box almost half of what he has earned. Hiding the coins in his long-coat he starts walking through the narrow streets, and wherever he finds a poor man, or a widow who has not with what to make Shabbat, he pauses and asks how this person is and as he talks he quietly places a few coins in some inconspicuous place. But when the meeting ends he always says, “Shmuel, you are a man who bears misfortune with dignity. You must know God better than I do. Give me on this happy Friday your blessing,” and he makes the man feel that it is he who is doing the rabbi a favor. And thus he disposes of his wealth.
His charity completed, Rabbi Zaki goes home, where Rachel has been cleaning her house and doing much cooking, with all her pots bubbling at once. Carefully Zaki lays out fresh clothes, from stockings to robes, then walks to the ritual baths, where he cleanses himself for the moments that lie ahead. His lunch on Friday is always frugal and he grows impatient for the hours to pass, but by mid-afternoon a kind of benediction settles over him, and over the town itself, and he takes down his handsome prayer shawl, white with black stripes and knotted fringe, and he leaves his home and begins to walk sedately toward the edge of town, then out toward open fields, saying to me, “Keep up, Dom Miguel. You are going to meet your Bride.” As he moves through the narrow alleys, men join up with us until he leads as many as sixty or seventy into the countryside—a fat, round little man with a black beard, whose neighbors trust him. We are not in the fields long before we see Dr. Abulafia coming, tall and princely, his graying beard long and his manner of walking courtly. He is always attended by students of the Kabbala. Then Rabbi Yom Tov, dressed in expensive robes and with an air of command, comes marching toward us with his business assistants; and finally through the fields comes a man alone, Rabbi Eliezer bar Zadok ha-Ashkenaz, his eyes wearied from reading. Four times since I came to Safed I have been told that in Germany, Rabbi Eliezer was a man who could dance all night and drink endless amounts of German beer, but if that was ever the case, sorrow has changed him much in the intervening years.
In the shadow of the mountains we sit upon the ground and speak of holy things. We sing hymns composed by poets of the town and study the flowers of the meadow, but as the sun drifts toward the west Rabbi Zaki feels himself gripped by an acute excitement, and he rises and returns to town, first in a slow walk, finally in a donkey-like gallop, his gown flapping about his fat legs as he calls behind, “Run faster, Dom Miguel! Your Bride is coming!” Through the narrow alleys of Safed he hurries, up and down the hills, crying, “Queen Shabbat is about to appear. Let us go forth in our finest clothes and in our sweetest breath to greet the Queen!” He knocks on doors and cries at street corners, lest any miss the Queen. Then, in a kind of ecstasy, he waits as the other rabbis return from the fields singing songs of praise to the imminent moment of our joy. Each man proceeds to his own synagogue, the Sephardim like Zaki to one of the many Spanish congregations, the Ashkenazim like Eliezer to one of the two German synagogues, and men sit upon the floor, while women give praise in the balcony masked by gauze curtains, and after the evening prayers have been chanted, all join in the great Safed hymn that we would do well to sing in Amsterdam: “Come, my Beloved, let us meet the Bride. The presence of Shabbat let us receive.” And as the sun sinks, the day of the Lord begins in Safed, that mysterious day on which the communion between God and man is reaffirmed.
In a later passage that some Jews wished Dom Miguel had omitted, because of its frank discussion of sex in Safed, he wrote:
Shabbat in Safed is a day of extreme joy, and after the twilight service ends on Friday evening Rabbi Zaki invites some two dozen of his friends and all travelers from far places to his home, where the food prepared that morning by the rebbetzin is laid out and where wine from the Safed hills is poured. We sing old songs of Italy and Spain till nearly midnight and if a stranger gets drunk, more from the singing than the wine, Zaki does not rebuke him. One Friday during our singing he told me, “You will have to put them out, Dom Miguel, for I must go to bed. Since I was first married in Podi I have lain with my wife every Friday nigh
t, even aboard ship when we were both seasick, and she would take it unkindly if I missed now.”
On Shabbat itself three synagogue meetings are held: dawn, morning, afternoon. During this holy time all but religious life halts completely. Men are allowed to carry nothing, not even a string, lest inadvertently they work upon the Lord’s day. No food is cooked, no fire lighted, no lamp lit. Rabbi Zaki spends this day close to a window, even when in the synagogue, with his eyes fixed toward the lake below, for he tells me that when the Messiah arrives on earth he will make his appearance some Shabbat morning on those waters and then walk over the hills to Safed. “It would be a thing of error,” Rabbi Zaki says, “if we were not ready to greet him as he enters town.” It is a custom in Safed, and one I have grown to love, as Shabbat ends on Saturday at dusk—when a man can see three stars in one glance at the heavens—for the rabbis to gather as if to prolong the day, holding a feast, singing old songs and speaking of the goodness they have known. Rabbi Zaki prays almost till dawn, clutching, as it were, at the garments of the Bride as the day passes into history. How sweet Shabbat can be those last moments!
But I have never seen a more doleful day than Sunday in Safed. Now Rabbi Zaki awakes with the taste of ashes in his mouth. I hear him in his bed, fearful of the messenger’s footfall. Reluctantly he dresses and we go in silence to the cold synagogue, so different in spirit from what it had been only a few short hours before. This dawn Zaki looks at no one and he prays alone, as do the rest of us. And then, when the day has well broken and the sun is upon us, the rabbis of Safed meet glumly on street corners and try to decide what went wrong last week. “If we had been truly God’s men throughout the entire week,” Rabbi Yom Tov complains, “the Messiah would surely have come. What did we do wrong?” And the rabbis discuss the errors of the past, the faults of Jews who keep barring the Messiah from his Holy Land. I have often heard Rabbi Zaki say, “Here in Safed we are so engaged in a struggle for our personal happiness that we forget our responsibility to the greater world.” And often he leaves these informal Sunday meetings to preach with new dedication his simple formula: “More charity. More love. More submission to God’s Torah.” And so, as each new week begins, the Jews of Safed again try to live such devout lives that through their example the Messiah will be lured down to earth, for as Rabbi Zaki never tires of reminding us, “It is written in the Talmud that if a single community repents, the world will be saved.” But it is my opinion that if the Messiah is ever brought down to earth it will be by the efforts of one man, and that man will be Rabbi Zaki the Shoemaker.