And one day, there was a miracle. That morning, his mother returned to take him by the arm. “I have good news for you: You’re going to see Papa.”
“When?” the boy cried out.
“Right now. In just a minute.”
The boy asked no more questions. This he would later regret. He should have observed that his mother was more dispirited than usual, depressed, worse than terrorized. What had she learned that morning?
The boy would never forget the last time he saw his father. The prisoner was unshaven, emaciated, and his eyes were bright with fever. He held the boy in his arms, murmuring, “Do you know how much I love you? Will you remember it?” The boy would remember always. He would remember also how his heart ached when he saw his father suddenly grown old, enfeebled, disoriented. Until then his father had been a man filled with energy and optimism, a man who knew how to make his way through the labyrinthine world in which the unfortunate and the downtrodden dwell.
But his father said something more to him that day: “Remember, my child, that you are a Jew.” That is what his father said to him that day in the prison. The boy didn’t know he was clinging to his father for the last time, but he knew now more than ever that he must obey him, must remember his father’s words. The father continued, softly, and that, too, the child would remember: “You were born a Jew, my son, and a Jew you must remain. Your mother tells me she has found a wonderful charitable woman who will look after you. You must be respectful to her. And obedient. And grateful. You will use the Christian name that she gives you, but never forget that you carry the name of my own father: Gamaliel. Try not to dishonor it. You’ll take it back as yours when this ordeal is over. Promise me you won’t disown your name. Every name has its story. Promise me, my child Gamaliel, that one day you will tell that story.”
And the child promised.
IN THE HALF-LIGHT OF THE MAID’S ROOM, DOOR and dormer windows closed, the child’s mother is still trying to make him listen to reason, but in vain.
“I’m not Péter. I don’t want the name Péter,” the boy is repeating stubbornly. “I have a name of my own. You know perfectly well what it is. My grandfather gave it to me as a present, to remember him by. Ga-ma-li-el. I want to keep that name. It may not sound great, but it’s mine. It’s me. I won’t let it be taken away from me. Papa didn’t want that, either. I promised him. He told me its story and now it belongs to me.”
“You don’t understand, do you, my precious? We’re all in danger. Ask this nice lady. She’ll tell you: Death is on the lookout for us. Death is searching out Jews, and it won’t be satisfied while it can hear any of us breathing. We have no choice, my child. For the time being, we must leave each other.”
“Papa will come and save us. I know he will. He’ll find some way to keep us together.”
“I’m waiting for him, too. I count on him, too. But when will he come back? Not till the end of the war, and that’s likely to be weeks, even months. . . .”
“Well, I’ll just wait.”
They fall silent. It is almost dawn. Ilonka brings him a cup of hot chocolate, bought at an exorbitant price. He goes to sleep curled up in an armchair. When he awakens, his mother is gone. Ilonka gives him a letter that he reads, distraught: “We decided to put you to sleep, my love. It was for your own good. We’ll be together again; I know we will. I hope it will be soon. And then I’ll tell you new stories, and none of them will be sad. My baby, my young man, one day you will understand.”
But that day would never come.
I’D SEEN HIM ONCE AGAIN, THAT WANDERING MAN who had come to our door ages ago, it seemed. This time it was in the mountain village where we had found ourselves after crossing the border. Did he know that we were about to move out and go to Budapest? Once again, it was on a Sabbath afternoon. . . . Mama was asleep; my father was out. Night would soon fall. I was feeling lonely, and sad. Suddenly, the door opened. I started in fright. “My father isn’t home,” I said to the man standing still in the doorway.
“I know that,” he said, and I recognized that distinctive voice. “You’re the one I’ve come to see. You like stories. You really love them, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered softly. “Yes, I love to hear stories, yes, always.”
“Very well. Then sit down and listen.”
Still standing, back-to-back with his motionless shadow, he told me the story of Hasid, a humble disciple of the Baal Shem-Tov, known as the Besht, from his initials. The disciple was worried about how he would support his family after the death of the Master. “That’s simple enough,” the Besht had said. “You will travel the world, telling the story of my deeds.”
Of course the Hasid had no choice but to obey. With his sack over his shoulder, he went on foot from village to village, from one community to the next, from one home to the next, seeking those who were ready to hear him tell of the greatness of the Master of the Good Name. Often people were too preoccupied. They would turn him away and go about their business. The best among them would give him a few copper coins, as alms or for their own sins, and he would carefully put these away to take to his wife for Passover. Then one night that he spent in a forest, he lost his meager fortune, just when he was due to go home the following week. Tears came to his eyes, and he was still in tears when he came to the synagogue in the neighboring village. Asked what his trouble was, he replied that he made his living by telling people about his Master, that he had just lost all he had, and here it was almost Passover and his family could not afford to celebrate the traditional Seder feast. The people of the community empathized with his plight, but, being themselves almost as penniless as he, they could give him only a piece of advice. The lord of their village was rather peculiar: He seldom went out—he was never seen in either the church or the tavern—but he would admit to the castle anyone who could tell him a story. If the story was new to him, the lord would reward the teller handsomely. Let the Hasid try his luck with the lord at his castle, they suggested. The lord greeted him by saying, “They say you have some worthwhile Jewish tales in that head of yours. Is that right?” “Yes, it’s true,” the disciple replied. “Then what are you waiting for? Go ahead!”
The disciple and servant of the Besht began to tell of his Master’s travels: how he would disappear, only to reappear in faraway places, how he conjured up the miracles his master had performed, how he saved a desperate woman, freed a hapless merchant from prison, rescued a widow, an orphan about to die, a child stolen by evil priests. After each story, the lord of the village would give him a small coin and say, “Go on.” So passed that day and all the next day also. At last, the storyteller fell silent. “That’s all I can remember,” he said. “Try,” the lord said bleakly. “Search your memory. Go on, make an effort.” “I did try. There’s nothing there.” “Then try again,” the lord insisted. “Try harder. You won’t regret it.” “I can’t do it,” said the Hasid sadly. Without a word, the lord led him to the gate, where the disciple suddenly stopped, slapped his forehead, and exclaimed, “Please forgive me, but it’s just come back to me! I remember a young sinner who came to the Besht to ask his help and his advice. He had strayed too far from the right path, he had broken with his God and with his people, he had done terrible things, unforgivable things, and now he wanted with all his heart to find the path of righteousness. How could he find his way there? The Besht asked me to leave him alone with the visitor. After a few hours, he called me back. It seems that, before leaving, the young penitent had asked the Besht, ‘How will I know whether my repentance has been accepted?’ And the Besht had replied, ‘You will know it on the day that this story is told to you.’ ”
The lord had tears in his eyes as he embraced the disciple, who proceeded home, his pockets stuffed, and celebrated the Seder amid the joy of his memories.
From the
Book of Secrets
Archbishop Báranyi’s heart was beating fast. Trying to
shake off his nightmare, he opened his eyes, only to
close them immediately. “Lord, what have I done that
is so dreadful in Thy sight that Thou hast forsaken
me? Why dost Thou punish me by hiding Thyself
from me? What have I done that I am so blind I no
longer recognize Thee?”
He got out of bed, intending to go wash his face in
the basin across his bedroom. It was pitch-dark in the
room; the little night-light in the corner had stopped
working long ago. Usually, this did not bother the
Archbishop. He had learned in the twenty years he
had lived in that room to avoid the chair by his bed,
then the rectangular table, and finally the
earthenware stove that faced the bed. But this time
he bumped into the corner of the table so hard that he
groaned in pain. “Lord,” he said softly, “Thy will is
that I suffer. Thou striketh me there where I am most
weak, in my body. I accept, from Thee I accept
everything, even my suffering. . . . Ow!” He let out a
cry as he bumped into the table once again. “So be it,
Lord. Thou dost not wish me to wash my face, so I
will not do it. Thy will be done. Amen.” The
Archbishop, too upset to hope for sleep, knelt and
prayed: “Help me, Lord, Thou who helpeth those
who believe in Thee. Save me, my Savior, Thou who
rescueth sinners from the flames of the inferno. May
Thy presence never again abandon me!” Calmer now,
he lay down again and went back to sleep, only to find
himself plunged back into his nightmare. Now Satan
took an interest in him. The Archbishop recognized
the devil in the creature now man, now woman that
snickered while slapping its thighs. “You thought to
escape me, hah, hah, hah . . . fool that you are, a fool
seven times over. Did they not tell you that Christ
Himself feared me more than death? And you, you
scoundrel, you thought you could take refuge in His
bosom to avoid dealing with me? Come on, come
closer, and I’ll give you a taste of my delicacies. . . .
Hah, hah, hah . . .” The Archbishop held his breath till
he was about to suffocate and made a superhuman
effort to see once again the wounded but peaceful
face of Christ. Oh, if only he could cling to Christ’s
robe, kiss His wounds, His eyes, stroke His hands! Do
what his mother had done for him when he was a
child . . .
His mother had led him to his discovery of Christ. He must have been five or six. With his father gone, he had attached himself all the more desperately to his mother. He suffered whenever she was far from him. One winter morning when she was away, he collapsed, like a toy with broken springs. She found him lying unconscious, curled up on the floor, felled by acute pneumonia; it was as if an evil black demon was holding and shaking him in its immense fist. “Water, water,” he whispered, but nothing could quench his thirst or relieve his pain. He was nauseous and breathing with difficulty. His mother put cold compresses on his forehead and chest. “What a life! I didn’t deserve what’s happening to us. This evil world has it in for me . . . but everything will be all right, my child, you’ll see. All will be well, and if it isn’t, then I’ll get even with everybody. That, I promise you.” But he could reply only with a single word: “Water, water.” The doctor sounded worried. Typhus was going around the region. “If he dies, I’ll kill everyone and then I’ll kill myself,” said the mother, and she went on cursing the rotten human race. In her raving, she even cursed God the Father for not preventing His enemies from killing His son, Jesus, nor the fever from striking her own son. Indeed, she did mistrust God; He was too severe, too cruel. She hated Him. Jesus Christ was the one she loved, and it was to Him that she addressed her prayers. One night, little János felt himself sinking into an endless abyss. From far away he heard his mother’s tearful, angry voice: “No, no, my son! Don’t give up! I won’t allow it! Hold on to the Lord. He will save you.” And through half-closed eyes, he saw a man who seemed regal and calm, but very sick; his eyes were bleeding, but his upturned gaze lit up the sky. “Pray,” said his mother. “Jesus will hear you. Ask Him to let you live. Promise Him that you’ll grow up as a good Christian. He loves children, yes He does.” Then the man with the warm, kind gaze took his hand and with infinite care drew him back from the shadows into which he was about to disappear. On that day, the child János made up his mind that he would never be without his portrait of Christ. His mother had to bring him the portrait every morning when he awakened, every night before he went to sleep, so he could kiss it, once, twice, a dozen times.
Over the years, János would examine many portraits of his Savior painted or drawn by a variety of artists in many periods of history. He became familiar with these many portrayals and was recognized as an expert. A glance was enough for him to identify the artist, and the circumstances under which he had worked. People came from afar to ask the parish priest in the remote province of Székesváros to explicate or authenticate the work of a master—or a forger’s copy. He became the enemy of deception, and the defender of Christ’s honor and love. For the widow Báranyi’s adored son had chosen the priesthood as his vocation. She had tried to dissuade him at first; he was her only son, and she would rather have seen him father a large family, and, most of all, be happier than she had been. But he knew how to make his case: “Did you not tell me time and again when I was a child that I owed my miraculous recovery to Him? Then must I not consecrate my life to Him?” The poor woman was not able to debate him; she could only nod and swallow her tears. “Yes, my son, you’re right, of course you’re right. You learned in the seminary how to put words together, but still . . .” “But what, Mama?” “What’s to become of us if you have no children? Someday I’ll die, and then someday you’ll die, and there’ll be no one left of our poor family. That’s why I’m weeping.” In response, he drew from the pocket of his cassock his first portrait of Jesus, the one she had given him to kiss when he was a child and dying; he was never without it. “Be not afraid, Mama. He will always be with us.” “Yes, of course, of course, my son. Our good Lord Jesus will be here after we’re gone. He is life. . . .” “He is life everlasting,” János intoned. He was blissfully content, but his mother was torn between her good fortune at seeing her son happy and the thought that she had lost the son she adored to the beloved Son of God.