“Your demands are certainly modest, and I am sure you can find welcome in any country.”
He stared at me. “You say you have traveled in many countries, and you do not know that it is often better to be a leper or a dog than a Jew!”
“A Jew,” I muttered.
“Ah, you see! A Jew! It sounds terrible to your ears, doesn’t it? I suppose that like the rest of the travelers here, you will shun me from now on. You will laugh at me as I pass by. You will call me ugly names. I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky if I am not thrown overboard.”
“Oh no, my friend. Is not a Jew a human being?”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” he answered, half in irony, and half in humility.
‘The eternal Jew,’ I thought. ‘Proud and vain,—and ingratiating. And how much like myself’! I liked him and hated him for it.
“But it doesn’t matter, sir. Our enemies fare no better than we. They hate and slaughter one another, and the day will come, when they will atone for the cruelty to us. Meanwhile, I have my reed, my sack of goods,—and my God.”
I remained silent. He mistook it for anger. He laughed a little. “I am sure you do not take my words seriously, sir. I am but a fool, and my tongue utters silly things. Our enemies are powerful and eternal. I beg your pardon.” He bowed, and was about to go away.
“Stay a while longer. I am not at all angry at your words.”
We were silent for a while. The edge of the horizon was a scarlet flame.
“It will be windy,” he said.
I nodded. I looked at the large sack next to him. He caught my glance. “Perhaps the gentleman would like to buy a scarf for his wife, or a turban for himself?”
Without waiting for my answer, he opened the bundle and showed me one thing after another, talking ceaselessly, and swearing by his children and his own life, that never were such goods sold at such a price,—that indeed such goods had never been made before.
I chose a few things, and paid him the price he asked. He was a little taken aback, and as he remade his bundle, he muttered in Hebrew: “What fools these Gentiles are!”
The moon hid her ghastly face behind a fan of clouds.
The azure waters of the Mediterranean changed to a dark ominous blue which at times appeared jet black. The waves which had ruffled gracefully like silk became gigantic hills dashing angrily against our boat.
Food became scarce.
Several members of the crew died from some mysterious malady.
To the east of us the clouds gathered like a gigantic black fist. The sailors, grumbling and taciturn, rushed up and down the deck.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I had not seen Abraham an entire day. We looked for him at his accustomed places. I asked one sailor after another “Where is Abraham?”
They glared at me.
I asked the captain. He shrugged his shoulders and made the sign of the cross. I was about to return to my cabin when I heard a piercing cry, followed immediately by the splash of a heavy body in the water.
“Adonai! Elohim! Ado– —”
The voice died in a gurgle.
Three more sailors died and were thrown into the ocean. The crew made the sign of the cross whenever they passed me or Kotikokura. “We must act quickly, Kotikokura. It is not pleasant to have a knife thrust through your body.” Kotikokura did not answer but his fist opened and shut spasmodically.
Next morning the deck was strewn with the corpses of the crew and of the captain. We threw them one by one into the ocean.
Kotikokura had a few cuts on his arm which a sailor not entirely asleep from my potion had managed to inflict. He licked his wounds like an animal. I was struck by the enormous size of his tongue.
At times we drifted. At other times I steered the vessel. Kotikokura scrubbed the deck, his immense muscles pressing against the hairy skin.
Kotikokura was shouting and dancing about me. His eyes, much keener than mine, had espied land. He had become very restless recently, and complained steadily against his work. He considered it a positive pain, and longed for the solid earth where he never overstrained his muscles. It was one thing to please a Princess, and another to keep a boat in good condition.
“We are reaching land, and you are overjoyed, Kotikokura. You shall be free.”
Kotikokura danced more wildly.
“Yes, my friend, but if you are free of the boat, you will be a slave to the earth. You will have to act in accordance with the foolish customs and notions of whatever country we may happen to live in. Who knows which is a worse slavery? Perhaps it were best to continue forever on the water, where we do not have to pretend any religion, or nationality. For such people as we– —”
Kotikokura shouted: “No! No! No!”
“You do not believe that– —”
“No! No! No!”
“All right. It shall be as you say. But where shall we land? And what shall we be? It is never sufficient to be a man, Kotikokura. It is not even essential. It is absolutely necessary, however, that we praise the right Prophet and shout ‘Long Live!’ to the right Emperor.”
Kotikokura was not in the mood for listening to me.
“Land! Land!” he exclaimed, pointing to the west. By this time, I had begun to see the gray peaks of a long stretch of rocks or mountains.
‘Where shall we land, and under what pretenses?’ I asked myself, again and again. But finally I burst out into laughter, which startled Kotikokura.
“Why should we trouble our minds about our welfare, my friend? The gods who are anxious to keep us alive as symbols of perversity will see to it that all things are adjusted in our favor. Are we not their perennial prisoners; and their eyes,—are they not a million times sharper than ours?”
Kotikokura grinned.
“God’s will be done!”
My words astounded me. I realized how close blasphemy was to prayer.
The sky darkened with heavy clouds, and the wind beat against our masts like iron whips. “Kotikokura, have we blasphemed the gods, or overestimated our importance?”
He looked worried. I patted his head.
“Come, be cheerful, Kotikokura. The storm will pass.”
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” His eyes filled with tears.
“We have no time for sentiment, my friend. We must be alert.”
He did what I ordered him to do, but he continued to be very sad. Was he afraid? Did he, as on previous occasions, feel a premonition of evil?”
The storm became more and more violent. The waves dashed against our boats, as if intent upon crushing it. We were approaching rocks. If the storm did not abate, or the wind change direction, the boat would be dashed to bits.
“Kotikokura, we must be ready for anything. Tie about you this belt, within which are hidden many precious stones. I shall do likewise with this belt. If we are shipwrecked, and survive, our jewels will buy us a cheerful welcome.”
The storm continued its mad career. All my efforts to save the boat were fruitless.
“In a few moments, Kotikokura, we shall have to battle against the waves. If this is to be the end, let it be.”
Kotikokura wept. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
I embraced him. Then we leaped into the angry sea to escape the wreckage of our ship. We struggled with the ocean, bruising alike our dignity and our skin.
“Don’t give up, Kotikokura!” I shouted from time to time.
“Ca-ta-pha!” he replied.
“Keep your head up, Kotikokura.”
“Ca-ta-pha.”
At times, very near each other, at times barely within hearing distance, we battled against the waves that showed no mercy.
“Kotikokura,” I whispered. “Kotikokura.”
Was it merely my own imagination, or did I hear him answer: “Ca-ta-pha. Ca-ta-pha.”
“Ko-ti-ko– —”
The waters were quiet and still like a bed of feathers.
“Kot– —”
XXXIX: SOFT HANDS—“WHERE I
S KOTIKOKURA?”—ULRICA ONCE MORE—A HUSBAND WADES TO SHORE—“FAREWELL”
A SOFT hand caressed my forehead.
I looked up. I saw a young woman, with long braids the color of flax, and light blue eyes.
“Ulrica!” I whispered.
“I am Ulrica. How did you know my name?”
“Ulrica!” I whispered again, and closed my eyes. I tried to understand where I was, and how I happened to have gotten there. Slowly, painfully, I reconstructed my boat, the storm, the shipwreck. And who was this woman? Ulrica? Who was Ulrica? Oh, yes…my beloved…long, long ago…on the Rhine…my vineyards… But what was she doing here? Where was I? Was it really Ulrica? And Kotikokura…where was he? What had happened to him? I opened my eyes. The young woman was sitting near my bed, holding a cup out of which rose a thin vapor, delicately scented.
“Drink.”
I drank, breathed deeply, and stood up.
“Are you really Ulrica?”
“I am.”
“Where is Kotikokura?”
“Who is Kotikokura?”
“My friend…my brother.”
She patted my hand, and said very softly: “Everything will be all right, you will see. Don’t exert yourself too much.”
“Don’t be afraid, Ulrica. I am already well. Kotikokura is not a creature of my imagination. He is a real person. I understand everything now. I was shipwrecked, was I not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Kotikokura was with me. We swam for a long while, and suddenly as I was about to lose consciousness, I felt someone or something lift me out of the water. I was saved! But life will be worth very little if my dear friend was drowned.”
“Perhaps he was saved also. When you get well enough to walk about, we shall look for him.”
I kissed her hand. “Why are you so good to me, Ulrica?”
“Should we not be good to those who suffer? Our Lord Jesus Christ commands us to love our neighbors.”
I was in a Christian home, and in a Christian country.
“Blessed be His name,” I piously added.
“I am so happy that you are a Christian, and not a Mohammedan,” Ulrica exclaimed. Her language was a mixture of the Barbarian language of the first Ulrica and Latin.
“And what is your name?” she asked.
“Cartaphilus.”
I inquired everywhere for Kotikokura. No one seemed to have seen another sailor who was saved on the day of the great storm. If I remained alive, could he drown? Were we not of the same blood? Was not my fate his? Was he perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, in constant agony, yet unable to die? Was he a prisoner of the monsters of the sea? If Kotikokura was not drowned, he was somewhere among men, and I was happy to think that I had given him enough precious stones to make him wealthy for centuries.
Ulrica and I were sitting on the verandah looking at the sea.
“Ulrica, who are you indeed?”
She looked at me, astonished.
“I am Ulrica.”
“Of course. But who is Ulrica?”
She looked at me again.
“No, no,—don’t be worried. I am very well. I must have given you much trouble.”
“No, Cartaphilus.”
“You are kinder to me than a mother.”
“Is not woman always the mother?”
“I have traveled all over the world, Ulrica, and have read the books of many nations, while you have been here your entire life watching the sea and helping people in distress. And yet, we have reached the same conclusion. Is it not strange?”
“Why should it be strange, Cartaphilus? What can one see in other lands…but the earth, the water, the sky…and men and women?”
“How true.”
“And is not God everywhere…and do not all people worship Jesus?”
“All people, Ulrica?”
“All except the Moors. But our King will convert them or kill them.”
“Who is our king, Ulrica?”
“Charles—the great Charles.”
“How do you know these things?”
“My husband, who was a sailor like yourself and had traveled everywhere, told me how Charles, after conquering all of Europe, was conquered himself by Jesus.”
“Your husband is dead, Ulrica?”
She nodded.
We remained silent for a while. The sea splashed the rock lazily, as if playing with it.
“The sea hides a man for years sometimes, and suddenly washes him back to his home. Your husband may return.”
She shook her head.
‘Just like the other—Ulrica,’ I thought. ‘Is this her reincarnation? Is she Asi-ma and Lydia too?’
“Did you love your husband much, Ulrica?”
She sighed, and claiming that she had to take care of the cooking, begged me to excuse her.
Did she love me?
“Ulrica, I shall tell you a story.”
“You tell such wonderful stories, Cartaphilus. They do not seem to be stories at all…but truth.”
I related my love for Asi-ma, and then for the other Ulrica. She wept. I caressed her hands.
“Ulrica died because of love…”
She nodded. “Always.”
Ulrica’s love and tenderness consoled me a little for the loss of Kotikokura. Meanwhile, I gathered information about the political and religious conditions of the country, and planned my new attack. I broached the matter of travel to Ulrica, but like the other Ulrica, she obstinately refused to leave her place of birth. I was becoming restless. ‘What does it matter, Cartaphilus?’ I asked myself again and again, ‘if you spend a quarter of a century in this spot, with Ulrica? Be compassionate, have mercy, be a man, not a god!’
The desire to leave beat against my brain as an impatient stallion paws the ground. Vaguely the thought of abandoning Ulrica shaped itself in my brain. One evening, as I was telling Ulrica a story, playing with her hair which she had unfolded upon my knees—someone knocked at the door. Ulrica asked who it was.
“Open, Ulrica,—it is I, your husband!”
She staggered to the door, like a person who has received a heavy blow on the head.
A man, tall, gaunt and unshaven, appeared on the threshold.
“Ulrica!” he exclaimed, but stopped short on seeing me.
“Who is that man?” he shouted.
Ulrica did not answer. She groped her way to the wall, and hid her face against it.
“So that’s it! Your husband fights the king’s wars while you are another man’s bedfellow.” “She thought you were dead, sir.” “What of that? A whore’s a whore—” “You misjudge, sir. She is faithful—” “Faithful?” He laughed, and turned Ulrica about, pulling her by the hair.
“Can you swear by Holy Writ that you are faithful to me?”
She remained silent, her head bent upon her chest.
He raised his fist. “Shameless bitch!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!”
“Don’t touch her!” I remarked quietly.
“What? You! You! How dare you step between husband and wife? Yes…that is true…first I must kill you! Then I shall square my account with her.”
It was a novel situation. Should Cartaphilus, lord of a thousand women, suffer injury for the sake of one?
“Calm yourself, sir. I can explain my presence—”
“Cur!” he shouted, and drawing a knife from his belt, raised it, ready to strike me. Ulrica screamed, and trying to divert the blow, received it full in the chest. Without uttering one sound, she fell in a heap.
He bent over her, caressed her face a little, closed her eyes, arranged her hair. He motioned to me to help him. He held her head, and I her feet. His back turned toward me, he led the way to the rocks. We climbed the highest of them. We swung the body and threw it as far out as we could into the sea. A small jet of water splashed our feet.
I planted myself firmly on the rock, expecting a furious combat. Instead, however, he turned about quickly, descended the rock, and walked off. It w
as too dark to see the direction he took.
“Ulrica!” I called. “Ulrica!”
No answer! Only the echo of my voice striking the rock and mingling with the waves.
I seated myself on the rock, and meditated on my life. What was it, save a panorama of dreams and of graves? What could it ever be but more dreams and more graves?
It became chilly. I shivered, and rose with a start. I walked toward the house where Ulrica had nursed me to life, that she might forfeit her own. I looked in. It was empty and quiet, as if nothing had happened.
“Nothing matters, Cartaphilus,” someone seemed to whisper in my ear. “Everything flows.”
“Ulrica,” I muttered, “farewell.”
XL: CHARLEMAGNE HAS A PAIN IN HIS LEG—INCESTUOUS LOVE—I PREPARE TROUBLE
AACHEN fluttered with pride. Charlemagne had recently returned, crowned Emperor of the West by the grace of God, and possessor of the key to the grave of St. Peter. To show his gratitude to the Pope, he issued an order to behead all subjects who refused to accept baptism. He founded several schools of theology and paid large salaries to teachers of Greek, Latin and Hebrew.
Charles had chosen Aachen because of its warm springs. In spite of his Herculean figure, he suffered from rheumatism. But the springs did not prove as miraculous as he had expected, and a new physician, I knew, would be welcome. Dressed as a monk, but wearing around my neck a large cross studded with precious stones to indicate opulence, I begged admission to the Great Monarch, claiming to be a doctor of medicine as well as a master of theology, conversant with all languages. The messenger, an officer of the Guard, whose large hand I filled with gold, bade me wait at the gate. A little later he reappeared.
“His Majesty will receive you at once.”
I was ushered into a large hall, in the center of which at a long table, Charlemagne and a dozen men, officers and bishops, had evidently just finished eating, and were munching nuts now, and drinking wine.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 19