Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Three months later they stood under the canopy and smashed the glass. Then he learned again to dance. He danced and the dancing made him weep at his own wedding. No one commented on this because they knew he was a survivor.

  A spring evening. The pink house in Ramat Gan. The western sky running with iridescent colors. A breeze from the sea. Bread baking somewhere in the neighborhood. Children’s cries spilling down the street. Jewish children shouting in Hebrew as if it were not a reinvented language.

  He was stretched out on a deck chair in the shade of the almond tree. Ruth came across the terrace carrying two lime-green glasses, frosted, tinkling with ice. He lifted an arm and waved at her. It had been a bleak day at the office. The Eichmann trial was pending, and he was an assistant prosecutor weighted with the task of assembling the case. He was in charge of photographic evidence.

  She walked toward him, the antithesis of the horror photos, those heaps of motionless faces, limbs, torsos, tangled, locked in a cat’s cradle of glossy 8 x 10, black-and-white death. She was brown, her lips full, her eyes tender and humorous on him, her skirt and her blouse the color of cream conch shells. She put a glass into his hands. He lay back on the deck chair and closed his eyes. She stroked the hair away from his forehead, undid his tie, and took, off his shoes. She undid the spots of jade at her ear lobes.

  “Supper’s almost ready.”

  “What is it?”

  “Fish. Latke. Melon. Miriam sent Brazilian coffee. It came in the mail today, just in time for my tired man.”

  “Just in time.”

  “What’s he like, this Eichmann?”

  “He’s the most normal person you can imagine.”

  “Doesn’t he froth at the mouth?”

  “A reflective sort. He speaks in measured tones.”

  “You’ve spoken with him?”

  “I met him today for the first time. We had to verify certain photos the Americans took at Wobbelin. The British have supplied more photos from Bergen-Belsen. He confirmed them all.”

  “Did you have to look at any from Treblinka?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh David”, she said, stroking his arm.

  “Treblinka and Oświęcim and Belzec, and the others. The list is so long. Some new German archive photos were found in a warehouse by U.S. Army Intelligence. They were forwarded to us by the embassy. Boxes of them. The SS delighted in keeping scrapbooks apparently.”

  “The Treblinka pictures. Did you. . . recognize any of the victims?”

  “My mother? My father? My brothers? My sisters? No. The faces were strangers. It was unbelievable, Ruth. The faces all looked the same, drained of personality. Human masks in life and in death.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I felt nothing. How strange to look at that and feel nothing. It becomes impossible to think about evil on that scale. The mind switches off after certain boundaries have been crossed. In a way the Nazis have won. They have turned the victims into statistics even for us.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

  “Intellectually, I agree with you. It’s not true. And philosophically, I maintain my outrage. But you can’t sustain it for long before it starts eating you up from the inside out.”

  “Maybe you should hand this over to someone else. There are lots of jobs for a lawyer of your caliber. I’ve heard rumors about you.” She wagged her finger at him, teasing.

  “What rumors?”

  “You’re being groomed for higher things. My department head, who’s a friend of the wife of the Minister of Justice, says she heard that you’re cabinet material within a decade.”

  “I want to stay with the trial, Ruth. I want to see this bastard hung. If God died at Oświęcim, Eichmann will follow him on the gallows in Jerusalem.”

  “Shhh!” she said, putting her finger across his lips. She was of that genre of sabra who believed in God in a distracted way, but who thought that Zionism was the form divine action must take in this century. Nevertheless, she retained a certain vestige of reverence, an inheritance from her Sephardic ancestors.

  Their bedroom in the night was a tropical garden. Consolations of the flesh. Union of the flesh. Joy of the flesh. No more hungers of the flesh. No more pits full of dead flesh.

  He woke up yelling, gasping for air in the hot little bedroom in Ramat Gan.

  “Shhhh, shhhhh”, she said to him.

  “They won, Ruth.”

  “They lost. We beat them. God beat them.”

  “Where is God?”

  She took his hand and pulled it across her belly.

  “The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east”, she whispered. “And he placed there the man whom he had formed. The Lord God cast a deep sleep on the man, and while he was asleep, he took one of his ribs from his side and closed up his side with flesh. Then the Lord God formed the woman from the flesh of the man. He woke the man and gave her to him, and he to her.”

  The breezes sighed through the room, bearing the scent of the sea, and lemon blossoms.

  “We are a zivig”, she said. “We are chosen, a heaven-blessed couple. Let us bring a child into this world, you and me. Together.”

  Though they had been long married, seasoned lovers, comfortable in their familiar flesh, on that night he kissed her with a kiss that was the first kiss ever created in the world. Then the man and the woman became one flesh with a passion that transcended all previous passions. They clung to each other and were naked and knew no shame.

  A month later she took his hand again and pressed it to her abdomen.

  “In here is God’s answer to you, David. A child lives in here. We made this one together from your flesh and my flesh.”

  He held her and knew that it was good. Joy of the flesh. Joy of the heart. Joy of the soul. He had them all at Ramat Gan.

  “We have won”, she said.

  A few weeks later the terrorist bomb exploded in the marketplace, and the empty years began in earnest. Elijah shook himself.

  Too much time had passed. The sweetest memories—and those that were bitter unto death—each in its turn had sunk beneath the waves of healing that had come with faith. But the healing had not effaced that abiding sense of loss, the gap left by an amputated marriage, the awareness that the entire world was aching with the pain of abandonment. Faith had tamed the tyranny of his emotions. It had defused their power to cast him into despair. But the grief remained.

  In the Assisian night, that human loneliness now cut deep with a sharpness he had not felt for many years. He got out of bed and went to the window. There were a few stars scattered here and there across the sky. The breeze was warm and scented with crops. Sprinklers hissed in the vineyards. The loneliness bit into his soul like a cry in the darkness. He searched within himself for a word that might answer this cry, and found himself empty. He stared into the night, as if to penetrate its riddle by the force of his will. Did the absence of light contain answers? Only insofar as it pointed to the missing light, bearing mute witness to what would return with the dawn. Perhaps he merely wished to state his rejection of illusion. As if to say, I will outstare you.

  “You have not won”, he said finally, aloud, and went back to bed.

  * * *

  That night she came to him in a dream. She did not speak. She looked at him and love came to him from her eyes. She was happy. She stood in a shallow river. Its water was blue, effervescent. In the background, there were loaded fig trees, almond trees, lemon trees, limes, oranges, grapefruit, pomegranates.

  She placed both hands on her belly and cupped them. She offered the cup of her palms to him, and he saw within it a small child curled, asleep.

  “This is our daughter”, she said in words that were soundless.

  “I don’t know her”, he said anxiously.

  “You know her. She sleeps but her heart is awake.”

  “Where is my mother?” he cried.

  “Your mother and your father are asleep, but their hearts are awa
ke. They will rise on the last day.”

  “Where is she, my mother?”

  Ruth looked to her right and upward. His eyes searched for the place to which her glance was directed.

  “There is your mother”, said Ruth. “Your new mother. She is given to you this day for the work that is before you.”

  He looked up and saw a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and on her head a crown of twelve stars. Because she was with child she cried aloud in pain as she labored to give birth.

  Then another sign appeared in the sky: it was a huge dragon, flaming red, with seven heads and ten horns; on his heads were seven crowns. His tail swept a third of the stars from the sky and hurled them down to earth. Then the dragon stood before the woman about to give birth, ready to devour her child when it should be born.

  She gave birth to a son—a boy destined to shepherd all the nations. Her child was caught up to God and to His throne. The woman herself fled into the desert where a special place had been prepared for her by God; there she was taken care of for twelve hundred and sixty days.

  Then war broke out in Heaven; Michael and his angels battled against the dragon. Although the dragon and his angels fought back, they were overpowered and lost their place in heaven. The huge dragon, the ancient serpent known as the devil or Satan, the seducer of the whole world, was driven out; he was hurled down to earth and his minions with him.

  Then he heard a voice in Heaven say:

  Now have salvation and power come,

  the reign of our God and the authority of His Anointed One.

  For the accuser of our brothers is cast out,

  who night and day accused them before our God.

  They defeated him by the blood of the Lamb

  and by their testimony;

  love for life did not deter them from death.

  So rejoice you heavens, and you that dwell therein!

  But woe to you, earth and sea,

  for the devil has come down upon you!

  His fury knows no limits

  for his time is short.

  Elijah looked at the face of the woman clothed with the sun and was no longer afraid.

  “All Heaven is waiting to be filled with her martyrs”, she said.

  Then the seasons changed and the clouds raced like maddened horses, leaves fell from the trees, and the fruit of it fell too, and the sea raged.

  After that he remembered nothing.

  * * *

  Elijah woke with the first light.

  When Don Matteo did not appear at the time they had agreed upon, he went in search of the guestmaster.

  “Where is Don Matteo?”

  “Oh,” said the wizened Italian friar, “he’s been wrestling with the devil again.”

  “The devil?”

  “The prior has given Don Matteo an obedience. He must stay in bed until his bruises are healed.”

  “Bruises? Has he fallen?”

  “No, no”, said the friar irritably. “The bruises the devil gave him last night!”

  Thoroughly puzzled, Elijah found the prior’s office and knocked on the door. A voice said Ammesso! He entered and found himself face to face with a pleasant-looking individual in his fifties, staring at him through thick glasses.

  “Buon giorno, Father. You are the guest from the Vatican?”

  “I am.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I am worried about Don Matteo. We had agreed to say Mass together this morning and he hasn’t arrived as planned. The porter tells me that he is. . .”

  “He is unwell. It is not possible for anyone to see him for several days.”

  “But I leave this morning. May I not at least say good-bye to him?”

  “I regret. . .”

  “It is of utmost importance that I speak with him. Last night he said our meeting this morning would be essential to my mission.”

  “He didn’t explain?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I am truly sorry, Father, but it is impossible.”

  “Is he near death?”

  “No.”

  “Then I must see him. It concerns a papal mission.”

  The prior stiffened and light glanced off his glasses.

  “I have an entire community to deal with. This house cannot be permitted to collapse into disorder because of a single friar, even one who is singularly blessed by God. He has his work for God and I have my work for God. Please accept this. I can explain no further.”

  Elijah left the office more perplexed than ever. After saying Mass alone in the chapel, he went to the refectory.

  Jakov brought him breakfast.

  “You go today?”

  “We are leaving after breakfast.”

  Jakov thrust out his hand and Elijah shook it.

  “Good-bye, Father. I thank you pray me. I better. I think it my family in heaven.”

  “I am glad you feel better. Let us keep praying for each other.”

  The giant bobbed his head up and down, but he made no signs to leave.

  “Jakov, do you know what has happened to Don Matteo?”

  “I hear it he got hurt. He got sores on him. Doctor come. Don Matteo in bed.”

  “I would like to see him.”

  “Nobody can see him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Prior say no.”

  “Where is Don Matteo’s cell?”

  “Far away”, said the brother looking at him curiously. “I know that you can’t break obedience. But I too am under obedience. The Pope told me to see Don Matteo.”

  “This is good”, said Jakov uneasily.

  “Do you remember what you felt when I put my hands on your head and we prayed?”

  “I never forget it.”

  “My soul needs Don Matteo like that. I need his hands on my head.”

  Jakov considered this development.

  “Holy Father tell you?”

  “I believe the Holy Father wants this.”

  “It is difficulty. I have holy obedience. You have holy obedience. But these two bump.”

  “They bump into each other only if they drive toward each other head on. If my obedience steers around your obedience then there is no crash.”

  “I think on this, Father.”

  He went away in the direction of the chapel. He was back within five minutes and said gravely, “I take it you his cell.”

  Elijah had to trot to keep up with the stride of the young friar, who passed nervously through a maze of hallways and wings. They did not meet a soul. Finally, they came to a full stop in a side corridor near the back of the complex. It smelled of age and desertion.

  “You stay here by this door. I go. That way, no crash.”

  “No crash, Jakov. Thank you and bless you.”

  “Perfect joy, Father!”

  He rapped gently on the door. A feeble word came from the interior and he entered.

  He was shocked by what he saw. It was a tiny cell containing only a washstand, a prie-dieu, a recessed wall shrine in which stood a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and a crucifix. Behind the door there was a hospital bed, painted white, peeling badly. On the bed lay a body with arms stretched out at its sides. When the face turned to him he gasped.

  The face was covered in livid purple splotches from the brow to the chin. The arms that protruded from the sleeves of a hospital gown were also bruised. The hands were bandaged across the palms and brown stains showed through the material.

  “My angel told me that Jakov would bring you.”

  “Don Matteo! What has happened to you?!”

  “It’s nothing, nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  He pulled a chair beside the bed.

  “It’s the usual. I should have known it was coming.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a good sign. Don’t look so worried, my son.”

  “Father, I repeat, what has happened to you? You have had an accident. Di
d you fall down?”

  “Yes. I fell down.”

  “I detect a mental reservation behind that answer. Tell me.”

  “We needn’t speak of it. It’s enough that God has brought you here. All is well.”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  “Someone hurt me. But it’s over now.”

  “Who was it? A madman? Has the culprit been punished?”

  “The culprit will be punished on the Last Day.”

  Elijah sat staring, breathing heavily, indignant.

  He looked at the face of the old priest and saw ages upon ages of wisdom in it. He looked at the ancient hands with their bleeding bandages. He looked at the feet. They too were bandaged and stained.

  Then he understood.

  “Why don’t you speak, my son?”

  Elijah could not answer.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you afraid of the work the Lord has given you to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are afraid you will be deceived?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are afraid you might be seduced into serving the enemy?”

  “Yes.”

  The friar asked several such questions, which informed Elijah that he had read his soul.

  “You have no strength for this mission?” concluded the priest.

  “I have no strength. Rome has made a mistake. This mission needs a saint.”

  “Rome hasn’t made a mistake.”