My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by George Sylvester Viereck

  “You hear it, Pilate?”

  The air was becoming insufferable. Pilate was feeling drowsy. He longed to be back at the palace, drink cool wine, and read the new edition of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, which amused him greatly.

  “Ye have a custom that I should release unto you one at the Passover; will ye therefore that I release unto you the king of the Jews?”

  “No, not this man! Barabbas!” shouted a thousand voices. “Crucify him, crucify him!”

  Pilate turned his head for a moment and saw Procla. “Ah, my dear, you see it is not possible. I would gladly save him for one of your philosophic receptions, but the rabble, my love– —” He made a gesture of despair. Pilate’s wife did not answer. She made an indefinite motion.

  “Take him!” Pilate commanded, and turning to a soldier, “Bring me some perfumed water that I may wash my hands and face.”

  “Saviour! Save yourself! Try a miracle! King, look to your crown!”

  The people were frantic with joy. They laughed, shouted, parodied the words of Jesus. “ ‘Everyone who heareth my voice– —’ ”

  “Who heareth his voice?”

  “Where are your chariots, King?”

  A cross was dragged through the crowd, and laid upon the back of Jesus. He accepted the burden with the same meekness and unconcern with which he had accepted the judgment.

  I pushed through the crowd, and shouted at him, “If you are man, raise your cross and smite them.”

  Jesus answered without looking at me, “Love your enemies!”

  “Love! Love! It is more important to hate,” I answered, remembering the conversation of the young men. The people pressed in front and back of Jesus. The soldiers made a passage-way with their elbows, swearing at the top of their voices. Jesus stumbled under the weight of his cross.

  “Why do you hanker for martyrdom if your back is too weak for a wooden cross?” I asked. Somehow I felt his humiliation was my humiliation. It made all Jewry contemptible. My thwarted pity turned to mockery. I was not mocking Jesus alone. I was mocking myself. I was mocking all Judea.

  Jesus, paying no attention to his tormentors, flashed a look of anger at me, which struck me like a blow. To regain my composure, I continued, “You are a slave, preaching a slave-creed to slaves!”

  “Your crown is falling, King!” several shouted. The wreath fell. Someone raised it, and was about to replace it tauntingly upon the head of Jesus, but it crumbled in his hands.

  Many laughed, slapping their thighs.

  Procla motioned to me. “Cartaphilus, I must see you this evening!”

  I nodded.

  The rabble followed Jesus for a little while, jeering and throwing pebbles and refuse at him, but gradually growing weary, began to disperse. Something prompted me to continue. I walked leisurely at a distance, watching the shadow of Jesus and the cross, changing positions and sizes and mingling with each other.

  Suddenly from a nearby alley, John emerged, frail, slim, almost boyish, his tawny head disheveled.

  “They are taking him! They are taking him!” he cried.

  “Well, it’s of his own volition. He deliberately courted disaster!”

  “They are taking him,” he whimpered. I placed my hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Their blue was clouded; they seemed almost black. He stared at me uncomprehendingly. “John, wake up, don’t you know who I am?”

  “They will crucify him!”

  “Others have died before him, even gods. But still the world goes on. What is he to you?”

  John looked at me, bewildered.

  “Have you forgotten our ancient friendship, John?”

  “They are taking him to the Place of Skulls!”

  “John, answer me,” I almost shouted, “is Cartaphilus nothing to you any more?”

  “They will crucify him!” He buried his face in his hands. His curls overflowed both. Their trembling betrayed his intense agitation.

  “What is Jesus to you? Why have you given your heart to him?” I asked bitterly. “You have forgotten Cartaphilus.”

  He did not answer.

  “John, we have been together since childhood. Hardly a day passed without our seeing each other. We discovered sex together. We discovered love together. We discovered Woman together. Arm in arm we walked, discussing philosophy, declaiming poetry, laughing at the foibles and stupidities of mankind. Our lives mingled like two rivers, each giving magnitude to the other. Our thoughts intertwined like the roots of two trees. How can you leave me so utterly?”

  He did not answer.

  “And for what reason? For whom?”

  “Jesus is the Son of God.”

  “The Son of God? He is a carpenter, and a carpenter’s son. You know that, John.”

  He looked at me. In his eyes was the meekness of Jesus. I was furious. “You are even imitating his slavish look. We prided ourselves in being freemen. We despised the humility of our people. Have you forgotten that also?”

  He looked at me again, and without uttering a word, walked back to the city.

  II: MY MISTRESS MARY MAGDALENE—THE EYES OF JESUS—JESUS PUTS A SPELL ON ME—I AM THE SOLE WITNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION—THE EXECUTIONER’S DITTY

  AT the turning of the road which marks the limits of Jerusalem, a woman heavily veiled knelt before Jesus, kissing his feet and hands, and sobbing bitterly. The soldier and the executioner, believing her to be his mother, waited a while in patience, but noticing that she seemed reluctant to release their prisoner, they ordered: “Come on, Jew! We have no time to lose.”

  They dragged the woman away, and continued their walk. The woman remained with her face in the dust. Curious to know who it was, I approached her, and placed my hand gently upon her head. “Come, come, you must not despair so. And, after all, is it not of his own free will that he carries the cross?”

  She did not budge, but her sobbing subsided.

  She raised her head. Her hair splashed over her shoulders like a fountain of gold.

  Before she uncovered her face I knew it was Mary.

  I lifted her. I tried to embrace her, but she repelled me. “You, too? You, too! Mary, be reasonable! John has left me. Now you! Half of my life has vanished with John…and now, you! How shall I survive this? How shall a man live, whose heart has been crushed like iron upon an anvil?”

  “Believe in Him.”

  “Believe in him? Who is he?”

  “The Son of God.”

  “You love him, Mary! He has taken you and John from me!”

  “Believe in Him, Cartaphilus, and in Heaven we shall be together.”

  I laughed bitterly. “How he has perverted your minds with his diabolical nonsense!”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Love me now, and never mind what will happen in Heaven.”

  “I love you, Isaac.”

  Ordinarily my Jewish name irritated me; but now it sounded sweet and familiar. I opened my arms gently, as if to embrace her.

  “No, no! You do not understand. I love you, but never again that way– —” She looked at me as John and Jesus looked.

  “Oh!” I shouted. “He has poisoned you all. He has made slaves of you!”

  “Believe in him, Cartaphilus, and you will be so happy!”

  “Mary, have you forgotten how happy we were? Have you forgotten the days? Have you forgotten the nights?”

  She did not answer, gazing blankly into the distance.

  “Mary—my love!”

  She remained silent.

  “My first, my incomparable love! Mary! What can existence mean to me now? You were dearer and more precious to me than the very breath of my nostrils. My life was ecstasy. I had found the perfect friendship of John, and—you! I was happy beyond all mortals! I dreamed of a love untouched by jealousy, cruelty, selfishness. I dreamed of a Paradise infinitely more beautiful than Eden. And now—both of you are bewitched by this pseudo-prophet!”

  “Cartaphilus!” she admonished. “He is the Son of God!”
r />   I disregarded her remark.

  “If at least you loved a man, I could either smother my jealousy or slay my rival! It is not Jesus you love, but the dream of a madman—a ghost!”

  “Cartaphilus!”

  I remained silent for a while.

  “Mary, believe in him, if you will—but remain with me!”

  “He who believes in Him, must leave all things behind him and follow.”

  “He is a demon, Mary! Such selfishness is not human!”

  “ ‘Everyone that is of the truth, heareth my voice!’ ”

  “You are possessed!”

  She looked at me meekly. It was a meekness that stung me to the quick, the meekness of John, the meekness of Jesus.

  I could not bear her eyes. I rushed away. Her golden head disappeared in the distance. I hurried to catch up with the sorry procession.

  Jesus dragged his feet slowly. The cross, toppling to one side, beat lightly against his side. Suddenly he fell. I bent to lift him. He looked at me, but beckoned to one of the soldiers, saying in faulty Latin: “Help me, Roman!”

  I was white with anger. Jesus staggered to his feet. Tauntingly I muttered: “Where are your followers? Where is your father in Heaven, you fool? All have forsaken you. Go on! Go faster! Go to your self-chosen doom!”

  Jesus turned around and looked at me. All meekness had vanished from his face, now ablaze with anger. “I will go, but thou shalt tarry until I return.”

  His voice struck my ears like a hammer. His eyes were two long spears tipped with fire, hurled against my head. The earth quaked underneath me. My face burned as if enveloped by flames.

  “I will go, but thou shalt tarry until I return!” Did he repeat the words, or was it an echo that mocked me? I walked on, breathing heavily as if I had been climbing a mountain.

  “What did you say?” I touched his arm. He would not answer.

  “What did he say?” I inquired of one of the men.

  “I don’t know, Captain.”

  “He merely grumbled,” another added.

  But I had heard distinctly what he said.

  “He is raving!” I shouted. “He is raving!”

  The soldiers laughed.

  We reached the Place of Skulls. The soldier that accompanied the executioner left, and the executioner set to work immediately. I seated myself on a rock, and watched, unobserved.

  The stroke of the hammer against the nail which was to pierce the right palm was light. Nevertheless, the pain must have been intense, for Jesus pulled his hand from which a long thread of blood was streaming to the ground, out of the large, bony hand of the executioner. The latter, annoyed, struck his fingers a sharp blow, and crushed them.

  Jesus shivered.

  The right hand firmly fixed, the Roman turned to the left side of the cross. He placed the nail against the palm and struck one powerful blow, which united the hand to the wood.

  Jesus swooned.

  I was on the point of swooning myself, but bit my lip until it bled.

  The executioner did his work quietly and deftly. Only from time to time his breath lengthened into a low whistle of a Greek love song which had been in vogue at Rome some years previously. Pilate used to whistle it after several glasses of wine. The long nails for the feet were crooked. He straightened them out on a stone, beating lightly with his hammer against their humped backs. A few drops of the trickling blood touched his sandals, and he rubbed his feet in the dust.

  Two Roman soldiers approached as he was delivering his last strokes, more for the sake of finishing the accompaniment to the air he was whistling than for the need of fastening the body to the wood.

  “He will never fall off, friend,—of that you may rest assured,” said one of the soldiers. The three men laughed.

  He rubbed his hands with sand, and asked one of his friends to pour water over them out of an earthen jug. When he was ready, the three men walked a few steps away from the cross and turning their backs to it, seated themselves on the ground. The executioner filled three cups with a very dark wine, which he took out of a small ditch, where he had hidden it, to keep it cool.

  Jesus moaned, “Water, water!” many times in Hebrew and in Latin. I wished to go away, but could not. Something riveted me to the spot.

  The three men were playing dice while emptying their cups in one or two gulps. The rare passers-by turned their heads away and spat. It was an evil omen to see a crucified man.

  The sun was setting directly in front of Jesus—a large red sun, like a scarlet wound in the bosom of a doomed divinity. Two butterflies, one gray, one white, chased each other in endless circles, until they struck his beard.

  Frightened, they dashed suddenly out of sight.

  The executioner swore loudly. He was losing steadily. He even accused his friends of using loaded dice.

  Jesus moaned.

  The executioner lost his last piece of silver, and cursed all the gods of Israel and in particular the man on the cross. He knew he would be unlucky by the way he missed the first stroke of the hammer against the rascal’s right palm.

  “You were a stoic once. Don’t be overwrought over a trifle. Tomorrow your luck will be different. The gods are moody.”

  “I sell the garments of that Jew for two pieces of silver.”

  “They are not worth it,” answered one, “I have seen them. They are cheap wool.”

  “I’ll take them,” said the other.

  The sun vanished suddenly behind the horizon as though it had slipped out of the hand of an absent-minded god. The air grew immediately chilly, and several large clouds rolled together on the peak of the hills. A thin, mangy dog stopped a moment in his endless wanderings, lapped a few drops of the blood at the foot of the cross, sniffed the sand, and ran on.

  Jesus turned slowly, painfully, his head from the right to the left shoulder, as though it had become a thing of stone. Tears trickled down his face and became entangled in his beard.

  He mumbled something. “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”

  The hopelessness of his voice pierced my heart. More than ever I resented the folly and the futility of his sacrifice. Not God, but he himself had deliberately chosen the cross, a cross too heavy for his back.

  One of the soldiers sang an obscene parody on a sentimental song, which made the other splurt out the mouthful of wine he had been trying to swallow while laughing. The dice became wet. The executioner wiped them, swearing. In the distance a cow mooed. Another cow answered. The echo of the shepherd’s call rolled a few times and died away. A crow, a worm in its beak, dashed by, flapping its wings noisily.

  Jesus moaned, “Water, water!”

  The executioner lost his last coin. He was too angry to drink a toast.

  “It is all due to that Hebrew. His moaning upset me and made my hand tremble.” Running to the cross, he shouted, “What the devil are you groaning about?”

  “Water. Water.”

  “You shall get water, you shall!” And filling to the brim a wine cup, he placed it to the lips of Jesus, saying, “Drink, Hebrew, drink!” Jesus sipped a few drops, his body shrank, and he dropped his head upon his left shoulder.

  “What did you give him to drink?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “Some strong vinegar, which I was taking home, to pickle cucumbers.”

  The soldier laughed. The other said, “I believe it killed him.”

  “He does look as if he were dead.”

  “Pierce him with your sword and we’ll see.”

  One of the soldiers drew his sword and pierced Jesus below the ribs. A stream of blood and water rushed out. Jesus shivered for a few moments, then remained still.

  “He is dead now,” said the soldier, while examining the garments be had won. “What rags!”

  “Come along to Jerusalem,” said the other. “We haven’t won your money to hoard it. Come!”

  The executioner was reluctant. The soldier whispered something in his ear. He smiled.

  Remembering
my appointment with Pilate’s wife I arose, shook myself violently, and walked to the palace.

  III: I PHILANDER WITH PILATE’S WIFE—PILATE’S CAST OFF MISTRESS—LYDIA PUTS ME TO BED

  PROCLA welcomed me as cordially as usual, although I noticed an absent-mindedness in her manner, the reason for which I suspected too well.

  “You’re late, Cartaphilus.”

  “The noise and the stench of the rabble made me sick. I rested awhile.”

  She stared at me. Did she guess that I was lying?

  “The Jews are very noisy, are they not, Cartaphilus?”

  “Very.”

  “And yet you can be deliciously silent.”

  “I have but few of the characteristics of the Jews. I hardly look like one.” I hoped Procla would agree with me, for I longed to be taken for a Roman. I often looked in a silver mirror—the gift of an Egyptian courtesan—imagining myself the possessor of a Roman nose!

  Procla smiled and tapped my cheek. “No, no, my dear, you are a Jew, and look like one, and that is the reason I care for you. The Jews have a strange fascination for me. What nation has such eyes…like…like…the poor fellow’s who was condemned to the cross today?”

  “I hate his eyes!”

  “Yes, yes, they are eyes which one may love or hate passionately…but which one never forgets.”

  I did not answer.

  “You were his friend, were you not?”

  “I knew him as a boy. He was just like everybody else. I thought he would become a good carpenter.”

  “As you were a good cobbler!” She laughed a little.

  “My father was a cobbler. I merely helped him on occasions. I never learned the trade. My mind was elsewhere, and my hands were not fashioned for menial labor.”

  “Of course. And what made the carpenter turn to religion?”

  “Religion is a species of mania—a desire to escape from reality. He was a Jew and a carpenter; he wished to be neither.”

  Procla sighed and fanned herself lazily. “Come nearer me, Cartaphilus.”

  I approached her, and taking her hand, small as a girl’s, in mine, I said “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  I kissed her.