by Ilan Stavans
Hirsh Odeser, who had been Berl’s rival for years, grumbled that a general assembly should be convened to decide the matter, but Berl objected that this was not the time for politicking. They resolved to give a Torah scroll to Nathan and celebrated with a few drinks. The blessings and well-wishing lifted Nathan’s spirit; true joy, the finest wine of all, warmed his heart. He, Nathan the shoemaker from Porisov, might well have the honor of being the first Jew to bring a Torah scroll to a distant, foreign land.
Half an hour after taking leave of his friends and starting home, his merriment began to wane. The three digits making up the number one hundred appeared suddenly before him in the dark. They danced before his eyes and mocked him with questions: “When did God name you his envoy in charge of supplying Jews with Torah scrolls? It’s just a foolish notion that some religious Jew—and an idle one at that—has put into your head. Go back right away, return the scroll, and get back your hard-earned zlotys. It would be a far greater mitzvah to leave that money to your wife and children.”
He stood there for a while but suddenly panicked. “Nathan the shoemaker,” a hidden voice warned him. “Who are you to play with such a holy object? Do you believe you are purchasing mere leather and thread?”
A shiver of dread ran through Nathan’s body. “It is wrong to regard such holy objects lightly,” he muttered to himself, trying to apologize. He pressed the Torah scroll to his chest and strode home.
So that is how—along with Nathan’s shoe lasts, rulers, hammers, pliers, and files—the first Torah scroll, wrapped in clothes and bedding, sailed over the stormy waters of the Atlantic to that distant, foreign land, Colombia.
The glowing sky hanging over the suburbs on the Atlantic shore poured fire overhead. The burning sun shone on the half-naked black and bronze bodies of porters carrying huge loads. Shopkeepers kept wiping sweat off their faces. Crowds beset kiosks that sold cold drinks. The sound of car horns blended with the loud cries of people hawking lottery tickets and newspapers. Amid this multicolored mass—black faces, curly woolen hair, white pupils of the eyes, and thick hanging lips—one could discern the occasional tourist. Tall, blond, clad in a white suit, with a colonial hat on his head, dark glasses, and a camera hanging from his shoulder, around he walked, contemplating the scene from above, like a wealthy relative attending the wedding of poor kinsfolk.
Under the radiant sky, on the hot steamy asphalt, into the midst of this multicolored cluster, the Master of the Universe had also thrown some fifteen of His chosen people: Jews from towns and villages in Poland, Lithuania, and Bessarabia. Instead of discovering the legendary El Dorado, where gold is raked off the streets, they found fiery climes that fry the brains and a frosty cold that ices the heart. The longing for their homeland gnawed and devoured them, but the way back was cut off. So they trod the burning sand in the streets of the poor neighborhoods. They knocked on doors, and with the aid of a few words of broken Spanish peddled merchandise on the installment plan. Slowly, very slowly, they adjusted to the new surroundings.
The narrow and sandy street was crammed with single-story houses, small shops, and workplaces. Shoemakers sat on low benches by open doors. The sound of sewing machines, sanding planes, and wood saws could be heard throughout. The hoarse, drunken voice of a man trying to drown his bitter fate in alcohol issued forth from a liquor store. White, black, and bronze women trudged about, disheveled and shabby, and bought from odorous groceries and butcher shops. Naked children played in the hot sand, their dirty faces covered with flies. Dogs, tired from the heat, lay about with outstretched paws and hanging tongues, not even caring to chase the clouds of flies away from their bodies.
In this little street, in one of the workshops, bent over an old shoe, sat Nathan the shoemaker. His shirt, damp and open, showed a mighty, hairy chest. True, only a vestige of his once dense beard remained, a tuft barely covering the point of his chin. Still, it was the same old Nathan, the same full, ruddy cheeks, only tanned a little darker. Hardly a year earlier, shortly after treading for the first time the earth of his new home, Nathan had met the few Jews there. He was shocked to discover how they procured their livelihoods.
Two of them, who befriended Nathan, advised him to become a peddler. Among the wares they sold on credit were not only ladies’ underpants and slips but also crucifixes and holy images. When Nathan saw such merchandise, he fell speechless. Upon recovering, he stammered: “How can a Hasid like you, Meyer-Ber, ordained as a rabbi, and a pious Jew and a Torah scholar like you, Simon, even come close to such an impurity?” In the old country, Nathan, a typical shtetl Jew, would actually shut his windows to avoid hearing the impure chants of Christian processionals passing by. He could not grasp how others like him could bring themselves to make a living by selling such things.
“Well,” said Meyer-Ber, smiling, “making a living may be compared to saving a life, and that is permitted even on Yom Kippur.” Nathan still could not fathom this. An infinite distance separated him from such objects; generations had carved out an abyss between him and them. A voice at once within him and from far away in time commanded him, “No, no, never shall you draw livelihood from their holy objects.”
After some sleepless nights, Nathan reminded himself that he had brought along his shoemaker’s tools, stacked away somewhere at the inn where he was staying. He counted the dollars that he had sewn into the shoulder pad of his coat and decided to return to his old trade. It was not hard to find a workshop, and a year passed by as he set on his bench, mending the worn-out shoes of his poor neighbors in the barrio.
One cannot say that the beginning went smoothly. No, it was not easy for him to adapt. First there was the problem of the language. And the craft itself was different here. But Nathan stubbornly overcame all difficulties. Most of all, God’s Holy Name stood by him, helping him to succeed. The poor folks of the neighborhood took a liking to the foreigner with the athletic build, who sat on his low bench from dawn to sunset, smiling good- naturedly with his shining black eyes. The quality of his work was good, and he was willing to lend a few cents with a smile. True, he would not become rich this way. But he made a living, praised be God’s Holy Name, and always had a few dollars to mail back home. Nathan had even managed to send some zlotys toward the debt on the Torah scroll. He also deposited several hundred pesos in the bank. Some time later, he would return home and live as God had ordained. “Because,” thought Nathan occasionally, “what kind of a life is this in this strange land, far from wife and children, bereft of Sabbaths and holidays, without a synagogue, a rabbi, or a kosher slaughterer?”
At other moments, Nathan thanked the Eternal One for bringing him to this new land. Mostly he did so in the evening hours, as he was about to close his shop. The burning sun would start to shrink, becoming a blood-red disk sinking quickly into the pleasant waters of the sea. At such times, Nathan would sit at his bench, unable to avert his glance from the fiery disk that had already reached the horizon. Slowly, the disk would sink into the water. Minute by minute it descended; soon it had dived halfway into the sea. Only a small part could still be seen, resembling a human head trying to peer over the horizon. Then, suddenly, the entire disk had vanished. Only a faint gleam, like a dying flame, remained to color the sky dark blue. Alone, the edges of the horizon reflected the fiery disk, as night arrived in this part of God’s earth.
Nathan stayed seated, unable to take his eyes off the Creator’s wonders. Serenity enveloped him, especially when he had had a good day. How much would that day’s income amount to, converted to zlotys? Nathan reckoned some thirty zlotys. Wait a minute, he thought, as he recalculated. He had never had a head for figures. Why thirty? More than forty. Back in the shtetl he would have been satisfied to earn that much in a week. He thanked the Eternal One for the favor shown him, and his heart swelled with joy and hope. In one more year, he would be able to marry off his two eldest daughters properly, and with God’s help, all would turn out fine.
Sometimes, however, he was seized wit
h remorse. It started some two months after he had set up his small shop. One evening, a darkskinned woman about thirty years of age came into the shop. She looked around as if searching for something. When Nathan asked what he could do for her, she asked in Spanish if the maestro could make her a new pair of shoes. He stammered in his broken Spanish that here he only resoled shoes, but in the town he came from he had been the best craftsman, and his shoes were sheer adornments.
“Muy bien,” said the woman. Nathan asked her to take a seat. She sat down and Nathan prepared to take her measurements. Not a believer in the new fashion of measuring with a tape, he looked around for a piece of paper. The preliminaries lasted all the longer as his glance began to slide along the stranger’s fleshy body. It took him a while to find the right piece of paper, and when he did, it ripped. One could not say that happened intentionally, but everything simply slipped from his hands. His glance fell upon her high and firm breasts, delineated by her tight dress; upon her partially bare back, her round shoulders, and naked arms. When he was finally ready, he asked her to remove her shoe and began to trace her foot on the paper. He felt the warmth of her slight foot on his wide, bearish paws, and a flame rushed through him. His hand started to slide up her leg, higher and higher. Strangely, the woman did not discourage him. Her full body just twitched nervously.
In the course of the few days required to finish her shoes, she came in often. She stayed a bit longer each time, asking innocuous questions. At first, Nathan could not understand why she ordered a pair of shoes from him rather than from one of the big stores. The more he pondered this riddle, the more his imagination presented him the succulent silhouette that ignited his blood with passion. One night, around ten o’clock, as Nathan sat half-dozing in front of his shop, she strolled by. The street was deserted. He greeted her, and she stopped in her tracks. He took her by the hand. She looked around, entered the shop, and stayed until dawn.
As it is written in the Talmud, one sin leads to another. Nathan’s blood streamed with turbulence, like a violent river that has destroyed the dam that restrained it, leaving the waters unchecked. After all, no hindrances stood in his way. The women of the neighborhood were drawn to him like flies to honey. Especially the dark-skinned women, who invented all kinds of excuses to come to his shop. The radiance of his pitch-black eyes and his steely arms inflamed their blood.
And Nathan? He drank from this well like a desert wanderer who cannot quench his thirst. He felt as if he had cast away half his age. His sins, which lay like a load on his back, would frighten him from time to time. But that fear was no more than a shadow that vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. Back home, a Jew was held in check by a wife and children. There, he had been a craftsman who worshiped in a synagogue and fretted about livelihood. But here, where there were no obstacles, a man could do whatever he liked. At such times, Nathan would gladly have welcomed a miracle that would cause his strong body to shrink suddenly and become small and thin.
Days, weeks, and months passed. The Hebrew month of Elul approached. True, in the new land, no signs reminded him of the impending Days of Awe. No one blew the ram’s horn or knocked on his shutters at dawn, calling him to worship. But looking at his calendar one afternoon, he realized with a start that in a few days it would be time to attend the first services. He panicked. “Master of the Universe,” he sighed, “the Days of Awe are upon us, but no preparations have been made.” Indeed, it was no surprise that the few Jews involved in prostitution rings should not care about the Days of Awe. But what of Meyer-Ber the Hasid and Simon the rabbi? Had they also forgotten the High Holy Days?
Nathan removed his apron, in preparation to go downtown, seek out Simon and Meyer-Ber, and discuss the matter with them. Just as he was about to leave the shop, a customer came in with some work that had to be done immediately. Soon night had fallen. The store where Simon and Meyer-Ber were likely to be found had already shut. Nathan, dead tired from the day’s work, decided to leave the matter for the morrow, when God willing he would attend to it. At that moment, accursed Satan—who will stick his rotten snout in the way whenever a Jew is about to perform a mitzvah—stole into Nathan’s heart and gnawed on it like a worm.
Satan demanded an explanation: “In what holy book is it written that you of all people—Nathan the shoemaker—have been appointed by God to organize a Jewish congregation? You brought along a Torah scroll that you had purchased with blood money. If you approach them meekly, you will never recover a single peso. When will you get back the hard-earned money you poured in? How do you plan to repay the debt? If pious Jews like them can trade in images of Jesus and crucifixes, surely you can exploit the situation to recover your money. Don’t rush. Take it easy. If they can do without High Holy Day services, so can you.”
And because the lust for money is so strong, Nathan heeded Satan’s counsel and failed to seek out his coreligionists. Two days passed very slowly, two days that seemed as interminable as the very wanderings of the Jewish people. Nathan’s unrest, mixed with helpless anger, grew with each hour that Simon and Meyer-Ber did not appear.
On the evening of the third day, they entered his shop, along with a huge man with a thick, red neck. Nathan recognized the man. Everyone in town knew of his shady dealings, but nobody dared say a word. He was a bully and an informer. On the other hand, he performed favors for his fellow Jews, such as intervening with the authorities on their behalf. He would go down to the port and greet immigrants as they arrived, helping them get the official papers they needed. He also lent them their first pesos. Behind his back, he was called Reuben the Rat, but to his face he was called Don Roberto. Nathan stared at the man with curiosity and surprise. He reckoned that Meyer-Ber and Simon had come about regarding the matter that weighed so heavily on his heart, but what had this character to do with it?
The three of them sat down. Meyer-Ber spoke first. “As you well know, Reb Nathan, the Days of Awe are approaching. Two years ago there was no possibility of organizing services. Last year, we had the requisite number but no Torah scroll. Today, however, we have a quorum of Jews—may they multiply—and you have a Torah scroll. Therefore it would be a sin not to conduct proper services. So we have come to borrow the Torah scroll from you.”
At that, Don Roberto took out one hundred pesos and rasped, “I contribute one hundred pesos from my own pocket.”
Nathan listened but did not answer. For a while there was deep silence, during which Israel-León’s tightly drawn face appeared before Nathan. His sad and cloudy eyes spoke mutely to him: “Nathan, God forbid! Do not dare profane the great honor the Lord of the Universe has bestowed upon you. He has charged you with bringing the first Torah scroll to a distant, foreign land, so that Jews there might properly worship during the Days of Awe.” Nathan harkened to Israel-León’s sad voice, and said: “Thank you very much, my fellow Jews. I appreciate your gesture, Don Roberto. You may take the Torah scroll. There is no need to pay.” And the first time the melodious call to the Torah was heard in the distant, foreign land of Colombia, Nathan’s heart swelled with joy. Silently, he thanked the Eternal One for the privilege granted him: to bring the first holy scroll. And a silent happiness warmed his soul, for God had helped him withstand the temptation to trade for money this very great mitzvah.
CHILE
Solomon Licht
YOYNE OBODOVSKI (b. ?)
Translated from the Yiddish by Moisés Mermelstein
Yoyne Obodovski first settled in Argentina and then lived for twenty-five years in Chile, finally moving to Israel. “Solomon Licht” (licht in Yiddish means “light”) is a haunting pogrom story.
THE NIGHT HAD already fallen. The starry sky gazed down, forlorn, on the infinite skyscrapers and the electric signs dazzling with fiery colors, teasing the helpless night, challenging its dominion.
The city was already half-asleep. The wheels of an electric streetcar could be heard from time to time, and the hiss of a late train cut into the nocturnal silence.
Solomon Licht was still awake. He leafed nervously through one book after another. A strange indifference kept him from concentrating. A burden lay upon him, filling the void of his small, square room. Each movement, the slightest shrug, cast a mute shadow on the bare walls. His small figure suddenly grew into a huge silhouette. Solomon enjoyed feeling small, even smaller than he actually was. Uncomfortable within the four gray, bare walls, he switched off the light and climbed up to the roof, where he often secluded himself. Solomon deeply inhaled the air of the approaching spring, his eyes fixed on the clear starry sky. The night and he, it seemed, were both homeless in the neon metropolis.
As he started to pace the wide roof, memories came to him. He saw himself as a child in the small Ukrainian village, where nature bewitched the spirit, urging it higher and higher. He shuddered anxiously and stopped. He closed his eyes, as if deciding no longer to view the events of every day with them. Then he freed his memory to roam the paths and byways of his ever near past.
Almost forgotten episodes, covered in mist, became clear, awakening bittersweet longing within him. The entire village—the inhabitants, surroundings, even the water mill, the croak of frogs, and the dreamy sounds of night—wove into his soul. In his spare time, when he could escape the din of the city, he ceased to be Solomon Licht and became the village itself, spreading the luminous bliss and the fragrant freshness of orchards and meadows.
He shuddered with pain. He opened his eyes and resumed pacing, as if warding off an ominous vision that barred his way back to the past. He heard the melancholy chiming of the church bells, which resounded with sinister boding in the stillness of the village. A peasant mob formed hastily, armed with knives, axes, and scythes. Rifles cracked, as Jews were being chased. A few feet away from him, a fallen friend lay moaning, life draining from his prayerful stare.