I tried this today and must tell You that it did work, tho’ the Image itself was not particularly clear, and I could recognize little from it.
I am also sending You an Item of great Value—the Calendars of Stanisław Duńczewski. One of them is from last Year and contains the Suite of Polish Kings to Sigismund Augustus. The second Calendar, the new one, goes from Sigismund Augustus to Augustus II. So You will be able to tell Your Granddaughters of it without having to rely upon Your Memory o’ermuch, since Memory is always riddled with Holes, and incomplete . . .
Of the unexpected guest who comes in the night to Father Chmielowski
The priest stops with his pen poised over the letter in the middle of a word, for although it is completely dark now, a carriage is approaching the presbytery of Firlejów. The priest hears the horse hooves in the courtyard, and then impatient nickering. Saba, suddenly awakened, leaps off his lap and races to the door with a quiet whimper. Sounds spatter in the damp fog like streams of water poured from a jug. Who could this be at this hour? He goes up to the window, but he can barely see, in the darkness, what’s going on out there, and he can hear Roshko’s voice, but it’s sleepy somehow, reluctant, and a moment later there are other voices that belong to strangers. Fog off the river has enveloped the courtyard once again, and voices barely carry in it, quieting halfway through a word. He waits for Roshko to go to the door, but does not go himself. Where has his housekeeper gone off to? She seems to have dozed off over the big bowl where she was washing her feet before going to bed—in the light of a dying candle, the priest sees her bowed head. He takes the candle and goes to the door himself. He sees some figures standing by the carriage, shrouded from head to toe like specters. Now Roshko comes up, too, with hay in his hair, still half asleep.
“Who goes there?” boldly says the priest. “Who wanders through the night and disturbs the peace of Christian souls?”
Then one of the specters comes closer, the smaller one, and instantly Father Chmielowski recognizes Old Shorr, though he can’t yet see his face. He is so surprised it takes his breath away. For a moment, he loses the power of speech. But what are they doing here in the night, these cursed Jews? He does at least have the presence of mind to tell Roshko to go home and get to bed.
The priest also recognizes Hryćko—how he’s grown, how manly he’s become. Silently, Shorr leads the priest to the cart and then flings the cover off it. Now Father Chmielowski sees an extraordinary thing. The cart is almost completely packed with books. They lie in stacks of three and four, tied up with leather strings.
“Holy Mother of God,” says the priest, and with that last syllable, that awestruck “God,” he extinguishes the candle flame. Then the three of them silently carry the books into the presbytery, into the chamber where the priest keeps the honey and the wax, and bits of rotten wood used to fumigate bees come summer.
He asks no questions; he simply wants to offer them a glass of mulled wine, which he keeps on the stove, for they seem frozen almost to the bone. Then Shorr throws back his hood, and the priest sees his battered purple face. At this, Father Chmielowski’s hands start to tremble as he pours the wine, which has unfortunately already cooled down.
Then they disappear.
Of the cave in the shape of the alef
You have to go through the Christian part of the village, pass the intersection that serves as a little market square where Sobla’s brother’s tavern is, and where tinctures made of local herbs are sold—as medicine, not alcohol. There is also a warehouse here, as well as a blacksmith’s. Next you have to go straight, pass the Christian church and the presbytery, then the Catholic cemetery, a dozen or so whitewashed Masurians’ houses (for that’s what people from Poland are called here), and farther on, a little Orthodox church, to then leave the village and finally reach the cave. The villagers are afraid to go there—the place is haunted, spring is autumn there, and autumn spring, time flows according to its own rhythm, which is different from down below. Actually, only a few people know how huge this cave is, but somehow everybody knows that it is in the shape of the letter alef; it is a great underground alef, a seal, the first letter upon which the world rests. Maybe somewhere far away in the world under the earth there are also other letters, a whole alphabet, made out of nothing, out of underground air, darkness, the plash of underground streams. Israel believes that it is a great stroke of luck to live so near the first letter and near the Jewish cemetery, with a view of the river. It always takes his breath away to look down from the hill above the village at the world. It is so beautiful and so cruel at the same time. A paradox that seems to be taken straight from the pages of the Zohar.
They take Yente in great secrecy, in the morning. They have placed her in a shroud and covered her in hay as well, in case of prying strangers’ eyes. Four men and Pesel. The men go down on ropes through the narrow entrance to the cave, taking the body, which is as light as a bundle of dry leaves. They disappear for a quarter of an hour and return without the body. They have laid it comfortably on skins in a niche in the rock, in the bowels of the earth, as they say. They also say that it was strange to carry a human body in that state, since it is no longer human, more like a bird’s. Sobla cries.
It is with relief that they emerge into the sun, which has just come up, and dust off their trousers and return to the village.
Yente’s gaze goes along with them for a while, to the road, counting their hats, but then she gets bored. On her way back, she strokes the tips of the growing grass and shakes the fluff from the dandelions.
The next day, Pesel goes down into the cave. She lights an oil lamp, and after a dozen meters, finds herself in a high chamber. The lamp’s flame lights up the strange walls, which look as though they’re made of onyx, covered in bulges and hanging icicles. To Pesel, it seems as though she has been transported onto one of those crystals that appeared on Yente’s skin. She sees her great-grandmother’s body lying on a natural platform, and it looks smaller than it did yesterday. But her skin is pink, and that same smile roves her face.
“Forgive us,” says Pesel. “This is just for a little while. We will take you away from here as soon as it is safe.” She sits for a spell and talks to Yente about her future husband, who—although he is a year older than Pesel—is really just a child.
17.
Scraps: My heart’s quandary
It is said in Berachot 54 that there are four who should give thanks to God: he who has emerged unscathed from a voyage at sea; he who has returned from a journey through the desert; the sick man who has been healed; and the prisoner freed from jail. I have lived through all of this, and for this I should thank God—which I do, every day. And as I have gazed upon the bizarre fragility of our lives, I thank God all the more that I am healthy and that I have recovered from the debility I suffered when Shorr and Nussen and I were beaten in the riots following the death of our protector. I have no real tolerance for violence, and I fear pain. I studied to be a rabbi, not to go to war.
As soon as I had regained my health completely (not counting the irreversible loss of two teeth), I began to help my father- and mother-in-law and my Leah to supply the inn with stocks of good vodka, potatoes, lard and cabbage, honey and butter, and warm clothing. Separately, I invested in products—in wax, to be exact—and along with Moshe of Podhajce, Hayim, and Yeruhim Lipmanowicz, with whom I had been keeping my meetings a secret from Leah for weeks, I determined to set off to find Jacob. I would not like to call this a flight, though this may be how Leah thinks of it, shrieking that I always preferred Jacob to her. She has never understood me or my mission.
At the same time, there was a painful split within our group of true believers: the Shorrs seemed to be forgetting about Jacob, or they lost their faith in him, and with it the hope that Jacob would lead them, and so they went, together with Krysa, on a mission to Salonika, to the disciples of Baruchiah, the very same who had so cruelly maltreated Jacob in their day.
I often have the same dream, a
nd Reb Mordke always said to pay attention to dreams that frequently repeat, for they are our link with infinity. I dream that I am wandering around a large house that contains many rooms, doors, passages. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Everything is old and moldy, the upholstery on the walls, once lavish, is now faded and torn, and the floors are decayed.
This dream worries me, for I would prefer to dream like the Kabbalists about all the palaces, each containing and concealing the next, with their never-ending corridors that eventually end up at God’s throne. In my dream, there are only rotted labyrinths with no exit. When I told Jacob, expressing my concerns, he just laughed: “You’re lucky, I dream of cesspools and stables.”
In the autumn, I received a letter from Leah asking for a divorce. In the hand of the local rabbi, she accused me of having become a heretic and said that I had betrayed her for all eternity. I cried while writing her the get, or the letter of divorce, but, truth be told, I also experienced relief. There was not much that was keeping us together, and my brief visits home were insufficient for the establishment of a deeper connection. I promised to support my son and take care of her until she was able to arrange things for herself, but she never answered.
When I look at these notes of mine, I see that I rarely speak in them about my wife, whom I married many years ago when I returned from studying with the Besht. I had been allotted a wife from very nearby, the daughter of a relative of my father: Leah. I wrote little about her for the simple reason that I have never been greatly interested in any of the matters that are connected with women, and I always treated my marriage as an obligation to my family and my tribe. As for children, we had one, out of the five Leah gave birth to; the others died not long after arriving in this world. Leah always insisted it was my fault, since I was rarely home, and when I was, I was always occupied with something else. But from my point of view, I fulfilled my obligations in a dutiful way. God was parsimonious when it came to our offspring, giving them to us like bait he would instantly snatch away. Perhaps I could have given her healthy, lovely children who might not have died like the preceding ones. I could have taught Leah to read, I could have built us a home and gone into business so that she would not have to work as a servant, but—this is the truth that burdens me with unrelenting guilt—having taken her for a wife, I neglected her completely.
I asked Moshe of Podhajce for his advice—he is a highly learned man, knowledgeable in matters of magic—and he told me that Leah and I have behind us other painful things arisen from our previous lives which we cannot remember, and that we must separate, so as not to bring any more pain into this world.
There are two people in my life whom I love deeply and constantly—Leah and Jacob. To my misfortune, they are opposites, and they hold one another in mutual disregard. There is no way to bring them to any reconciliation, so that I must maneuver between them.
I do not know how it happened that in the greatest unhappiness, without my wife and without Jacob, I found myself once again with the Besht, in Międzybóz.. I made my way as if in a state of delirium, no doubt seeking the same thing that I obtained there in my youth—the wisdom to be able to bear my suffering.
I waited two days for a meeting and during this time did not reveal who I was nor where I had come from. Had I done so, the Besht might not have agreed to see me, for everyone knew he bemoaned our lot, that we were not keeping to the Jewish tenets in the way everyone would have wanted.
Other customs prevailed in the town, which was inhabited almost exclusively by Hasidim. Everywhere there were pilgrims in caftans that went down to their knees, dirty stockings, and shtreimels on their heads. Far from Lwów, from Kraków, all of Międzybóz. was concentrated on itself, as though in some wonderful dream. The conversations on the streets were everywhere the same: on God, on names, laying out the meaning of the slightest gesture, the most minor event. They knew nothing there of life in the world, of the war, of the king. Although this way was once so dear to me, it now only deepened my despair, so blind and deaf were they. I envied them that they might ceaselessly immerse themselves in matters of the divine, for such was my nature, as well. On the other hand, I could see that they were becoming defenseless as children, while on the horizon a new storm was gathering. They were like dandelions, lovely and light.
I saw a few of our own there, too, who as a result of the sudden persecutions that came after the death of our protector, Bishop Dembowski, had also made their way to the Besht, and had been taken in without any unnecessary questions, though it was known that the Besht regarded Jacob as a pest. I was particularly happy to see Yehuda of Glinno, with whom I had made such close friends years earlier in this same place, and although he has never been a true believer, he has nonetheless remained close to my heart.
In Międzybóz. it was taught that in every person there is something good, even in those who strike you as the basest of villains. I started to understand that everyone has their own self-interest to protect, and that it is by this that they are guided, and that self-interest is no failing. There is nothing wrong in persons desiring the best for themselves. And when I began to think in this way about what each of us wants, I began to understand better.
Leah wants a good husband and children, and a basic income, so that there is a roof over her head and nutritious food to eat. Elisha Shorr and his sons want to climb higher than they could as Jews. That is why, as they rise, they desire to join the society of Christians, for remaining within Judaism they would have to content themselves with who they are and what they have now. Krysa is a frustrated ruler who wants control. The bishop, may he rest in peace, wanted no doubt to serve the king and the Church and was also no doubt counting on personal glory. The same with Mrs. Kossakowska, who gave us money for our trip—but for what purpose? Did she want the credit of helping the poor? Perhaps she, too, was after glory?
And what does Jacob want? Right away I answered:
Jacob does not need to want anything. Jacob is an instrument of greater forces, that I know. His task is to destroy this evil order.
The Besht had advanced in years, but he radiated clarity and strength, and just the touch of his hand moved me to tears. He conversed with me for a long time as an equal, and I will be grateful to him to the end of my days for not sending me away outright. He finally laid his hand on my head and said: “I forbid you to despair.” He didn’t say another word, as though he knew that I had become proficient in disputation and could come up with arguments into infinity on any subject, meaning that lessons were not what I needed. Yet when I left Międzybóz., a young Hasid ran up to me and pressed a tight roll of paper into my hand.
It was written in Hebrew: “Im Ata Ma’amin sheAta Yahol Lekalkel Ta-amin sheGam Ata Yahol Letaken.” If you think you are capable of destruction, think how you could build.
It was from the Besht.
How in Giurgiu we talked Jacob into returning to Poland
In the winter of 1757, the four of us made it to Jacob in Giurgiu, setting off on Hanukkah, carrying the letters of safe conduct that had been obtained for us from the Polish king. We went to find Jacob in order to convince him to return. Without him, and in the hands of others such as Krysa and Elisha Shorr, our cause had come strangely apart at the seams.
There were four of us, like the Evangelists: Moshe ben Israel of Nadwórna, Yeruhim Lipmanowicz of Czortków, my brother Hayim of Busk, and I.
We were tired and half frozen from the journey when he first glimpsed us, for the winter was severe, and along the way we had been attacked and lost our horses, though then when I saw the Danube, I was greatly moved, as if I had reached the very heart of the world, and immediately felt warmth and brightness, although there was much snow.
Jacob had us come close and touch our foreheads to his, and then he held the four of us so tightly to him that it was as if we four and he, at our center, had joined together to create a single man, and we breathed a single breath. We stood for so long that I felt completely united with them, and
it came to me that this was not the end, but rather the beginning of our journey, and that he, Jacob, would lead us onward.
Then Moshe, the eldest among us, said: “Jacob, we came here for you. You must return.”
Jacob, when he smiled, had the habit of raising one eyebrow. When he answered Moshe, he raised one eyebrow, and I was flooded with an extraordinary warmth—moved by seeing him again, by how beautiful he was, how his presence brought out the best feelings in me.
Jacob said: “We’ll see.” He took us on a tour of his domain, and his family and neighbors crowded around us, for he enjoyed great respect here, and they did not even know who he truly was.
How well he had arranged things! He had purchased a house and had already begun to move into it, though we were to stay in the old home, which was also nice, Turkish, with painted walls and floors covered in carpets. And since it was winter, there were everywhere small portable stoves, tended by the serving girls, from whom we could scarcely look away, especially Hayim, who liked women above all else. We went to see the new home, with its view of the river; behind the home extended a vineyard, quite sizable. Inside, the home was arrayed with large carpets, filled with beautiful Turkish things. Hana had gained weight since the birth of their little son, Leyb, also called Immanuel, which means “God is with us.” She had grown lazy. She spent all day lying around on ottomans, here, there, while the wet nurse attended to the child. She had learned to smoke a pipe, and although she did not speak much, she was with us for almost the whole time, looking at Jacob, following his every move, like our Podolian dogs. Jacob was always carrying around little Avacha, a sweet, calm, obedient child, and it was clear to everyone how attached to her he was. After we had looked around and sat together talking until late at night, I found myself feeling somewhat troubled and confused. I did not understand whether Jacob was trying to show us that he wanted us to leave him alone, or whether he had some other plan about which we knew nothing, and what this would mean. I must confess that when I lay my head against my pillow, before I fell asleep, the image of my wife came back to me, and I was overcome by terrible grief, for my wife was now growing old alone, working hard, ruined, and eternally sad, felled by the hardships of this world. I was reminded of all the people suffering, and all the animals, until an internal sob tugged at my heart, and I began to pray feverishly for the end of this world, in which people merely lie in wait for one another to kill and steal and demean and do harm. And suddenly I realized that I might never go back to Podolia, as there is no place for us there, for us who wish to follow our own path, boldly, freed from all the trappings of custom and faith. And that while the paths we take are never set in stone—I for one have lost my bearings—still we know that the direction is right.
The Books of Jacob Page 42