Judah the Pious

by Francine Prose

  Reluctant to admit that education might have damaged their sons, the parents of Eliezer’s pupils hesitated to discuss their suspicions with each other; thus, many private, repetitious family scenes had to be staged until they felt satisfied with their understanding of the old man’s crimes.

  At least, the parents sighed with relief, he had not physically or spiritually corrupted their children, nor led them into any sins which might cause their souls to roast in Gehenna. But he had done the next worst thing; he had filled their impressionable young minds with dangerous fancies and unrealistic longings. The citizens of Rimanov had prayed that Eliezer might make scholars of their sons, but he had turned them into dreamers.

  One by one, the bewildered students were withdrawn from school, but it was already too late. Eventually, it became apparent that all of the old man’s former pupils were somehow marked for life, set apart from their more predictable and easily contented neighbors. They drifted aimlessly from job to job, remained melancholy and dissatisfied for no reason. At weddings, they seemed to forget the wives they had lived with since their youths, and danced all night with graceful young women. Some had left town, and, every few years, sent back letters with mysterious foreign postmarks. A few even drank.

  All this would certainly have helped the worthy delegates understand why the obscure rabbi might have felt any incentive or obligation to represent his people before the King of Poland. But of course such facts never appeared in the committee’s official report.

  These memories, however, had not been forgotten by the rabbi. And so, when he saw for himself the age and appearance of the small boy on the massive throne, a vision of the Rimanov school crept back into his heart, and gave him the courage to begin his interview with such a boisterous laugh.

  II

  KING CASIMIR OF POLAND had been dozing fitfully on his throne when the Rabbi Eliezer first entered the royal audience hall. Shaken gently awake, the king peered at his visitor through a nearsighted haze, and wondered whether his advisors were trying to amuse him with another exotic ostrich brought back from the wilds of Africa. But, when the black-plumed bird threw back its head and laughed like a man, the young sovereign began to recall that this was the long-awaited day on which he was to meet the Jewish holy man.

  Squirming with excitement, the boy craned his neck forward until it chafed against the jewel-encrusted collar of his robe; then, disappointed, he straightened back into the ramrod-stiff posture of a proper king.

  Despite what Casimir had been taught as a child, no diabolical horns sprouted from beneath the Jew’s matted hair, nor were his yellow teeth stained bright red with the blood of innocent babies. Although he had known it would be this way, he still felt cheated. For, had Eliezer truly appeared a demon, a wild-eyed pagan with bones and boars’ teeth woven into his beard, the king might then have been able to discuss certain matters which he had never mentioned to any of his courtiers—certain secrets so shameful that they could only be revealed to a man who was already damned.

  No doubt, the good people of Poland would have been amused to learn the thoroughly mundane nature of the sins which so tormented their king. For Casimir, however, these problems were deadly serious. Unlike ordinary boys, who could share their growing pains with each other, the friendless young king could only conclude that his particular misery had never been experienced by anyone else.

  Day after day, he brooded on his failings, cursed himself for his listlessness, his apathy, his sense of isolation, detachment, and general irritation. He daydreamed incessantly, inventing vivid fantasies concerning certain court ladies; then, he would censor himself, and walk around for hours with downcast, guilty eyes.

  But the last of Casimir’s troubles was the one which caused him the most anxiety, for it seemed the most perilous: he had begun to feel hopelessly estranged from the warm, protective arms of the mother church. All his life, he had been a true believer. But lately, his faith in the great Miracle of the Birth, the Passion, and the Resurrection had come to seem worthless, illogical, and silly; and he could not help thinking that God had not prevented him from losing his parents, nor from being locked into a position from which he could never escape. For these reasons, he felt his religion slipping steadily and irreversibly away.

  What could be easier, he had thought in the days before the Rabbi Eliezer’s visit, than to confess the loss of faith to a man who never had any to lose? And, once the major sins burst out, the smaller ones would be carried along, perhaps even ignored, like ripples in a swelling flood.

  But Eliezer’s thoroughly unexceptional ugliness had dampened the boy’s hopes. There was nothing fantastic or exotic in the old man’s appearance, nothing to suggest a reckless amorality; no scent of brimstone followed him through the hall. Now, all that Casimir felt was a mild revulsion for Eliezer’s sunken cheeks and flabby skin.

  Forcing down his distaste, King Casimir of Poland motioned for the stranger to draw near; but the old man’s progress towards the throne was cut short by the same impatient nobleman who had just finished rebuking him for his inattention.

  “How can you be so impudent?” cried the red-faced courtier, throwing his taut, massive body directly in the rabbi’s path. “Or have you never heard that it befits swine like yourself to kneel in the presence of the sovereign?”

  “I’m too tired to kneel,” explained Eliezer. “And besides, I fear that hours of your precious time might be wasted in getting me back on my feet.”

  “A very funny old man,” hissed the noble. “Tongues have been cut out for much less wit.”

  “Then do so,” said the rabbi amiably. “I am eighty-nine years old, and that, as I see it, rather narrows your options. On the one hand, you can execute me immediately. On the other, should you feel inclined towards great kindness, you can keep me here in the castle, stuffing my thin belly with your finest wines and sweetmeats, and it would still be unlikely for me to last much longer. Now, while you are deciding to kill me and so shorten my life by a few months, I hope you will at least allow me to pass my last hours chatting pleasantly with your lord.”

  Waving aside the stammering nobleman, Eliezer shuffled forward until he stood within inches of the throne. Bending down, he winked merrily at the king and shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “King Casimir,” he whispered, “you can see for yourself that at this rate we will soon get nowhere. Meaning no disrespect, I wonder: have you ever tried to study the beautiful king bee when the hive was crawling with bothersome, useless drones? A waste of effort, I assure you. And as long as your worthy advisors continue to prattle about protocol, ceremony, bowing and scraping, my visit will come to nothing. Send these men away, if only for a while. Should you later have any cause for regret, I swear that I will pay with a pint of my blood for every hour they are gone.”

  The king’s clear blue eyes glimmered, then suddenly began to shine as he glanced into a nearby mirror and saw the nobleman stamping his foot in fury. Never before had Casimir seen his courtiers openly defied; no one had ever urged him to oppose their authority; it had never been suggested that he take a single action which had not been approved by centuries of court practice. The novelty of it thrilled him, and at the same time, calmed him by shutting his ears to the noise of his advisors buzzing about his head, mumbling about the dangers to his dignity, his prestige, even his physical safety. Sitting in the center of their swarm, the King of Poland was, for the first time, attempting to govern himself.

  By making Casimir aware of his dependence on the courtiers, the rabbi’s request had strengthened his desire to thwart them. But, each time he considered dismissing them from the hall, he remembered that, since his parents’ death, these cold men had been his only family. And he knew that the old rabbi would eventually abandon him to the icy, reproachful glares which might remain on their faces for months. Thus, he wavered back and forth between rebellion and submission until his reason was exhausted, and inclined towards the easier course.

  “I am afraid that
I cannot in good conscience accede to your demand,” said the king, frowning, raising his voice to drown out the courtiers’ approving murmurs. “I would prefer to be surrounded by men whom I trust, whose wisdom and experience have often kept me from reaching rash conclusions.”

  Rabbi Eliezer nodded. “Suit yourself, King Casimir,” he smiled slyly. “But I feel I must warn you about the dangers of relying too heavily on the judgment of others; submission is a difficult habit to break. Who knows? You may soon begin to see the value of certain bits of wisdom which you have for some time been resisting. Perhaps you will finally agree to marry one of the frightful princesses of the realm—the rich, young duchess of the wens and boils, or the heiress whose hyena-laugh will certainly shatter all the mirrors in your palace. Then, if I may venture to predict, you will find that your courtiers are indeed so wise and experienced that none of them will ever volunteer to take your place in the bed of such a woman.”

  Gasping with surprise and indignation, the nobles closed into a tight knot around the king, as if to shield him from the rabbi’s disturbing words; several broke from the group and began to move threateningly towards the old man. Then, a slow smile lit King Casimir’s face. Calmly, with great dignity, he asked his courtiers if they would mind waiting in the antechamber until he rang for their return.

  As the nobles reluctantly withdrew, King Casimir could not bring himself to look at the rabbi, but stared bashfully at the ground. When the last iron-tipped boot heel had clicked against the ebony doorstep, Eliezer and the king simultaneously uttered deep, involuntary sighs of relief; catching each other at it, both pretended not to notice.

  “Well,” began Casimir at last, “I must say, that was a good trick, alluding to the duchess and such. But really, you must tell me how you did it. Surely, you are not going to pass yourself off as a great clairvoyant, capable of reading the secrets of the past and future at one glance. Admit it: it was just a matter of resourcefulness, a few pennies slipped into the apron pocket of a knowledgeable palace chambermaid.”

  “If I had money to waste on gossip,” laughed Eliezer, “I would have eaten breakfast this morning.”

  “In other words,” the king insisted, “you are saying that you knew it all beforehand, thanks to a few weeks of careful research into court affairs and the state of the noble families of Poland.”

  “Nonsense,” answered the old man. “My secret is an empty head, purposely kept blank, so that the slightest tremor of an eyelid which passes before it can inscribe a story there, more accurate and complicated than anything I could have read.”

  Casimir raised his pale eyebrows and leaned forward, as if he were watching the old man work an elaborate shell game. “In that case,” he said deliberately, “I suppose your mind must be equally empty of reasons why your people should be allowed to persist in their barbaric custom.”

  Turning his head slightly, Eliezer threw the king a sarcastic glance. “If there is one thing I admire,” he said, “it is a young man who can beat me so effortlessly in a battle of wits. But, I must admit, you have come much closer to the truth than you realize. Although that subject is exactly what I have come to discuss, I really do not know of any arguments which I can count upon to convince you.

  “Yet, be that as it may, one thing is certain: I have stood on my feet much longer than is usually considered possible for an eighty-nine-year-old gentleman. Were there another chair in the room, I would never dare ask you to relinquish your throne. But, under the circumstances, I see no alternative. Besides, should you grow tired, your young body is still limber enough to lower itself down to the carpeted steps at my feet.”

  For the second time that day, Casimir found himself without a single precedent; certainly, no one had ever made such an unseemly demand of the King of Poland. His logic told him that the request was reasonable, for he could see the old man’s skinny frame beginning to tremble. Still, it made him shudder to imagine the filthy, moth-eaten black robe pressed up against the embroidered cushions. And what a frightful scandal would ensue, should his advisors find him in such an undignified position, curled up like a disciple at the rabbi’s yellow, calloused feet! Despite himself, Casimir looked furtively towards the door of the antechamber. It was this glance which irked him into standing up and offering the rabbi his seat.

  “Thank you,” nodded Eliezer, lifting his hem and weaving a bit unsteadily as he mounted the steps. “You have a strong, young body. A boy of your age could probably stand for hours without growing weary.”

  Casimir, who had been just about to sit down on the steps, remained on his feet. He had never thought of himself as strong before; compared to his enormous, sinewy courtiers, he had always appeared as plump and powerless as a milk-fattened capon. He turned his head so that the old man would not see the flush of pride on his cheeks; by the time he looked back, Eliezer had settled himself in the imposing throne, as comfortably and naturally as if it were a simple bench offered him by a courteous ox-cart driver.

  “Well,” said Eliezer, after a short silence, “I suppose I might best begin by asking you the simplest question I can imagine: what, do you think, is in our minds when we throw those lumps of dirt on the huge mounds which the gravediggers have already heaped high enough?”

  “That is a simple question,” nodded the king, recalling the careful briefing he had received from his advisors. “You are hoping that the arc in which the soil travels as it flies towards the grave may form a bridge for your dead to pass over when they return to earth. Thus, they can revisit the scene of their lives, and, out of sheer malice, frighten blameless Polish people into joining them in the other world.”

  “Nonsense,” shouted Eliezer, so loud that the muscles around Casimir’s heart tightened for fear that the entire court would come running in. “Is this really the way bright young men reason these days? Do you honestly believe that we would disturb the sweet rest of someone we loved just to irritate a few men we do not even know?”

  Still unsettled by the violence of the old man’s response, the boy was beginning to feel empty-headed and stupid. “I am not sure,” he stammered after a while. “If not for that reason, then why?”

  “I will tell you why,” said Eliezer, more gently. “But you must listen carefully, for I dislike repeating myself.

  “Among our people, it is generally believed that a dead man’s spirit accompanies his body to the cemetery, where it lingers like an uncomfortable party guest, seeking the proper moment to make an exit and a seemly manner of saying good-by. And it is not until the soul of the departed sees his loved ones turn their backs and cast dirt on his grave that he feels assured that life will go on without him, that he can depart in peace and begin to take his rest. So you see, King Casimir, our motives are actually just the opposite of what your nobles have been telling you. Really, does it not seem more logical to a young man of your intelligence that we should wish our dead to sleep quietly throughout eternity?”

  “Nothing is logical,” snapped Casimir quickly, to cover his uneasiness over the obvious good sense of the old man’s argument. “The only certain thing is that my advisors are telling me one story, and you another.”

  “And which do you believe?” asked the rabbi.

  Unaccustomed to being challenged in this way, King Casimir shrank from the old man’s question. “My courtiers have done some painstaking research,” he answered, “and, as a rule, tend to know what is best for the country. As for me, it is quite a different matter entirely; I hardly believe in spirits and such. Besides,” he added hastily, “you yourself know that, given the public sentiment, a horrible slaughter would probably take place if the people caught you persisting in your custom.”

  “There will be no massacre if you prohibit it,” shrugged Eliezer carelessly. “But why do you not believe in spirits?”

  The king, who had been hoping that his remark had gone unnoticed, was taken by surprise. “Because,” he began, then stopped, amazed at the tight, strangulated sound of his own voice. “Beca
use I have never seen them.”

  “And you do not believe in anything you have never seen?”

  “No,” answered Casimir, feeling the word catch in his throat.

  Rabbi Eliezer’s face registered no emotion. “You must know that can often be a dangerous course,” he said. “For when we refuse to believe in the possibility of impossible things, we can neither love all the unlikely beings which wish to do us good, nor be on guard against those which would harm us; we become like defenseless children, who do not understand what things should be feared, nor where they can call for help.”

  The boy, who knew by now that Eliezer had guessed almost everything, could hardly answer. “This skepticism is not a course I would have chosen for myself,” he replied at last, bowing his head.

  “And you would change it if you could?”

  “Yes,” nodded the king.

  “I see,” said Eliezer of Rimanov, “I see,” and said nothing else for several minutes.

  Taking advantage of the lull in the conversation, King Casimir attempted to restore matters to the straight, orderly path from which they had begun to veer. “At any rate,” he began, keeping himself calm with the massive, almost-physical effort he had practiced as a small boy troubled by nightmares, “I do not see what my cynical turn of mind has to do with the burial customs of the Jews of Poland.”

  “Everything and nothing,” answered Eliezer, smiling radiantly. “Everything and nothing. For it suddenly occurs to me that now, with things as they are, it would do neither of us any good if I remained here for an hour, improvising arguments for the innocence of our rites and the generosity of our motives. But, on the other hand, perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement, a bargain, if you will. Suppose I were to convince you once and for all of the fallacies in a system which does not allow for the unseen and the improbable? Would you then consider permitting my people to retain their custom—as a reward for me, or as the price of a lesson, to put it more delicately?”