Collected Stories (7 page)

The rabbi had not sent for him since Rebecca’s death; this in itself was an indication of the depth of the rabbi’s grief. Reb Abraham Moshe did not shuffle now, as customarily, but walked briskly, almost running. When he had reached the rabbi’s door he halted for a moment, touched his cap, his chest, wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and then walked in mincingly. The rabbi, having opened one of the shutters, sat smoking his pipe in the grandfather’s chair with the ivory armrests. A half-f glass of tea stood on the table, a roll beside it. Apparently, the rabbi had recovered.

“Rabbi, I’m here,” said Reb Abraham Moshe.

“So I see. Be seated.”

“Thank you.”

The rabbi remained silent a while. Placing his narrow hand on the table edge, he stared at the white nails of his long fingers. Then he said, “Abraham Moshe, it’s bad.”

“What’s bad?”

“Abraham Moshe, it’s worse than you think.”

“What could be worse?” asked Abraham Moshe, ironically.

“Abraham Moshe, the atheists are right. There is no justice, no Judge.”

Reb Abraham Moshe was accustomed to the rabbi’s harsh words. At Komarov, even the Lord of the Universe would not be spared. But to be rebellious is one thing; to deny God, another. Reb Abraham Moshe turned pale. His knees shook.

“Then who rules the world, Rabbi?”

“It’s not ruled.”

“Who then?”

“A total lie!”

“Come, come …”

“A heap of dung …”

“Where did the dung come from?”

“In the beginning was the dung.”

Reb Abraham Moshe froze. He wanted to speak, but his arguments caught in his throat. Well, it’s his grief that talks, he thought. Nevertheless, he marveled. If Job could endure it, so should the rabbi.

“What should we do, then, Rabbi?” Reb Abraham Moshe asked hoarsely.

“We should worship idols.”

To keep from falling, Reb Abraham Moshe gripped the table edge.

“What idols?” he asked. Everything inside him seemed to tighten.

The rabbi laughed briefly. “Don’t be frightened; I won’t send you to the priest. If the atheists are right, what’s the difference between Terah and Abraham? Each served a different idol. Terah, who was simpleminded, invented a clay god. Abraham invented a Creator. It is what one invents that matters. Even a lie must have some truth in it.”

“You are merely being facetious,” Reb Abraham Moshe stammered. His palate felt dry, his throat contracted.

“Well, stop trembling! Sit down!”

Reb Abraham Moshe sat down. The rabbi rose from his seat, walked to the window, and stood there a long time, staring into space. Then he walked to the book cabinet. The cabinet, which smelled of wine and snuffed-out valedictory candles, contained a spice box, and citron box, and a Hanukkah candelabra. The rabbi, taking out a Zohar, opened it at random, stared at the page, nodded, and then, smacking his lips, exclaimed, “A nice invention, very nice!”

II

More and more Hasidim departed. In the house of study, on Saturdays, scarcely a quorum remained. The sextons, all but Avigdor, had left. Finding her solitude unbearable, the rabbi’s wife went for a long visit to her brother, the rabbi of Biala. Reb Abraham Moshe stayed at Komarov. He spent one Sabbath each month with his family in his native town. If a man were not to be deserted when his body was sick, he reasoned, then he certainly should not be left alone during the sickness of his soul. If their rabbi were committing sins, God forbid, then one would be interdicted from associating with him, but actually, his piety was now greater than before. He prayed, studied, visited the ritual bathhouse. And he was so ardent in his charity, that he sold his dearest possessions—the silver candlesticks, the large Hanukkah candelabra, his gold watch, and Passover tray—and gave the proceeds to the poor. Reb Abraham Moshe told him reproachfully he was squandering his inheritance, but the rabbi replied, “Poor men
do
exist. That’s one thing of which we can be certain.”

The summer went by and the month of Elul came. On week days, Avigdor, the sexton, blew the ram’s horn at the house of study. Komarov used to be crowded to capacity during the month of Elul; there were not enough beds at the inns, and young people would sleep in storerooms, barns, attics. But this year, it was quiet at Komarov. The shutters remained closed at the inns. Grass grew wild in the rabbi’s courtyard; there was no one to trample it. Gossamer threads floated through the air. The apples, pears, and plums ripened on the trees in the orchard, because the boys who used to pick them were gone. The chirping of birds sounded louder than ever. Moles dug up numerous mounds of earth. Certain bushes sprouted berries of a poisonous sort. One day, the rabbi, on his way to the bathhouse, plucked one such berry. “If a thing like this can turn one into a corpse,” he thought, “what is a corpse?” He sniffed it and threw it away. “If everything hinges on a berry, then all our affairs are berries.” The rabbi entered the bathhouse. “Well, demons, where are you?” he said aloud, and his words were thrown back at him by the echo, “At least let there be devils.” He sat on the bench, undressed, removed his fringed garment, and examined it. “Threads and knots and nothing else …”

The water was cold, but it made no difference to him. “Who is cold? And if one is cold, what of it?” The coldness cut his breath, and he clung to the railing. Then he plunged and stayed for a long while under the water. Something within him was laughing. “As long as you breathe, you must breathe.” The rabbi dried himself and dressed. Returning to his study, he opened a Cabala book, The Two Tablets of the Covenant. Here it was written that “the rigor of the law should be sweetened to deprive Satan of his nourishment.” “Well, and what if it’s a fairy tale?” The rabbi squinted one eye while the other kept staring. “The sun? Close your eyes and there is no sun. The birds? Stuff your ears and there are no birds. Pain? Swallow a wild berry, and the pain is gone. What is left, then? Nothing at all. The past no longer exists and the future has yet to come. The conclusion is that nothing exists beyond the moment. Well, if so, we really have nothing to worry about.”

No more than thirty Hasidim gathered at Komarov for Rosh Hashanah. Although the rabbi appeared at the service in his cloak and shawl, one could not tell if he prayed, for he was silent. After the service the Hasidim sat at the table, but their rabbi’s seat was vacant. An old man chanted a little song and the others gave him a rattling accompaniment. Reb Abraham Moshe repeated a comment the rabbi had made on the Torah twenty years ago. Thank God, the rabbi was alive, though for all practical purposes, he was dead.

Avigdor brought to the rabbi’s room a decanter of wine, apples with honey, the head of a carp, two hallahs, a quarter of a chicken with stewed carrots, and a slice of pineapple for the blessing of the first fruit. But although it was already evening, the rabbi had touched nothing.

During the month of Elul he had fasted. His body felt as though it had been hollowed. Hunger still gnawed somewhere in his stomach, but it was a hunger unrelated to him. What had he, Bainish of Komarov, to do with food? Must one yield to the body’s lusts? If one resists, what does it do—die? “Let it die, if that’s what it wants. I am satisfied.” A golden-green fly flew in through the open window from the other side of the curtain, and settled on the glazed eye of the carp. The rabbi murmured, “Well, what are you waiting for? Eat …”

As the rabbi sat half-awake, half-slumbering in his old chair, his arms on the arm rests, engrossed in thoughts he did not know he was thinking, divested of all external things, he suddenly caught sight of his youngest daughter, Rebecca. Through the closed door she had entered and stood there, erect, pale, her hair plaited in two tresses, wearing her best gold-embroidered dress, a prayer book in one hand, a handkerchief in the other. Forgetting that she had died, the rabbi looked at her, half-surprised. “See, she’s a grown girl, how come she’s not a bride?” An extraordinary nobility spread over her features; she looked as though she had just recovered from an illness; the pearls of her necklace shone with an unearthly light, with the aura of the Days of Awe. With an expression of modesty and love she gazed at the rabbi.

“Happy holiday, Father.”

“Happy holiday, happy new year,” the rabbi said.

“Father, say grace.”

“What? Of course, of course.”

“Father, join the guests at table,” she said, half-commanding, half-imploring.

An icy shudder ran through the rabbi’s spine. “But she’s dead!” At once his eyes were drenched with tears, and he jumped to his feet as though to rush toward her. Through the mist of tears Rebecca’s form became distorted, grew longer and partly blurred, but she still loomed before him. The rabbi noticed the silver clasp of her prayer book and the lace of her handkerchief. Her left pigtail was tied with a white ribbon. But her face, as though veiled, dissolved into a blotch. The rabbi’s voice broke.

“My daughter, are you here?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Why have you come?”

“For you.”

“When?”

“After the holidays.”

She seemed to withdraw. In the whirling mist her form lost its substance, but her dress continued to drag on the floor in folds and waves like a golden train, and a glow arose from it. Soon this too dissolved, and nothing remained but a sense of wonder, a supernatural tang, a touch of heavenly joy. The rabbi did not weep, but luminous drops fell on his white silken robe embroidered with flowers and leaves. There was a fragrance of myrtle, cloves and saffron. He had a cloying sensation in his mouth, as if he had eaten marzipan.

The rabbi remembered what Rebecca had told him. He put on his fur hat, stood up, and opened the door leading to the house of study. It was time for the evening prayer, but the old men had not yet left the table.

“Happy holiday, my friends,” the rabbi said in a cheerful voice.

“Happy holiday, Rabbi.”

“Avigdor, I want to say grace.”

“I’m ready, Rabbi.”

Avigdor brought the wine, and the rabbi, chanting a holiday tune, recited the prayer. He washed his hands with the appropriate blessing and said the prayer for bread. After taking some broth, the rabbi commented on the Torah, a thing he had not done in years. His voice was low, though audible. The rabbi took up the question of why the moon is obscured on Rosh Hashanah. The answer is that on Rosh Hashanah one prays for life, and life means free choice, and freedom is Mystery. If one knew the truth how could there be freedom? If hell and paradise were in the middle of the marketplace, everyone would be a saint. Of all the blessings bestowed on man, the greatest lies in the fact that God’s face is forever hidden from him. Men are the children of the Highest, and the Almighty plays hide and seek with them. He hides His face, and the children seek Him while they have faith that He exists. But what if, God forbid, one loses faith? The wicked live on denials; denials in themselves are also a faith, faith in evildoing, and from it one can draw strength for the body. But if the pious man loses his faith, the truth is shown to him, and he is recalled. This is the symbolic meaning of the words, “When a man dies in a tent”: when the pious man falls from his rank, and becomes, like the wicked, without permanent shelter, then a light shines from above, and all doubts cease …

The rabbi’s voice gradually grew weaker. The old men leaned toward him, intently listening. The house of study was so still that one could hear the candles flicker. Reb Abraham Moshe paled. He realized the meaning hidden behind all this. The moment Rosh Hashanah was over, he mailed some letters, having sat until daybreak writing them. The rabbi’s wife returned from Biala, and for Yom Kippur the Hasidim arrived in great number. The rabbi had returned to his former self. During the Sukkoth holidays he commented on the Torah in his arbor. On Hashanah Raba he prayed all through the night, until dawn, with his Hasidim. On Simchas Torah, he never wearied of dancing around the reading stand. His Hasidim said later that Komarov had not, even under the old rabbi, blessed be his memory, celebrated that holiday with such gusto. To each of his Hasidim the rabbi spoke personally, asking about his family, and carefully reading each petition. He helped the children decorate the arbor with lanterns, ribbons, bunches of grapes. With his own hands, he wove baskets of lulab leaves for the myrtles. He pinched the cheeks of boys who had come with their fathers, and gave them cookies. As a rule, the rabbi prayed late and alone, but on the day following Sukkoth, he prayed in the house of study with the first quorum. After the service he asked for a glass of coffee. Reb Abraham Moshe and a circle of young men stood watching the rabbi drink coffee. Between swallows, he puffed his pipe. He said, “I want you to know that the material world has no substance.”

After breakfast, the rabbi said grace. Then he ordered his bed made ready and murmured something about his old prayer shawl. The moment he lay down he became moribund. His face grew as yellow as his fringed garment. His eyelids closed. Covered with wrinkles, his forehead assumed a strange aspect. Life could literally be seen departing from him; his body shrank and altered. The rabbi’s wife wanted to call the doctor, but the rabbi signaled her not to do so. Opening his eyes, he looked toward the door. Between the door jambs, beside the mezuzah, all of them were standing—his four sons and two daughters, his father, blessed be his memory, and his grandfather. Reverently, they all looked in his direction, expectantly, with arms outstretched. Each of them emitted a different light. They bent forward as though restrained by an invisible fence. “So that’s the way it is,” the rabbi thought. “Well, now everything is clear.” He heard his wife sob, and wanted to comfort her, but no strength remained in his throat and lips. Suddenly, Reb Abraham Moshe leaned over him, as though realizing that the rabbi wished to speak, and the rabbi murmured, “One should always be joyous.”