I glanced at her, at my little girl standing all atremble by the memorial candle in the courtyard, warming her little hands over the flame. Growing aware of my eyes, she looked at me like a frightened child who finds her father standing behind her and sees that his thoughts are muddled and his heart humbled.
Grasping her hand in mine, I said, “Good men will come at once and give me a tallit with an adornment of silver just like the one the enemy tore. You remember the lovely tallit that I used to spread over your head when the priests would rise up to bless the people. They will give me a large festival prayer book filled with prayers, too, and I will wrap myself in the tallit and take the book and pray to God, who saved us from the hand of the enemy who sought to destroy us.
“And what will they bring you, my dearest daughter? You, my darling, they will bring a little prayer book full of letters, full of all of the letters of the alphabet and the vowel marks, too. And now, dearest daughter, tell me, an alef and a bet that come together with a kametz beneath the alef — how do you say them?”
“Av,” my daughter answered.
“And what does it mean?” I asked.
“Father,” my daughter answered, “like you’re my father.”
“Very nice, that’s right, an alef with a kametz beneath and a bet with no dot in it make av.”
“And now, my daughter,” I continued, “what father is greater than all other fathers? Our Father in heaven, who is my father and your father and the father of the whole world. You see, my daughter, two little letters stand there in the prayer book as if they were all alone, then they come together and lo and behold they are av. And not only these letters but all letters, all of them join together to make words and words make prayers and the prayers rise up before our Father in heaven who listens very, very carefully, to all that we pray, if only our hearts cling to the upper light like a flame clings to a candle.”
Even as I stood there speaking of the power of the letters, a breeze swept through the courtyard and pushed the memorial candle against my daughter. Fire seized hold of her dress. I ripped off the flaming garment, leaving the child naked, for what she was wearing was all that remained of her lovely clothes. We had fled in panic, destruction at our heels, and had taken nothing with us. Now that fire had consumed her dress, I had nothing with which to cover my daughter.
I turned this way and that, seeking anything my daughter could clothe herself with. I sought, but found nothing. Wherever I directed my eyes, I met emptiness. I’ll go to the corner of the storeroom, I said to myself, where torn sacred books are hidden away, perhaps there I will find something. Many a time when I was a lad I had rummaged about there and found all sorts of things, sometimes the conclusion of a matter and sometimes its beginning or its middle. But now I turned there and found nothing with which to cover my little girl. Do not be surprised that I found nothing. When books were read, they were rent; but now that books are not read, they are not rent.
I stood there worried and distraught. What could I do for my daughter, what could I cover her nakedness with? Night was drawing on and with it the chill of the night, and I had no garment, nothing to wrap my daughter in. I recalled the home of Reb Alter, who had gone up to the Land of Israel. I’ll go to his sons and daughters, I decided, and ask clothing of them. I left my daughter as she was and headed for the household of Reb Alter.
How pleasant to walk without being pursued. The earth is light and comfortable and does not burn beneath one’s feet, nor do the heavens fling thorns into one’s eyes. But I ran rather than walked, for even if no man was pursuing me, time was: the sun was about to set and the hour to gather for the evening prayer was nigh. I hurried lest the members of Reb Alter’s household might already be getting up to leave for the house of prayer.
It is comforting to remember the home of a dear friend in time of distress. Reb Alter, peace be with him, had circumcised me, and a covenant of love bound us together. As long as Reb Alter lived in his home I was a frequent visitor there, the more so in the early days when I was a classmate of his grandson Gad. Reb Alter’s house was small, so small that one wondered how such a large man could live there. But Reb Alter was wise and made himself so little that his house seemed large.
The house, built on one of the low hills surrounding the Great Synagogue, had a stucco platform protruding from it. Reb Alter, peace be with him, had been in the habit of sitting on that platform with his long pipe in his mouth, sending wreaths of smoke gliding into space. Many a time I stood waiting for the pipe to go out so I could bring him a light. My grandfather, peace be with him, had given Reb Alter that pipe at my circumcision feast. “Your grandfather knows pipes very well,” Reb Alter told me once, “and knows how to pick just the right pipe for every mouth.”
Reb Alter stroked his beard as he spoke, like one well aware that he deserved that pipe, even though he was a modest man. His modesty showed itself one Friday afternoon before sunset. As he put out the pipe, and the Sabbath was approaching, he said, “Your grandfather never has to put out his pipe; he knows how to smoke more or less as time necessitates.”
Well, then, I entered the home of Reb Alter and found his daughter, together with a small group of old men and old women, sitting near a window while an old man with a face like a wrinkled pear stood reading them a letter. All of them listened attentively, wiping their eyes. Because so many years had passed, I mistook Reb Alter’s daughter for her mother. What’s going on? I asked myself. On the eve of the Day of Atonement darkness is falling, and these people have not lit a “candle of life.” And what sort of letter is this? If from Reb Alter, he is already dead. Perhaps it was from his grandson, my friend Gad, perhaps news had come from Reb Alter’s grandson Gad, who had frequented the house of study early and late. One day he left early and did not return.
It is said that two nights prior to his disappearance, his wet-nurse had seen him in a dream sprouting the plume of a peculiar bird from his head, a plume that shrieked, “A, B, C, D!” Reb Alter’s daughter folded the letter and put it between the mirror and the wall. Her face, peeking out of the mirror, was the face of an aged woman bearing the burden of her years. And alongside her face appeared my own, green as a wound that has not formed a scab.
I turned away from the mirror and looked at the rest of the old people in Reb Alter’s home and tried to say something to them. My lips flipped against each other like a man who wishes to say something but, upon seeing something bizarre, is seized with fright.
One of the old men noticed the state of panic I was in. Tapping one finger against his spectacles, he said, “You are looking at our torn clothing. Enough that creatures like ourselves still have skin on our flesh.” The rest of the old men and old women heard and nodded their heads in agreement. As they did so, their skin quivered. I took hold of myself, walked backward, and left.
I left in despair and, empty-handed, with no clothing, with nothing at all, returned to my daughter. I found her standing in a corner of the courtyard pressed against the wall next to the purification board on which the dead are washed. Her hair was loose and wrapped about her. How great is Thy goodness, O God, in putting wisdom into the heart of such a little girl to enable her to wrap herself in her hair after her dress has burned off, for as long as she had not been given a garment it was good that she covered herself with her hair. But how great was the sadness that enveloped me at that moment, the outset of this holy festival whose joy has no parallel all the year. But now there was no joy and no sign of joy, only pain and anguish.