by S. Agnon
I went home. My wife, may she rest in peace, was still alive then. While we were having breakfast she commented that I looked preoccupied. I wanted to tell her all that happened, but not everything one sees in the beit midrash has to be told to one’s wife. I said to her, “I’m in a hurry now. Our Master is waiting for me.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he wants me to deliver something for him.”
She looked at me and said nothing. As I was leaving she said, “Do you remember that incident with the tax collector and the melamed?”
“Something like that you do not forget.”
“That must be what is going on now. He wants you to deliver a message for him.”
“If that is what it is, I would have been the first to know. Besides, a man is not banned by the community unless he has been summoned twice and refused to go both times. That tax collector paid for his sin in this world on top of what awaits him in the world to come. No one defies our Master. When he calls for his shamash, the shamash goes.”
Now what was the story of the tax collector? There was a wealthy tax collector who hired a melamed to teach his son. The melamed toiled with the boy all winter. When it got to be spring and the month of Nissan was approaching, the melamed got ready to go home to his wife. He went to the tax collector to receive his wages. The tax collector, however, first wanted to examine the son to see what he had learned. He asked him if he knew how to say the kaddish. The boy could not. In fact, the boy had no idea of what the melamed had taught him, never mind what he had not. The tax collector became enraged at the melamed and paid him not a penny. The melamed stated yelling and screaming at him. “You want your payment?” said the tax collector. “Well here it is!” And he slapped him in the face. The melamed took the tax collector to the rabbinical court, but he did not show up. Our Master then instructed me to go and tell the man that if there is no legal accounting here below, there certainly is one up above, and if he would not appear before the local rabbinical court he would absolutely be hauled before the beit din of Gehinnom. So I went to him without the least fear of him or his dogs or his servants. I remarked to my wife that this story shows that if our Master himself fulfills the commandment in the Torah “Fear no man,” even his assistants should be intimidated by no one. I said “his assistants” in the plural so that my wife would not be overly proud of me. Sometimes a wife’s pride in her husband can make him haughty and arrogant.
I went back to our Master’s house. He had been brought a cup of milk and a roll and taken off his pair of Rabbenu Tam’s tefillin, which he gave to me to put away. He had never done that before. I surmised that our Master was feeling weak and was seeking to revive himself. He smiled and said, “Hah! How people forget. They sent me food.” I realized that I, too, had forgotten that on Mondays and Thursdays our Master had the practice of fasting. But since one did not make small talk with our Master, I kept silent.
Then our Master said, “I would like to go to a certain place. Will you accompany me?” I was astounded. This great man whose company all seek is asking me to accompany him! If he asked me to go with him to Mountains of Darkness would I not go? Many times it seemed as though the look in his eyes told what he wanted to say to me. Our Master went on, “I want to go to a place where no living person ever goes. And should the attribute of justice begin to assert itself, the mercy of our blessed God will prevail.”
Our Master saw that I was having a hard time understanding his meaning. So he sat down and explained. “I have gone as far as I could on behalf of the poor girl. The rabbinic authorities have all determined that she shall remain an agunah for the rest of her life. And since no witnesses have come forward to affirm that her husband is dead and buried, I want to find out for myself if he is living or dead.”
I began to shake. I stood there trembling and aghast. Our Master reiterated, “If he is alive, he will surely repent. If he is dead, he is in Gehinnom, where all sinners in Israel descend. I will go there and see him. Will you go with me?”
I asked our Master which prayers I should say. He glanced at me and said, “A person should always feel as if the opening of Gehinnom were right underneath him. So when you pray you should feel as if you are standing on the very top of Gehinnom. The whole time you are praying it should feel as if these are the very last prayers you will utter in this world because you may never be given another chance. The grace of God allows us to pray but once in a lifetime. And what is that one and only time? That moment when you are standing in prayer.” I then asked, “What should I have in mind during my prayer?” Our Master gazed at me and said, “Have in mind to keep your eyes open. If he is hiding from me and I do not see him, your eyes will be open to notice where he is.”
5
On the Friday evening of the Sabbath of Repentance I went to our Master to ask him when he would give his discourse on repentance so that I could announce it. Truth be told, there really was no need to inquire. The normal order of things was that on the Sabbath of Repentance right after the midday meal, everyone would gather in the synagogue and recite psalms until the rabbi would get up to speak. But in those days nothing was done in our town without first asking our Master. I used to think that this was simply out of respect for him, until he once told me that all things require preparation in advance, especially repentance. A discourse on repentance certainly requires preparation of the heart. Our Master set the time. But right after I left him he called me back. I thought he was calling me back to tell me when we were departing for that place, I mean going to visit Gehinnom. He looked at me and said, “When you announce the time of my address, say in my name that people should be careful not to put up their Sukkah in an impure place.”
This was a brand new directive that no rabbi had ever issued before, and he could see that it puzzled me. The rabbis of our town had never been concerned about this issue; nor for that matter had the rabbis of other communities. Our Master continued, “Our many sins compel us to live where we live and go where we go, and no one can be sure on what ground his feet are treading or where exactly he is standing. But a Sukkah, which epitomizes the mystery of the clouds of glory that God spread over Israel in the desert, requires a taintless spot on which to be erected, and we have to be very, very careful about that.” When our Master said, “and go where we go” I had the feeling that we were already on the way to the place where the young agunah’s husband was. Our Master gave me an approving look and indicated that our conversation was over.
On the way home I went over every word I had heard. How good it is to know that we have leaders whose words keep us on the straight path and sustain us in this Exile.
I came home and began making preparations for the Sabbath. Not only what was needed in the synagogue but at home as well, for my wife, may she rest in peace, was quite weak and could hardly stand on her feet. After the Sabbath I turned to Yom Kippur preparations. God’s mercies were with us, because the holy day passed without incident. No one fainted from the fast, those who led the service did not stray from the proper melodies, the Torah reader made no mistakes in chanting the text. Not a single candle went out, neither those lit for the living nor those lit for the dead. There were so many candles that they all melted together. A great many people had perished in the slaughter and their surviving relatives lit candles in their memory. Our Master lit many for his own family. The only one left was that little girl now in limbo because of the sin her husband committed.
The next day I brought over to our Master the silver case in which he kept his etrog. Every year my first wife, may she rest in peace, would polish it in honor of the approaching festival. She always did this between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. That year, because she was not well, she waited until the day after Yom Kippur. This meant a change in our Master’s routine, for it was his custom in the evening, at the end of Yom Kippur after havdalah, to take out his etrog and put it in its case. Our Master did not even notice the change.
I entered to find him in the company of two
men, the venerable magnate Reb Akiva Shas, so named because he was fortunate to own a complete set of the Talmud, and, like him distinguished in stature and character but not in wealth, Reb Meshullam, a Jew from Germany who was a descendant of the composer of the Akdamut hymn read on the festival of Shavuot. Old age had kept them from visiting the evening before, right after Yom Kippur, so they came the next day.
I put the etrog case down in front of our Master. He looked at it and remarked, “I understand your wife is in need of mercy from on high.” “Yes,” I said, “she is sick. And, thank God, we have a houseful of little children.” I expected our Master to make some kind of blessing for her recovery, but he did not. Only later did I understand why. He knew what we did not: that her end had already been ordained. She died that year. Our Master then placed the etrog in the case and left the case open.
The etrog gave off its fragrance as our Master resumed reminiscing with his two elderly visitors about bygone days, and in due course he told a story that, in the particular context, was disconcerting. There was a time when for many years etrogs were scarce and people began to worry that Jews would soon forget what an etrog was. One year, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, two Jews from a distant country showed up with etrogs for sale. The community bought one at a very steep price. No one seemed to care that the community was mired in debt, having borrowed money from the local priests to ransom prisoners. Many doubted that the etrog was kosher or if one could even make the blessing over it. Nevertheless, everyone did, even the doubters, because the commandment to bless the etrog was very dear to them. After the Sukkot festival someone got the idea that the etrog should be examined. Everyone came to see. They cut it open and discovered that it was in fact a lemon, which meant that all the blessings made over it were in vain. Around Passover time, when the snow was melting, two corpses were found in the forest. Wolves had eaten them and nothing was left but bones and clothing. The clothing was examined and found to be that of the men who had sold the etrog. Whom to suspect of their murder? Not Jews, for even if they had known that the men had sold them a lemon instead of an etrog they would not have committed murder. Not God, for God does not execute judgment unjustly. They convened a beit din to look into the legal status of the wives of the dead men. Were they agunot or did the clothing found prove them to be widows? The question became moot when the wicked Khmelnitski’s pogroms erupted and many women were taken into captivity, including the widows of the etrog sellers.
Once his two visitors had gone, our Master showed me the passage in the talmudic tractate ’Eruvin where it says that Gehinnom has three openings: one in the desert, one in the sea, and one in Jerusalem. He also showed me another passage there that says that Gehinnom has seven names, and he explained to me the fine points of the differences between them. He concluded by telling me that since the destruction of Jerusalem not every wicked person has the merit of going down to Gehinnom from the opening that is in Jerusalem. For the majority of the wicked, Gehinnom opens right at their feet, under their very feet. He then taught me some laws relating to Gehinnom. But there was no mention of a visit there.
That night after the evening service I could see that our Master was staring at me. I went over to him but he said nothing. I stood and looked at him and saw that his face was burning and his white curls were glistening with sweat. Because of headaches that resulted from a sword wound, our Master never cut his hair, not even for Yom Kippur.
I stood before him but he paid no attention to me. I did not move. I thought to myself, he is not looking at me like that for no reason. He continued staring at me, when he said, “Take the lantern and let us set out.” Even though he did not say where we were going, I knew. Of course, when he said “let us set out” his actual words were “In the name of God, let us go.” I do not quote his exact words because any intelligent person knows that nothing is done without asking for God’s help first. Happy is he who asks and happy is he who is answered.
I now return to the main story.
I had with me candles made from the wax that dripped from the ones lit in the synagogue on Yom Kippur. I normally used them on Hoshana Rabba and on the twentieth of Sivan. In our Master’s time people did not run to catch the wax drippings from the Yom Kippur candles right after the concluding evening prayer. They were too intent on greeting our Master and getting a blessing from him. So the wax was mine for the taking. I took all the candles I had with me so that darkness would not engulf us if the journey would prove to be a long one. When a person is alive he cannot see that the pit of Gehinnom is open right in front of him. He goes on his way and has no idea that it is right in front of him. I put the candle into the lantern but had no need to light it, for all this happened between Yom Kippur and Sukkot and it was a bright night.
We went out to the courtyard of the synagogue. Our Master stood and checked the direction of the wind. He sniffed the breeze, got his bearings, and said, “Let us go.”
We passed the synagogues and came out behind the Strypa at the Butchers Street. From there we got to Ox Gore Street, so named because an ox once gored a woman and her children there. Today it is called King Street. From there we headed northwest.
As long as we were in the town our Master would take one step and stop, one step and stop. It seemed as if it was hard for him, as if he had almost forgotten how to walk. He never went outside more than twice a year, once to draw the water for making matzot and once on Rosh Hashanah to perform the tashlikh ritual. And if the first day of Shavuot was clear, he would go out to the surrounding hills to commemorate the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai. You can still see the rock on which he would sit and rest.
The moon shone and all was still. In the silence every so often we could hear the sound of hammering. People were putting up their sukkot. Once or twice our Master stopped to whisper the words “Hark! My beloved knocks.” I knew that his whole reason for stopping was to take in the sight of all those sukkot. He remembered the terrible years when people were hiding from Khmelnitski’s hordes and no one could observe the commandment of dwelling in the sukkah.
Once we got beyond town the moon disappeared and the road became rugged. I quickly lit the candle and held on to the lantern tightly. It felt as if someone were trying to grab it away from me. At times I thought I heard someone trying to blow out the candle though there was no wind. And it seemed as if someone was whispering in my ear, though I could not hear what it was. I got an earache from those murmurings. My fingers were shaking from holding on to the lantern so tightly.
We walked on in silence. When our Master was quiet, I was too. No one ever dared speak in his presence unless he gave them permission—that is how much respect we had for him. How far we walked I cannot say. Once we left the town I lost all track of time. I became numb with fear. If our Master had not motioned for me to take hold of the hem of his cloak, I would have died of fright. At first I thought he had some amulets with him, but when I heard him whispering, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for Thou art with me,” then I knew that he put his trust in the Eternal One, in Him alone, may He be blessed.
6
Were I to tell of all the difficulties our Master and I had on the way, I would never finish. Were I to recount all the places we passed, I would never get to the site of this story. Our Master extracted me from the domain of space just as he had taken me out of the flow of time. Much later, when I got back from where we had gone, all the places we passed through came back to me. They swirl before me even now, sometimes all jumbled together, sometimes hovering dimly on the ravines of hills and mountains, the sky above them lowering. The space between heaven and earth is as thin as an eggshell. Sometimes the earth rears itself up and presses against the sky, and sometimes the blue dome of the heavens takes on the dark color of the earth below. When I stand here, down below, it feels as though I am there, up above, and when I stand there, up above, it feels like I am here, down below. But enough of this.
The shamash
proceeded:
Those who think that a wicked person who dies goes down to Gehinnom do not know that there is a punishment even more severe. It is known as “being hurled from the hollow of the sling.” This sling punishment is not a place, as the treatises have it, but a bloody brawl, so named because of what is done to the sinners. They are so battered by the embroilments of their sins that they try to seek refuge in Gehinnom. But no sooner do they approach its gates than they are flung back to all the places where they sinned and where they thought about sinning. But now they cannot find those places because the sins committed there have disfigured them, and the ones that are still recognizable crumble underfoot, and sharp spikes spring up and impale their soles. Snarling dogs appear and nip at their heels. Some of these sinners are encrusted with soil, and when they are flung the soil is hurled and they remain suspended in midair. Some return to the gates of Gehinnom, while others never arrive there again.
A sinner’s punishment, then, is hard, but even worse is what happens to someone who wants to sin but does so only in thought and not in deed. Someone who has actually sinned is to some extent cleansed by the remorse, suffering and heartbreak he will feel. But one who wanted to sin and never had the chance to do so will be undone by the prideful illusion that he knows how to control himself even as the fires of temptation still burn within him. Worst of all are those contemptible people who feel false pangs of conscience and fancy that they have repented, yet all the while they are consumed by sinful thoughts and their illusory pleasures. No one can accuse me of loving sinners, but when I see them flung around like that, I am quite ready to hire myself out as the doorkeeper of Gehinnom so I can personally let them in.