“What are you doing on Shabbat?” he demanded in Hebrew.
“Building a wall,” Bar-El replied.
“Stop!” the little man cried.
“Rebbe, go home to your prayers!” Bar-El pleaded. The outraged rebbe sought to prevent the men from continuing their work and it became apparent that his protests might alert the Arabs, so the MemMem clamped his hand over the little man’s mouth, swung him around and passed him along to Nissim Bagdadi. “Get him out of here,” Bar-El ordered.
The Iraqi Jew, weighing at least twice as much as the rebbe, easily carried him away from the urgent work and lugged him to the shoemaker shop, where he called for Ilana, telling her, “Keep him home. We’ve got to build a wall.” So Ilana went to the rebbe’s house and sat with him, grimly silent, until the emergency work was completed. Toward dawn the old man predicted in Yiddish, “God will curse that wall. God will curse any army that works on Shabbat.”
But the real crisis came with Passover, when Arab pressure was heavy and MemMem insisted that two critical rows of houses be strengthened with bulwarks, even if other houses had to be torn down to provide the rocks. Work commenced on the eve of Passover, and Rebbe Itzik, hearing the hammers and the shovels, became frenzied. He ran among the bending workmen, the fringes of his shawl brushing across their eyes and reminding them of their own fathers at prayer on this holy day. He pleaded with them to desist from profaning the day, but they pointed out that Rabbi Goldberg and Rav Loewe, recognizing an hour of peril, had granted full permission to transgress either Passover or Shabbat. “So we’re working,” the men replied.
Now the decision of Rabbi Goldberg and Rav Loewe was one honored by nearly two thousand years of Jewish history, for the Greeks and the Romans, knowing of the Jews’ refusal to move on Shabbat, had always tried to select that day for their major offensives and by this tactic had won easy victories until the rabbis of Akiba’s time had pronounced the principle that when a man or a nation was in peril of its life any provision of the Torah might be put in abeyance, except those regarding murder, incest or apostasy. MemMem Bar-El, relying upon that judicious precedent, had appealed to the rabbis for a declaration that the present siege was such a mortal moment and they had agreed. The soldiers could work. But to Rebbe Itzik the law was holier than the preservation of an unborn state which had no right to exist, and he stormed the streets calling down imprecations.
“Get him out of here,” Bar-El pleaded, and again Ilana was given the job of keeping the old man at home; and in these moments of tension occurred a most regrettable incident, one that Ilana would often wish had been avoided.
She and Bagdadi led the rebbe home, fending off a few of his devoted followers who wanted to know, “What are you doing with our rebbe?” Bagdadi returned to the front, where the work continued. In the shoemaker’s room, where Rabbi Zaki the Martyr had offered his common sense to the people of Safad, Ilana sat with the blue-eyed Rebbe of Vodzh and balked almost all he tried to do.
“I should be at the synagogue,” he protested.
“You were at the synagogue,” she said, “and you left to make trouble. Sit down.”
“Do you think that God will bless a state that works on Passover?” he threatened.
“We’ll get the state, then we’ll worry about God and His Passover,” she replied.
The blasphemy was horrible. “Unless we go back to the old ways, any Israel you get will be ashes in the mouth.”
This kind of reasoning disgusted Ilana and she asked, contemptuously, “Rebbe Itzik, do you really believe that obsolete ideas generated in Poland three hundred years ago represent the will of God?”
“What do you mean?” the old man sputtered.
“The uniform you wear. There was never anything like that in Israel. It’s straight out of the Polish ghetto.”
“The fringes …” the rebbe cried.
“That coat,” she interrupted with amused disgust. “That didn’t come from Israel and we don’t want it here. That fur hat. That blackness. That gloom. All from the ghetto.”
Rebbe Itzik stepped back, appalled. This brazen girl was challenging the symbols of his life, the honored traditions of ten generations of holy men in Vodzh. “This is the dress of God,” he began.
“Don’t tell me that!” she cried, cutting off his claim. “It’s a badge of shame forced upon us by Gentile overlords.” It was then that she lost her control for a moment, so appalled by what this frightened little man proposed doing to her impending land of Israel. Unfortunately, she chanced to look at the rebbetzin, standing by the fire—where Elisheba of Gretz had stood, caring for her three orphaned children who had later accomplished so much in Israel—and in a moment of fury Ilana brushed her hand across the old woman’s head, knocking her hair to the floor. The rebbetzin stood in shame, her bald-shaved head exposed in all its knobs and veins. Her wig lay on the stones.
“May God forgive you,” the rebbe whispered in a voice of anguish, terrified to think that any Jewish girl would do such a thing. He stooped, picked up the wig and returned it to his wife. The rebbetzin placed it clumsily on her bald head, then felt for the edges to adjust them to her temples. She looked pathetic and ridiculous and her husband gave the wig a small twist, setting it right.
“Get out of here,” he whispered hoarsely in Yiddish.
But Ilana, having done the thing, refused to move. “Where is such a custom in Talmud?” she cried. “In medieval Poland they used to shave the heads of brides so that Gentile noblemen wouldn’t demand to sleep with them on the wedding night. To make them ugly … repulsive to everyone but their husbands. So to this day you make your brides shave their heads to make them ugly—then you buy them wigs to make them beautiful. What kind of Mickey Mouse is this?”
“Get out of here,” the rebbe whispered again. “A Jewish girl who would insult an old woman. What kind of Israel are you building?” With unexpected force he pushed the Palmach girl, the bobbed-haired sabra, from his house.
Ilana stood in the dark street for some minutes and heard from nearby houses the sounds of Passover celebrations, conducted in this hour of travail. What had she done? She saw the baldheaded rebbetzin, with her wig in the dust. Suddenly she pressed her face into her hands and shivered, for she was spiritually alone.
She was standing thus when Gottesmann came back from the building for some food, and he pulled her hands down from her face and saw that she was crying. “What’s happened, Lan?” he asked.
“I struck …” She could not form the words, but her husband guessed that they had to do with the Vodzher Rebbe, so he kissed his wife and told her to stay where she was. Gently pushing open the door he entered to speak with the rebbe, and after a while came back, very soberly, saying nothing, to take Ilana’s hand.
“Where are we going?” she inquired.
“To apologize.”
“No!” she protested.
“You come here,” he whispered with fire in his voice. He dragged her back unwillingly and placed her before the old rebbetzin. “My wife wishes to apologize,” he said in Yiddish.
Silence. Twist of the arm. Silence. Another twist. Then in Hebrew, “I’m sorry …”
“In Yiddish,” Gottesmann whispered.
“I’m sorry,” his wife repeated in Hebrew. He twisted her arm again, hurtfully, and she said for the third time in Hebrew, “I’m sorry. In the street I cried for shame.” She pulled her arm away from her husband’s grip and covered her face.
Gottesmann, mortified by the scene, was about to take his wife from the room she had insulted when the old rebbetzin intervened. “Children, it’s Passover,” she said. “You shall greet Elijah here.” And she forced both Gottesmann and Ilana back into the center of the room to help her celebrate what she suspected would be her last Passover. “Find the leaven!” she whispered with the excitement of her youth, and Gottesmann felt a great lump rise in his throat as he realized that this old woman on this Passover of doom had secreted bits of leavened bread about her hous
e, even though she could not possibly have known that she would have visitors. So, halfway between panic and fantasy, he poked into obvious places and cried, like a child years ago in Gretz, “Mother! I’ve found some leaven you overlooked,” and with embarrassment, as if she were a careless housewife, she burned it in the fire, as the Torah commanded.
Thus the house was purified. She brought her guests rickety chairs and served the pitiful shreds of food she had set aside for this holy feast: the bitter herbs, the unleavened bread, but no meat, for Safad was starving. She had, however, managed to find two beets, from which she had made one weak cupful of the traditional red soup symbolizing the Red Sea: in old Russia she had made bucketfuls for Passover. Then her husband tied his belt tightly, put on his sandals and took a stave, so as to be ready for immediate departure should the Lord command, and the four celebrants wrapped bits of unleavened bread in small parcels to be slung over their backs as if they, too, were fugitives fleeing Egypt. And finally the rebbe poured a little Safad wine into their glasses, after which he prayed, “ ‘Blessed are you, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive until this moment.’ ”
To Gottesmann the moment was unbearably painful. The last Jewish feast he had attended in Gretz with his large and illustrious family had been the Passover of 1935. His Great-Uncle Mordecai had read kiddush that night and fifty-five glasses of wine had been poured, for Scholem the novelist, for Yitzhak the professor of chemistry, for Rachel who had pioneered social work in Hamburg, for five rabbis, two poets, three musicians and a handful of honest businessmen. It had been a Passover of singing and sorrow, for Gottesmann’s father had foreseen what must transpire and later that week had sent his son Isidore to Holland. Fifty-five glasses had been filled with wine that night as the great family sang, “ ‘One kid, one kid for two zuzim,’ ” and of the fifty-five all but two were to die in the holocaust. “ ‘Who has enabled us to reach this moment,’ ” the Vodzher Rebbe prayed, and Gottesmann felt that he could not accept this moment; he experienced a recurrence of the dizziness that had overtaken him that morning in the heart of the Arab villages. Very carefully he placed both hands about his wineglass to control their shaking.
When the prayer ended the rebbetzin left the table and opened the door slightly, so that a stranger passing in the street might have access, while her husband poured a fifth glass of wine and placed it aside, should the stranger enter; and then began one of the profound, sweet moments of Jewish life, which that night saved Gottesmann’s sanity. At Passover, which is a joyous feast celebrating the deliverance of Jews from Egyptian bondage and their flight into freedom, it was customary for the youngest male child of the family to ask in a song-song voice four traditional questions whose answers would explain Passover, and having no male children the rebbe and his wife and Gottesmann turned to Ilana, as their loved child, and she blushed.
At the agnostic settlement of Kfar Kerem the Jewish holidays had not been celebrated, for the hard-headed followers of Shmuel Hacohen had come to believe that much of Jewish religiosity was both archaic and an insult to reason; but if individual families wished to observe Passover, which did memorialize freedom, they could. Netanel Hacohen and his wife had never done so, but at the homes of friends Ilana had several times celebrated the noble holiday, so she at least knew the rough outline of the ritual. Hesitantly she whispered the famous preliminary question: “ ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’ ” Then in a soft voice she asked the first question: “ ‘Why on other nights do we eat leaven, but tonight only unleavened?’ ” The other three Jews chanted an answer and she stumbled her uncertain way through the second question: “ ‘Why on other nights do we eat all vegetables, but tonight only bitter herbs?’ ” Again the listeners chanted the explanation and she started the third question.
She forgot what it was. Gottesmann blushed as if he were a nervous father whose child was being watched by hundreds. The rebbe fidgeted. Finally the rebbetzin pointed openly to her hands, whose washing was the subject of the third question, but Ilana thought she was indicating a chair. “Oh, yes!” she cried brightly, like a happy child. “ ‘Why on other nights do some sit relaxed and some sit uneasily, while tonight all sit back in comfort?’ ” It was the fourth question but no one corrected her, for a burst of gunfire came from the Arab quarter and Gottesmann leaped to his feet, grabbed his rifle and was gone through the open door.
Acting on reflex Ilana also jumped from the Passover feast and reached for her gun, but she was halted by the rebbetzin. “This is the night of Passover,” the old woman said, forcing Ilana back into her chair. Then she went to the door, and again cocked it open as her husband passed on to that portion of the feast at which he asked, “ ‘Why do we leave the door open? Why do we pour the extra glass of wine?’ ” and Ilana was required to answer in the lovely fairy-tale nonsense of tradition that the door was left open for the Prophet Elijah to join this feast, and by tradition all turned to watch the half-opened door to see if just once Elijah might appear; but when Ilana looked she prayed that it might be not Elijah but Gottesmann. The firing grew heavier.
When the legendary songs were ended, with the rebbe’s high voice singing of the joy the Hebrews had known when escaping to freedom, even though it was the freedom of the desert without water or food, the celebration reached that strange and very Jewish moment when all present chanted what appeared to be only a nursery rhyme:
“One kid, one kid
That father bought
For two zuzim.”
With a joy unbroken by the hammering of Arab bullets the rebbe and his bewigged wife sang of “the angel that slew the butcher that killed the ox that drank the water that quenched the fire that burned the stick that beat the dog that bit the cat
That ate the kid
That father bought
For two zuzim.”
Neither Elijah nor Gottesmann came through the door that night, so the three waiting Jews sat at the table through the long hours and inaugurated that probing dialogue between the blue-eyed rebbe and the sun-tanned sabra which was to continue through the eight days of Passover and into the beginning of May, days when it seemed as if the compressing Arabs must crush the Jews at last, days during which only an extraordinary heroism kept the Jewish quarter of the old town viable. That the Jews of Safad resisted was a miracle, truly it could be called only that, for from all vantage points the Arabs poured down a steady rifle fire, picking off any Jew who moved unwarily. Yet somehow the stiff-necked Jews hung on, outnumbered, outgunned, outmaneuvered; and during this heroic defense of an area that could not possibly be held, but which all were determined to hold, Ilana and Rebbe Itzik talked.
REBBE in Yiddish: Do you really believe that against God’s expressed will you can establish a state of Israel in the Holy Land?
SABRA in Hebrew: Yes. Men like my husband …
REBBE in Yiddish: How do you dare to call him your husband? You’re not married.
SABRA in Hebrew: I call him my husband because my father summoned two neighbors, and in their presence announced, “My daughter is married. Have lots of children.” Isn’t that the way Jews were married on this land four thousand years ago? Were there rabbis then?
REBBE: Years pass and people grow wiser. Through many centuries the Jews found it best that their daughters marry in a certain way. Formally. With community sanction. You’re not strong enough to live by your own laws. But you will be strong if you follow our sacred traditions. If you marry your tall Ashkenazi legally. As wise persons do.
SABRA: You keep speaking of traditions. It’s I who am going back to the great traditions of this land. To the traditions of the patriarchs … Moses … Aaron … Jacob, men who lived in freedom. It’s you who want to ignore those traditions and substitute ugly little tricks picked up in Poland and Russia, where Jews lived like pigs.
REBBE: You may not respect countries like Poland and Russia, but for two thousand years the Jews of the world have been forced to live in such countri
es. What happened to them there has determined their history, their character. Would you erase Maimonides, who lived in Egypt? And Baal Shem Tov, who lived in Poland? And the Vilna Gaon, who lived in Lithuania?
SABRA: Yes. We’re going to build a new state here, not a pale copy of something that was pitiful even when it existed in Poland and Lithuania. We want new laws, new customs, new everything. And we insist that this newness be based upon the Jews as they were in ancient times. On this land.
REBBE: But what existed then has meaning only in terms of what took place in the intervening years. Of all the Jews who have ever lived in the world, nine out of ten never saw Israel. Are you going to pick your tradition only from the one-tenth who happened to live here?
SABRA: Yes. If the nine-tenths got so badly off the track we’d better forget their errors.
REBBE: And you’re willing to throw over all the wisdom accumulated in the Talmud?
SABRA: Yes. You rabbis have made of the Talmud a prison of the spirit, and if we have to surrender what goodness there is in the Talmud to break out of that prison, we’ll do so. Then go back to pick up what’s good and necessary.
REBBE: Do you believe that one generation of Jews will have sufficient wisdom and moral insight to rebuild what it took our greatest minds, Akiba, Maimonides, two thousand years to construct?
SABRA: These are radical times. If we choose wisely we can rebuild.
REBBE: Don’t you respect the Talmud?
SABRA: No. When my grandfather came to Tiberias nearly seventy years ago he was stripped naked and beaten by the Talmud scholars in that town. They said his idea to put Jews on the land was folly. When he brought over a settlement from Russia the Jews took one look at the land he had selected and they all wanted to run in behind the walls of Tiberias and study Talmud. They had escaped one Talmudic ghetto but sought refuge in another. Anything that does that to a people is wrong.
REBBE: Have you forgotten what Maimonides said about Jews as they built a nation? “Attach your nation to a true thing which shall not alter or be destroyed, and raise your voices in a faith that shall never fail. In this covenant stay, in this religion hold fast, in this your faith remain.” Is there a better counsel?