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

by George Sylvester Viereck

  “Will it embrace Judas?”

  “Even Judas.”

  “Even Ahasuerus?”

  “Even Ahasuerus—if he accepts the Cross he refused to bear.”

  Unconvinced by his arguments, I was nevertheless touched by the generosity of his spirit.

  One of the monks approached. In the chiaroscuro of the moon’s reflection, I thought I saw Damis. My heart beat against my chest like a hammer.

  “I shall soon be with you, Francis,” the Bishop called out.

  The monk bowed, crossed himself, and walked away.

  “A charming fellow—perhaps a trifle too pious and too serious. He even scolds me upon occasions, you understand—not openly, but with a countenance so hurt that I cannot but accept the rebuke.”

  “Man needs a thousand years to mellow him.”

  “Why live so long, my son? Can one really learn much more in a thousand years than in seventy? Life merely repeats itself.”

  “Are seventy years sufficient to understand even one’s self?”

  “Neither seventy years nor seventy times seventy, my son,—not until we meet our Lord face to face. Then, in the fraction of a second, we understand all.”

  Kotikokura, dressed in his gaudiest attire, filled our glasses with solemnity and pomp, while his wife, on tiptoes, her head bent, brought in the food,—a young lamb, slaughtered in the morning, prepared with a dozen vegetables and fruits whose perfume delighted the nostrils of the Bishop.

  “My son, I have often noticed that a sensitive palate does not exclude a sensitive soul,” the Bishop remarked, as he helped himself to another plate.

  “Apollonius, too, rejoiced in delicate viands.”

  “Our Lord Jesus was seen frequently at the table with His disciples,” he added.

  I could have related some gossip about Jesus that was current in Jerusalem, but I preferred to discuss my own fate with him—the first man in centuries who was the intellectual equal of Apollonius. I was determined to tell him my story. However, I waited for the most opportune moment.

  Kotikokura glared at his wife who, either forgetting, or her toes aching, walked on her soles, making a noise like the slapping of a large tongue against the palate. She did not see him. He uttered a low growl. Frightened, she rushed out of the room, and returned immediately on her tiptoes.

  “Your valet is an extraordinary person,” the Bishop whispered.

  Kotikokura stood motionless at a distance, approaching the table only from time to time, to refill our glasses. “Father, are you in a mood to hear a strange story?” “I am delighted to listen to you, my son.” We rose. He took my arm, and walked leisurely.

  The river flowed on silently as the hours in sleep, and upon it, the moon trembled vaguely, like the wing of a giant butterfly perched upon a flower.

  “Father,” I said, “is Jesus God?”

  “Of course, my son.”

  “Was he not a man when he was crucified?”

  “He was both man and God.”

  “It is difficult to conceive of such a union.”

  “Not at all. I find it very easy.”

  “Strange. Some people are born with a predisposition to believe; others are born to doubt.”

  “There is much joy in Heaven when those who doubt see the light.”

  I smiled ironically.

  “You, too, will accept Jesus,” the Bishop gently added, “Jesus is inescapable.”

  “No!” I exclaimed. “He is not inescapable,—and I will not accept him!”

  The Bishop smiled kindly, drawing his robe tightly about his legs. “Perhaps you have already accepted Him, but are unaware of it…and something inexplicable in you restrains you from confessing it. Our minds are prouder than our hearts,—and less wise…”

  “Father, what will always prevent me from accepting Jesus is not inexplicable, but perfectly rational.”

  “What is it, my son?”

  “I knew Jesus and spoke to him, as I speak to you. He was not a god.”

  “Many of us have spoken to Him, and many have found that He is God.”

  “I am not speaking in metaphors, Father… I knew Jesus, knew him physically. I broke bread with him. I walked with him, I talked to him even as I talk to you…”

  The Bishop rubbed his chin and eyes vigorously. He smiled. “My son, you are pleased to jest.”

  “I do not jest, Father.”

  “Jesus died twelve hundred years ago. Then you must be more than twelve centuries old…”

  “I am…”

  “Who– —?”

  “I am… Ahasuerus…” The Bishop withdrew a little. He made the sign of the cross. Then, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said: “Whoever you are, I bless you! “ “You say this, Father, because you still do not believe me.” “You expect me to believe the miracle of your longevity—but you reject the miracle of Christ’s divinity, which millions have found so simple, so natural of acceptance.”

  “Truth should be demonstrable.”

  The Bishop smiled.

  “You of all men should accept His divinity. He made His power manifest in you…”

  “I refuse to be bludgeoned into belief by a miracle that defies my reason…”

  I looked at him intently. He resembled Apollonius more than ever.

  “Father, do you not remember,—long, long ago,—I spoke to you of this? Do you remember?”

  The Bishop squinted his eyes and rubbed his forehead several times. “I think… I remember… It seemed, indeed for a moment…that I had really met you before… Memory alas, is a sieve…”

  We remained silent for a long time.

  “But I beg you, tell me your marvelous experience under the seal of the confessional. Your words shall remain a secret for all time.”

  He made the sign of the Cross.

  “There are some things I should like the world to know, Father.”

  “I shall divulge to the world any message with which you may charge me.”

  I pressed his hand. “So be it! Look at me well, Father. What is my nationality or my race?”

  The Bishop scrutinized me carefully. “You may be of any race or nationality. And you may be of any age…thirty, perhaps, or sixty. There is something unreal about you…or maybe it is only the reflection of the moon.”

  He shivered a little, and recoiled slightly.

  Then, collecting himself, he said: “Tell me your story. My lips will be sealed after you unlock your breast—even” he whispered, “if you are Anti-Christ.”

  The sun had already risen, but I continued to relate my adventures. The Bishop, spellbound, listened motionless, fearing perhaps that it was all a dream, that he might suddenly awaken, and the story remain untold.

  At last my tale was finished. The Bishop, his head bowed, meditated.

  “Father, do you believe my story?”

  He nodded.

  “Is it not too extravagant to be true?”

  “Before God all things are possible, my son.”

  “Except my conversion to Jesus.”

  He looked at me sadly. “You will never know the meaning of happiness if you are not willing to accept Jesus. You have sought happiness for twelve hundred years; your eyes have beheld marvelous things—yet, what have you gained except disillusion?”

  “Disillusion and a sense of humor.”

  “Deep in your heart, you are still seeking happiness. Disillusion and humor merely protect you from pain.”

  “I can conceive of no happiness based on the denial of reason!”

  “Reason is only an ornament; it is not life itself. The futility of your struggle against Jesus proves that the universe moves by something greater than reason.”

  “Is it greater…or is it smaller? Divine Unreason, perhaps!”

  The Bishop smiled. “Forgive me if I say that your obstinacy proves you are still a Jew.”

  “A characteristic I share with the founder of your religion, Father. Life requires obstinacy. Man accomplished his growth from savag
ery by his unconquerable tenacity. Nature is a mountain of iron and rock. Man is a hammer!”

  “Ah…if Jesus could persuade you through me! What glory and power you would bring His Kingdom!”

  “Who knows, Father? Perhaps he lives only because I am his enemy…”

  “He lives because He is.”

  “And I…?”

  “Because He wills it.”

  “He also willed that I suffer always, that I consider life an endless torment…and yet…”

  “How do you know what He really willed? The love of Jesus is infinite…”

  “His love was not infinite, Father.”

  “His hand heals, even when it seems to smite.”

  “It is not true, Father. Jesus hated. Jesus was irascible…”

  “What do you say, my son?”

  “The Council of Nicaea rejected several authentic narratives of the gospel…”

  “Those that were of divine origin rose from the altar, as if possessing wings. The others dropped to the earth,” the Bishop interjected.

  I smiled. “I was present. What you say never occurred. The fathers wrangled and fought. I never saw a more obstinate and self-willed gathering. A militant minority, backed by Emperor Constantine, imposed its will upon the Council. Finally, they compromised upon the Bible, as the Christian world knows it, but the books of Thomas and the gospel of the Infancy of Jesus were rejected, for they related things unpalatable to your theology…”

  “What things, my son?”

  “The cruelty of Jesus…”

  “Impossible!” the Bishop exclaimed.

  “You forget,” I remarked, “that I knew Jesus as a boy. I knew his tantrums as a child. I knew him when he was an apprentice in his father’s shop. I remember how, on one occasion, my father commissioned him to do a job for him. The work was not satisfactory. When my father pointed out certain flaws to him, young Jesus flew into a rage and smashed his own handiwork. If a god adopts a trade he should master it more completely.”

  “My son,” the Bishop remarked, shaking his locks, “your hatred envenoms your tongue. You draw upon memories embittered by your own bias.”

  “If you will not accept my testimony, I can cite the evidence of your own sacred books. I shall draw upon sources regarded as sacred by the Fathers of the Church.

  “His cruelty even as a boy became so frequent and so intolerable, according to the testimony of Saint Thomas and other witnesses, that Joseph, his father, said in despair to Saint Mary: ‘Thenceforth we will not allow him out of the house; for everyone who displeases him is killed.’ ”

  “That was a metaphor, my son,” the Bishop smiled.

  “No, Father! It was literal. Listen to a few incidents.”

  “Go on, my son.”

  “The son of Hanani, disturbing the waters of a fish pool, Jesus commanded the water to vanish, saying:—’In like manner as this water has vanished, so shall thy life vanish.’ And presently the boy died.

  “Another time when the Lord Jesus was coming home in the evening with Joseph, He met a boy, who ran so hard against Him, that he threw Him down; to whom the Lord Jesus said, ‘As thou hast thrown me down, so shalt thou fall, nor ever rise.’ At that moment the boy died.

  “Another time Jesus went forth into the street, and a boy running, rushed by His shoulder; at which Jesus being angry, said to him, ‘Thou shalt go no farther.’ And he instantly fell over dead. The parents of the dead boy, going to Joseph, complained, saying, ‘You are not fit to live with us, in our city, having such a boy as that. Either teach him that he bless and not curse, or else depart thou hence with him, for he kills our children.’

  “Then Joseph, calling the boy Jesus by himself, instructed him, saying, ‘Why dost thou such things to injure the people so, that they hate and persecute us?’

  “But Jesus replied, ‘They who have said these things to thee shall suffer everlasting punishment.’ And immediately they who had accused him became blind.”

  I remained silent. The Bishop knit his brows, and meditated.

  “It is merely a legend, the invention of some poet who liked cruel things. Your testimony is spurious. Jesus was as gentle as a lamb. Even as a child He was obedient and wise…”

  “That is also mere poetry, Father,” I smiled a little cynically, piqued at the fact that he did not believe me. “Jesus snubbed his brothers. He neglected his family. He denied all family ties. He asked those who followed him to leave their fathers and mothers, their kith and their kin. I do not blame him for upbraiding his Father in Heaven on the cross. Yet why should he be surprised if his Father in Heaven forsook him, since he himself forsook his father and mother on earth? Only an unnatural son would deny his own mother with the cold insolence of Jesus. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ is not a quotation from the Apocrypha. It is part of the gospel, the gospel which, you claim, rose miraculously from the altar. He withered the lives of little children with the same petulance with which he blasted the innocent fig tree.”

  “My son, if what you relate were really true, would it not prove that He was omnipotent from His Mother’s womb?” the Bishop exclaimed triumphantly. “He had a God’s work to do even in His infancy.”

  “Then he who kills is God,” I remarked.

  “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. His ways are inscrutable. If Jesus commanded the children to wither, it was part of His divine plan, I assure you.”

  I laughed. “He was cruel, and he was cruel to me. His eyes blazed with anger when he hurled his anathema against me, without attempting to understand my motives. If he had read my heart he would not have cursed me. He acted rashly, and he acted in anger. Perhaps he inherited his unreasonable irascibility from his putative Father in Heaven…”

  “He gave you the opportunity to find your soul…” the Bishop said gently.

  “No!” I exclaimed. “He meant evil, but I have conquered him! By my will and by my intelligence, I have transformed his curse into a blessing.”

  “God’s ways are incomprehensible to man,” the Bishop repeated suavely.

  “Let man be incomprehensible to God, then!” I exclaimed.

  “Only man’s vanity is incomprehensible to God, my son.”

  “Man’s vanity, then, shall conquer God!”

  “So Lucifer believed, and he was hurled to destruction!”

  “Lucifer lives on, Father. He is not destroyed.”

  We remained silent. The Bishop placed his hands upon my shoulders, and looked at me, his eyes covered with a film. “My son, believe me, if you understood Jesus you would accept Him.”

  “I understand…therefore, I cannot accept!”

  “You have denied Him too long. He loves you. He waits for you. He will return whenever your heart calls Him… You can end your long pilgrimage whenever you wish. You need not tarry until the end of time… Give up your age-long battle against His love and His Holy Word.”

  “How can I, a poor mortal, harm his Holy Word, if he indeed is God? You exaggerate my power, Bishop. In the great sea of humanity, is a man more than a wave?”

  “One unruly wave may capsize a boat.”

  “If Christianity is the work of God, who is strong enough to destroy it?”

  “No one!” he exclaimed. “And yet,” he continued sadly, “people may so distort and misinterpret it, that it were almost better destroyed…”

  “Father, from the clash of mountains, there arises a conflagration; out of the struggle between Jesus and myself…who knows, something more beautiful than either Christianity or pure reason may be born.”

  “Christ is perfection.”

  His words startled me. It seemed as though I suddenly saw something—a Light—a Vision. I tried to grasp it, but it vanished immediately.

  I smiled. “Father, that which we seek and find,—is it worth the finding?”

  “Only one thing is worth the finding,—Jesus.”

  The two friars, the Bishop’s companions, were approaching, and at a distance, propped against a
tree, Kotikokura was patting a large cat and squinting his eyes in my direction.

  “We are both very tired, my son. Let us rest a little. This evening we shall speak again.”

  He arose, pressed my hands, and walked towards his friends. The Bishop’s face, as it broke the reflection of the sun, appeared strangely different from that of Apollonius. Had I been laboring under an illusion? Had I made a grave error in recounting my story? My head ached. My heart felt heavy.

  “Kotikokura, we must leave this beautiful and happy place. We must leave our two good wives.”

  Kotikokura shrugged his shoulders.

  “I know you have long ago wearied of yours, and perhaps I have a little of mine. However great a discomfort may be, there is always a grain of pleasure in it. Thus, our leaving here will not make it necessary for you to carry out your intention.”

  Kotikokura looked at me quizzically.

  “Kotikokura, I know you too well. You cannot hide your thoughts from me. You meant to strangle your wife…and perhaps mine…and throw them into the river.”

  Kotikokura grinned.

  “Nevertheless, I doubt whether we shall ever discover another place as lovely as this.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  Kotikokura’s cat crawled between his legs, purring. He raised her and fondled her.

  “You regret leaving your cat more than your wife—do you not my friend?”

  Kotikokura nodded.

  XLVIII: THE EMPIRE OF PRESTER JOHN—“IF I WILL THAT HE TARRY TILL I COME WHAT IS THAT TO THEE?”—KOTIKOKURA DANCES—CAN MAN INVENT A LIE?

  “PRESBYTER JOHANNES, by the power and virtue of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ, Lord of Lords,” the friar exclaimed, “will deliver us from the infidels and the heathens. His power is limitless and his lands are the richest in the world. Even the pebbles of the shores of his rivers are pure diamonds and the mountains are replete with gold. In the center of the empire, the Fountain of Youth falls softly into a thousand cups, and he who drinks of it shall never die. Presbyter Johannes shall come to deliver us. He shall come with his hundred thousand knights and three hundred thousand footmen; with the princes and kings of the seventy-two states that pay him tribute; with his chariots and elephants and strange creatures that devour ten men at one meal.”