I don’t know just how long it was, but certainly not much time passed before he spoke to me again. He didn’t speak with his voice, but his thought was impressed upon mine and created words. And God gave my heart the wisdom to understand. But to copy the things down — I cannot. I just know this: that he spoke to me, for I was sitting alone in the house of prayer, reading the commandments of the Lord as composed by Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol. For ever since I was old enough to do so, I follow the custom, every Shavuot eve, of reading the commandments of the Lord by Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol, may his soul rest.
39
I was reminded of the sorrow I had felt for Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol because God made him search for Him, as he says, “At the dawn I seek Thee, my rock and my fortress,” and when he finally found Him, awe fell upon him and he stood confused, as he says, “Before Thy greatness I stand and am confounded.” And as if he didn’t have enough troubles himself, he had to add the sorrow of that poor captive girl. I put my finger to my throat, as the old cantor used to do, and raised my voice to sing “O Poor Captive” in the melody he had written. I saw that Rabbi Solomon, may his soul rest, turned his ear and listened to the pleasant sound of this hymn of redemption. I got up my courage and said to him, “In our town, wherever they prayed in the Ashkenazic rite, they used to say a lot of piyyutim. The beauty of each piyyut has stayed in my heart, and especially this ‘O Poor Captive,’ which was the first hymn of redemption I heard in my youth.” I remembered that Sabbath morning when I had stood in the Great Synagogue in our city, which was now laid waste. My throat became stopped up and my voice choked, and I broke out in tears.
Rabbi Solomon saw this and asked me, “Why are you crying?” I answered, “I cry for my city and all the Jews in it who have been killed.” His eyes closed, and I saw that the sorrow of my city had drawn itself to him. I thought to myself, since the rabbi doesn’t know all of the people of my town, he’ll weigh the glory of all of them by the likes of me. I bowed my head and lowered my eyes and said to him, “In my sorrow and in my humility, I am not worthy. I am not the man in whom the greatness of our city can be seen.”
40
Rabbi Solomon saw my sorrow and my affliction and the lowness of my spirit, for my spirit was indeed very low. He came close to me, until I found myself standing next to him, and there was no distance between us except that created by the lowness of my spirit. I raised my eyes and saw his lips moving. I turned my ear and heard him mention the name of my city. I looked and saw him move his lips again. I heard him say, “I’ll make a sign, so that I won’t forget the name.” My heart melted and I stood trembling, because he had mentioned the name of my city and had drawn mercy to it, saying he would make a sign, so as not to forget its name.
I began to think about what sign Rabbi Solomon could make for my city. With ink? It was a holiday, so he wouldn’t have his writer’s inkwell in his pocket. With his clothes? The clothes with which the Holy One, blessed be He, clothes His holy ones have no folds and don’t take to any imprint made upon them from outside.
Once more he moved his lips. I turned my ear and heard him recite a poem, each line of which began with one of the letters of the name of my town. And so I knew that the sign the poet made for my town was in beautiful and rhymed verse, in the holy tongue.
41
The hairs of my flesh stood on end and my heart melted as I left my own being, and I was as though I was not. Were it not for remembering the poem, I would have been like all my townsfolk, who were lost, who had died at the hand of a despicable people, those who trampled my people until they were no longer a nation. But it was because of the power of the poem that my soul went out of me. And if my town has been wiped out of the world, it remains alive in the poem that the poet wrote as a sign for my city. And if I don’t remember the words of the poem, for my soul left me because of its greatness, the poem sings itself in the heavens above, among the poems of the holy poets, the beloved of God.
42
Now to whom shall I turn who can tell me the words of the song? To the old cantor who knew all the hymns of the holy poets? I am all that is left of all their tears. The old cantor rests in the shadow of the holy poets, who recite their hymns in the Great Synagogue of our city. And if he answers me, his voice will be as pleasant as it was when our city was yet alive and all of its people were also still in life. But here — here there is only a song of mourning, lamentation, and wailing, for the city and its dead.
Additional Stories
To Father’s House
1
Close to the Passover holiday it happened. I was far away from my father’s house and my home town, and I was going about my work, which has neither beginning nor end, work which you start to no advantage and which never sets you free. Two men smeared with plaster and paint arrived, one of them holding a ladder. Actually I should say that the ladder stood by itself and he, that is, this man with the ladder, weaved his arms through the rungs. I asked them, “What do you want?” They told me, “We were sent here to whitewash the room.”
I was involved in my work, and it was difficult for me to stop. Yet I was bothered not so much by the interruption as by the dirt, for these painters certainly would not go out of their way to spread a sheet over the books, and protect them from being soiled.
To avoid their reading my thoughts, I pretended not to see them and stared at a hole in the wall, near the ceiling. Straw and palm — branches hanging down from the ceiling covered the hole, and flies and mosquitoes clustered there. I said to myself, What do you gain with your windows screened if flies and mosquitoes come in through that hole?
I left the workers and went up to the attic, to clear away the straw and palm — branches so that the hole would be readily visible until I could find a board to cover it.
My little niece came to help me. For some reason which is beyond me, I scolded her: “I don’t need you and the likes of you!” She shrugged her shoulders and disappeared.
Meanwhile, the workers began acting in my room as if it belonged to them. I thought to myself, I’m superfluous here, and I can’t do my work, so I’ll go to my home town, to my father’s house. I haven’t seen my father for many years now, and I haven’t fulfilled the commandment of respect for Father. At the railroad station I boarded a train going to my town. Through no fault of my own, the train was delayed on the way, and when I reached town the festival had already begun; it was Passover night.
2
Passover night had come, and I had come to my home town. Since it was time for prayer, I went to pray, but I did not go where my father usually prays, for if he should see me so suddenly it would confuse his praying.
When I reached the courtyard of the House of Prayer I hesitated slightly, because I saw a lighted candle suspended in the air in a bottle swinging in the wind but not extinguished, and because at that moment one of the men whose avocation is interpreting the Bible — Isaac Euchel by name — came over to show me an explanation of a difficult verse at the end of the book of Joshua, or perhaps it was the beginning of the book of Hosea. Isaac Euchel’s explanation was a bit forced, and medieval commentators had already interpreted the verse in a simple style and in clear, lucid language. Nevertheless, I nodded my head, as if the world needed his interpretation.