At last, one foggy March morning, she heard Simon’s unmistakable, adenoidal whine piercing through the clouds and filling the air around her. “Hannah!” it called out in a familiar, loving, yet peculiarly ceremonial tone. “The whole business is very simple. If you cannot make the girl change her story, then you must make the officials withdraw their charges. You know what authorities have the power to declare a man innocent of heresy.”
“Of course I do, Simon!” exclaimed the widow, slapping her forehead. “How stupid of me to have overlooked that! How selfish of me to have bothered you!”
That afternoon, still murmuring these sincere apologies, Hannah Polikov set out on her second journey to the court of Judah the Pious at Cracow.
“As you may remember,” said Eliezer, pursing his lips together somewhat impishly, “I told you that Hannah’s first trip to that noble city took more than six months. Perhaps, then, you may be surprised to learn that, over twenty-five years later, the old woman covered the entire distance to Cracow and back in less than four weeks. And the dissimilarities between this expedition and the last did not end there; for Hannah’s return was also wholly unlike the homecoming which had taken place so long before.
This time, crowds of onlookers lined the streets, telling their children the almost-forgotten story of Judah ben Simon’s birth, and watching closely to see if the widow’s return from Cracow might mean the beginning of more miraculous goings-on; but as soon as they perceived that her vaguely troubled face bore none of the beatific radiance of a woman about to experience one of God’s wonders, they shook their heads and went home.
This time, too, Hannah Polikov did not wait until nightfall to reveal the results of her journey, but began talking the minute she crossed the threshold of her house. “Rachel Anna!” she called. “Bring me a warm towel and some hot tea. All that walking has made my feet swell like the limbs of a corpse.
“I am no longer a young woman,” she sighed, collapsing into a chair. “Here, at home, I hardly notice, but out there, on the road, every mile introduced me to another throbbing nerve and aching muscle.”
“Is that why you seem so unhappy?” asked Rachel Anna solicitously, filling her mother-in-law’s cup.
“Unhappy!” cried Hannah, pulling herself up straight and twisting her lips into an artificially ecstatic grin. “Who’s unhappy? I haven’t been so joyous since my wedding day. True, I was somewhat disappointed at not being able to see the great Judah the Pious, who had just left on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to weep for us all at the sacred Wailing Wall. But, aside from that, my trip was a total success; the treatment I received could not have been better. As soon as I declared my case an emergency, I was granted a private audience with Reb Daniel of Warsaw, acting head of the Cracower court during the beloved sage’s absence.
“The moment I saw Reb Daniel, I said to myself: ‘Nobody will ever call this one a saint.’ But perhaps, God forgive me, my judgment was prejudiced by the scholar’s unattractive appearance, by his fat, bandy-legged body, his pock-marks, and his slightly crossed eyes. For, when he smiled merrily and rose to greet me, a second thought almost made me cast this first impression from my mind. ‘Certainly,’ I decided, ‘this man is so wise, so just, and so reliable that I would not hesitate to entrust him with the care of my mother’s soul.’
“For this reason, I felt not the slightest embarrassment in relating your story, not even when it proved necessary to add certain details which no respectable woman would ever dream of discussing with a strange man. Yet despite all my faith in Reb Daniel, my heart still began to pound when he scratched his curly, black beard and told me that he could not possibly decide my case there and then, no more than a good physician would consider diagnosing the malady of a patient he had never seen. My palpitations increased when he and all his colleagues assembled to consult the spirit of their absent master, so that I thought the blood would come bursting from my veins by the time they pronounced their verdict.”
Suddenly, Hannah stopped, and, fumbling in her bodice, produced a scrap of paper from which she proceeded to read aloud:
“Because of the unusual nature of this case, in light of its capacity to open certain special avenues of philosophical discourse, the chief wise men of Cracow hereby announce that they will transport their entire court three hundred miles, in order to investigate and pass judgment at the scene of the petitioner’s home.”
“When are they coming?” asked Rachel Anna listlessly.
“In two weeks,” replied her mother-in-law. “And then, if you are found innocent, you will be respected, perhaps even venerated, more than any other woman in Poland.” The old woman paused, but, after several moments had passed without any reaction from the girl, she began to speak again. “I can appreciate your being disappointed,” she said, “that Judah the Pious will not be back in time to officiate at this session. But still, I cannot understand why you are wearing such a long face, why you are not singing and dancing in ecstasy.”
“Because,” answered Rachel Anna, wondering how she would ever be able to explain her dealings with the Cracower court to Judah ben Simon, “because you have forgotten to drink your tea.”
The ecstasy, as it happened, was reserved for the other villagers, who went half-crazy over the imminent arrival of hundreds of sages and scholars, with nothing to do but spend their generous stipends. For this would be the first time the village had ever been honored by anyone of importance or renown; of course—and again I must beg your indulgence, King Casimir—no one counted the official visit of the king and queen, who had not bothered to step down from their carriage. The townspeople spent their evenings making elaborate plans for their new revenues, and their days in frantic preparations designed to impress the dignitaries. Families herded their children into one room, tidied the vacant bedchambers and lofts, and hung out signs offering space to let. Merchants doubled their monthly orders to the wholesalers, greengrocers begged the farmers to speed up the spring planting, and even the Catholic innkeeper stocked up on kosher mutton.
The breakneck speed with which these arrangements were made was not in vain. Only ten days after Hannah’s return, the motley caravan of the Exalted Court of Cracow appeared on the edge of town.
“King Casimir,” mused the rabbi, his eyes shining, “here, in this palace of mirrors, I could never make you understand how marvelous this procession seemed to the simple-hearted citizens of Rachel Anna’s village. All at once, these provincial people—who never passed up a performance by a traveling mountebank or magician, who gladly walked thirty miles for one glimpse of an albino pony—found their main street mobbed with holy men and scholars, who had come from every part of Europe, Morocco, Araby, and the Ottoman Kingdom to study with Judah the Pious. There were mystical rabbis dressed in rags and feathers, community fathers in furs and diamonds. There were black-skinned Jews with kinkly sidelocks, desert patriarchs with turbans wrapped over their skullcaps. Behind the sages came dozens of servants, loaded down with brass-bound coffers, enameled chests, cages of exotic birds, and other necessities of travel; the bearers coughed and spat continually, pausing only to curse at the eager students in frayed black coats, who trotted at their masters’ heels, terrified by the thought of missing a single word of wisdom.
Near the market place, this chaotic band was obsequiously welcomed by the village rabbi, who had been appointed town representative in the case as a result of a campaign promise. The newly elected mayor had no wish to jeopardize his budding political career through imprudent dealings with prominent Jews—who might, at any moment, be denounced as traitors by the central government. The rabbi, however, had accepted the position eagerly, more than happy for a chance to show himself before the chief scholars of Poland in a distinguished light; and his first official act had been to prohibit Hannah Polikov from coming out to greet Reb Daniel, lest the great celebrity be offended by such unholy presumption in a woman.
Thus, it was not until the first session of the assembly that Hannah was abl
e to get a good look at the court of Judah the Pious. Seated beside Rachel Anna in the front row of the women’s section, the old woman was in an ideal location to smile back over her shoulder at several kind faces she remembered from Cracow, and the fortunate few neighbors who had been able to squeeze into the narrow aisles of the synagogue. For a small crowd of local Jews was already milling around the scholars’ pews, filling the air with the smells of milk, sweat, salami, and attar of roses. Mingled among them like pillars were the village Christians, standing stock-still and gaping at the temple which they had never entered before.
Suddenly, Hannah saw Reb Daniel push his way down the main aisle until he reached his seat at the center of the dais, directly in front of the ark, surrounded on both sides by a row of elders. She was relieved to discover that his round, pitted face emitted the same magnetically cheerful radiance, despite a night spent sleeping among the poorest students on the synagogue floor. She began to nod frantically at him, until he looked towards her, grinned, and rose from his chair.
Rocking back and forth on his heels, Reb Daniel led the Cracower court in chanting the prayers for wisdom and success in their venture, then spoke for the first time. “We have come here,” he pronounced deliberately, in a rich, deep voice, “to decide the case of a woman who may or may not have conceived in a dream. As is our custom, we will listen to the accusations first; now, we will learn the grounds of the fraud and heresy charge from the man whom God has chosen to best serve His people in the region—Rabbi Joseph Joshua.”
At this signal, the village rabbi waddled up to the dais, where he stood woodenly, with both arms stiff at his sides, in such obvious discomfort that the members of his temple—who had watched him dozing in that same spot every Sabbath—feared that he was becoming the victim of an apoplectic attack.
“It is an overwhelming honor,” he began shakily, “for a humble man like myself to have the opportunity of addressing the greatest minds of the Western World. On the other hand, it is a source of unspeakable grief for me to have to use this opportunity to vilify a member of my own flock—a girl whom I myself joined beneath the bridal canopy with her poor, betrayed husband, one of my most promising students.” The rabbi paused and lowered his tear-filled eyes. “But all of us know,” he continued, his voice swelling theatrically, “what just one drop of sour curd can do to a gallon of fresh milk. And it is in the interest of the pure souls of my congregation that I stand before you today, to save them from the corrupting influence of this vile young woman. It is only for their sake that I denounce her.
“For how can this community not be ashamed before God when every one of its innocent babes knows the whole history of this sinful wench—how she came to our town seeking refuge from a wicked past, departed for the wilderness in order to indulge in shameful excesses with her lover, then returned to our bosom to break our hearts, to weaken the moral fiber of our families. And now, now that the fruit of her transgressions has begun to ripen, she asks us to believe that her filthy bastard child was conceived in the spotless chastity of a dream!
“Is this logical?” cried Joseph Joshua, casting his eyes towards heaven, turning his palms upward, and shrugging dramatically. “Has such a thing ever happened before, even in the wondrous era of the Prophets? Did God ever warn us of the coming of this miracle? Can this be anything but heresy and fraud?
“Unless we answer these questions with a resounding ‘No!,’ I fear deeply for the future of our women. What will happen to their modesty, their honor, and their reserve when they learn that all their secret sins can be blamed on mischievous dreams? And now, gentlemen, at the risk of sounding unduly learned and esoteric, let me conclude my deposition with a quote from the wisest sage of all: ‘For who can find a virtuous woman; her value is more precious than rubies.’”
The villagers’ thunderous applause did not cease until long after Joseph Joshua had regained his seat. Then, a hush fell over the room as Rachel Anna went up and stood behind the lectern.
The Cracower scholars were glad that they had insisted on seeing the dreamer herself; their students could only blink in amazement, exchange sheepish grins, and lower their eyes modestly to the floor.
With quiet self-assurance, the young woman outlined the history of her life in the forest and the town, and assured the court of her sincere desire to remain there with her mother-in-law. When she had finished describing her first months in Hannah Polikov’s home, a three-hour recess was called; during this time, the two women conducted several sharp-eyed sages on a tour of the dreamer’s room, where the wise men failed to discover any positive evidence. Finally, that afternoon, Rachel Anna discussed the details of her dream in a private session with Reb Daniel and the chief elders.
It was from then on that the real testimony began. One by one, the holy men and scholars spoke on the nature and power of dreams. They cited the Torah and the Mishnah, the Kabala and the Apocrypha, argued over the meaning of Jacob’s ladder, Pharaoh’s cows, Nebuchadnezzar’s four kingdoms, and Daniel’s wild beasts. The antiquarians brought in examples from ancient history—Constantine’s cross, Nero’s swarm of ants, Xerxes’ false victory, and the visions which warned Caligula, Tiberius, and Domitian of their imminent deaths. Of course, the modernists insisted on updating this discussion with the mention of more recent cases, such as that of the long-buried treasure unearthed at Tours the previous week on the basis of information received in a milkmaid’s fantasy. Nor did the legal scholars forget the famous “dreaming judge” of Budapest, whose infallible verdicts depended on a night of restless sleep. And there was even some gossip about the chief rabbi of Coblenz, reportedly killed by a murderous hag who appeared only in his worst nightmares.
In the course of the hearing, every imaginable authority on the subject of dreams was quoted, debated, refuted. Some swore by the theories of Gabdorrachaman, while others preferred those of Artemidorus, Synesius of Cyrene, Theophrastus Bombastus, and even the Hindu King Milinda. There was talk of true and false visions, of divine and prodromic dreams, of symbols and contraries, of fantasies brought on by overeating, fasting, and excessive use of spirits.
These debates lasted until twelve each night, and resumed again promptly after the prayers at dawn; the clerks dutifully transcribed all that was said. Every member of the Cracower assembly had ample opportunity to speak his mind; a few beginning students, desperate for a chance to participate, even interpreted their own dreams according to the most elementary Talmudic guidelines. The entire court of Judah the Pious was growing steadily more exhilarated by its own scintillating display of wit and erudition. But gradually, as the discussion progressed, rising and falling in intensity, turning and circling back on itself, repeatedly straying from and returning to the main issue, it began to seem increasingly obvious that none of the wise men of Cracow could think of a single example, or general principle, which might explain the case of a woman impregnated in a dream.
For this reason, Reb Daniel called the session to an arbitrary halt at the end of seven days. “Enough time has gone by,” he sighed wearily, interrupting an old Yemenite’s discourse on the proper interpretation of visions involving date palms and vultures. “If this debate continues much longer, I am afraid that all the dreams of our coming years will seem stale and conventional, like jokes told a thousand times before. Go home now; I wish you a night of dreamless sleep. Tomorrow we will announce our verdict.”
The next morning, the synagogue was again crowded with local peasants, most of whom had stopped attending the sessions out of boredom with the interminable discussions. Rachel Anna watched her neighbors file in, their faces smug and self-righteous in the expectation that they were about to hear their suspicions officially confirmed. She felt detached, casual, as if all this were part of another dream. She wanted to be found innocent, but only as a matter of principle, and because she did not want to see her mother-in-law unhappy. As far as she herself was concerned, the case had been decided the minute she walked into Judah the Pious’s court; she
had lost Judah ben Simon’s love and respect, regardless of the verdict. Besides, during the week she had spent listening to the passionate arguments which rarely mentioned her name or her vision, she had almost forgotten that the subject they were debating had anything to do with her.
Now, with great calm, she held her mother-in-law’s sweaty hand, and watched Reb Daniel rise to speak. After a few moments, she knew that the villagers had won.
“None of our learning,” sighed the unusually solemn scholar, “none of our common experience, and none of our books tell us anything about a child conceived within a dream. We have no evidence to show that such a thing ever happened, or ever will.”
An excited murmur raced through the synagogue, followed by a short round of applause.
“But!” cried the chief disciple of Judah the Pious, holding up his hand, “that is a judgment on our knowledge, not on the dreamer or her dream. And all that judgment means,” he continued, brightening slightly, “is that we cannot name a place or a time when such a thing happened before. Now, since we have been unable to find such an easy solution to the puzzle, perhaps it would be better to attack the problem differently: let us, for just a moment, forget about the reality and meaning of visions, their purpose, their function, their influence on our waking lives. Let us, rather, do something much simpler—interpret this dream, and speak of this dreamer.”
“Here,” Reb Daniel went on, “we have a woman who has imagined herself and her absent husband indulging their desires in the wilderness. The fact is that such a vision is classified by the Talmud among the Blessed and Lucky Dreams. The forest setting is a sure symbol of peace and tranquillity; the return of a traveling man always speaks of trust and fidelity; and to dream of physical love with one’s mate cannot mean anything but many years of harmony and contentment for the married pair. On the basis of her dream, then, we must naturally conclude that this young woman can look forward to a lifetime of pleasures and joys.
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