The dawn had risen and the stars had set. The mountains were beginning to doff the covering of night, and the springs gleamed as they emerged. The mountains raised their heads, and narrow paths wound their way among them. The dew rested on them and the birds pecked at the morning dew. I looked this way and that. Far and near, mountains and rocks; near and far, not a place of habitation. The road was long, and my feet were heavy, and the day was short, and the hour was pressing. God knew when I would reach an inhabited town and whether I would see a human face that day.
I do not know whether I followed the road the guard showed me or strayed from it. In any case, the day passed and the sun soon set. The mountains darkened, and awesome forms took shape in the space of the world. There was still a trace of day, but night was drawing on: the day that belonged to a year that has passed and the night that belonged to a new year. And between day and night, I stood, a wayfarer, with my staff and my satchel, not knowing where to go and where I would lay my head.
The night was overcast and the moon did not shine. The springs still gleamed a little, but they too began to be covered. I looked this way and that. The whole land was like one block of darkness. I went into a cleft in the rock and laid myself down to sleep. The birds of heaven nested above my head, and all around were the beasts of the earth. The birds were already asleep and the beasts had not yet come out. Silence reigned, the silence of mountain rocks at night. From far and near came the sound of the spring waters, flowing as in a land at peace.
I lie on the ground and look at the dark skies. This is the night of the New Year, when all the multitudes of Israel stand in prayer, and the women have already lit candles before nightfall in honor of the day, so that they should enter the new year with light and joy. And here I lie in a dark country among the beasts of the earth, and if I reach an inhabited place tomorrow, I doubt if I will find a Jew there. Israel is like scattered sheep; wherever a Jew goes he finds Jews; but here all the communities have been destroyed and the Jews have not returned.
So I lay in the cleft of the rock and waited for morning. My feet moved off on their own and started walking. I reached a great park full of fine trees. I wanted to enter, but was afraid I might be rebuked by the wardens, who look askance at wayfarers. I entered — I do not know how — and they did not say a word. I walked from tree to tree and from flower bed to flower bed, until I was tired out, and fell down from the effort. Oh, those beautiful parks we see in dreams. They are larger than any parks in the world, and their fragrance is sweeter than all the sweet odors, and we walk in them without end or limit. What is the purpose of our walking in these parks? Only that in the end we should collapse in exhaustion? But the fragrance that clings to us is worth all that effort. This is the fragrance that refreshes our souls when we merely mention it.
The sound of my fall woke me, and I heard a man’s voice. Since I knew that I was far from any inhabited place, I said to myself: I am dreaming; but since I longed to see a man I said to myself: Perhaps, after all, I am awake. I raised my eyes and saw two men, and then, behind them, two women. The morning mists hung below the mountains and the men and women were walking above the hills, above the mist.
I got up and went to meet them. Two more came and another two: those from behind the mountain and these from the lower slopes. And their wives came after them, two on this side and two on that, joining up and going on together, two by two. Their clothes were modest; they wore white gowns over their clothes, and white caps on their heads, with a band of silver, two fingers broad, surrounding the cap and tied at the back, and tallitot hanging over their shoulders, and belts over their clothes; they were distinguished by beard and sidelocks, and they had old, black books, festival or weekday prayer books, in their hands. Like the men, the women were clad in modest, humble clothes. Their heads were covered with white coifs, shaped like the Hebrew letter kaf, covering the head and the forehead and partially surrounding face and chin. I greeted them and they returned my greeting.
“Where do you come from, brothers, and where are you going?” I asked them. They pointed to the mountains and said, “We are going to the house of God,” they said, pointing to the mountains. “And are there Jews here?” I said to them. “In days gone by,” they replied, “all these places here were covered with sacred congregations, but because of our manifold sins and the malice of the Gentiles, all the congregations were burned and killed and destroyed and laid waste, and none were left but one Jew here and one there. On the three pilgrimage festivals — on the New Year and the Day of Atonement, and also at the New Moon of Sivan, which was the day of the great slaughter — we assemble and make a quorum, and recite the congregational prayers.” They spoke an antique German, but the voice of Jacob somewhat sweetened the language. And their beautiful dark eyes gazed in grief and concern, like men who stand at sunset awaiting a tenth for the quorum.
We reached a ruined building of great stones. On the walls inside, there were visible signs of congealed blood, from the blood of the martyrs who slaughtered themselves, their wives and their sons and daughters, to prevent their falling into the hands of the accursed ones. And the smell of burning emanated from the ruin, for after the martyrs had slaughtered themselves, the accursed ones set fire to the synagogue over them. Above the sanctuary hung a heavy curtain. Once it was white, but now it was black. And marks of congealed blood were visible upon it: the blood of the martyrs.
When we entered, we found three men who had come before us. Among them was an old man, standing bowed, with his head resting on the old black festival prayer book that lay on the lectern. He was clad like the other people of the place, but they wore gray trousers, while his were white. He had the small fringed garment over his clothes, with a mantle over it and his tallit drawn up over his cap. Because of the sanctity of the day and the sanctity of the place, they did not speak, either in the profane or in the holy tongue.
The old man raised his head from the lectern and looked into the house of prayer. He rapped on the prayer book and said, “People, we now have a quorum. Let us pray.” They replied, “Samuel Levi has not yet come.” “Why does he not come,” said the old man, “and why is he holding up the prayer?” One of them pricked up his ears and said, “I hear the sound of footsteps, here he comes.” But no, those were not his footsteps. An old gentile woman came in and asked, “Who is the gravedigger here?” One of them removed the tallit from his face and asked her, “What do you want?” “The Jew Levi is about to die,” she said, “and perhaps he is already dead. He sent me to tell you to come and see to his burial.” The whole congregation sighed deeply and looked at each other, as people look at a little orphan who has suddenly lost his parents. And each and everyone of them looked as if he had been bereaved and he was the orphan.
“People, what does the Gentile woman want in the holy place?” the old man asked. They told him. “He was a good Jew,” he said with a sigh. “Alas that he is dead, alas that he is dead.” Then the old man looked at me and said, “Blessed be the Almighty who has brought you here. Surely He has brought you to complete the quorum.” He rapped on the prayer book and said, “The dead praise not the Lord, neither any that go down into silence. People, we have a quorum, praise the Lord. Let us rise and pray.” He let down his tallit over his face and began to recite the blessings. Immediately they all raised their tallitot and covered their heads. They recited the blessings, the hallelujahs, the “Bless ye,” and the hymns. They recited the “Hear, O Israel” and then the Prayer of Benedictions. They took out the scrolls from the sanctuary and read the Torah. And I, Samuel Joseph, son of Rabbi Shalom Mordecai the Levite, went up to the lectern for the reading of the Torah in place of Samuel Levi, who had passed away. After the blowing of the ram’s horn and the Additional Service, we went down to accompany our friend to his last resting place.