Chapter seven and fifty. Beyond the River Sambatyon
After leaving the hotel to go to the Beit Midrash, I found little Raphael lying in front of his house on his straw mattress. The sun in Szibucz does not enter a poor man’s home, and if Mrs. Bach wants her child to enjoy the sun she takes him outside.
So Raphael lies in the sun and watches it with a shining face, and captures it in his hat and will not let it go, because for several months he has not seen the sun and naturally he does not want to let it go.
I tried to ignore him and pass by; first, because I wanted to go to the Beit Midrash, and second, so as not to disturb the child. But he saw me, stretched out his hand and beckoned to me. When I saw his thin fingers, with the sun shining on them, my heart was filled with pity, so I came and sat down in front of him in silence, and he too was silent.
I cannot just sit and say nothing, I said to myself. So I asked him if he felt warm. “I am warm,” the child replied, “are you warm too?” “It is the same sun,” I said, “and just as it warms the one so it warms the other; if you are warm why should I not feel warm?” “Because you are from the Land of Israel,” the child answered, “and the sun in the Land is twice as warm; I’m sure the whole sun here is not enough for you.” “Men have a way of getting accustomed” said I. “I thought anyone who had been there would feel cold here,” said Raphael. “Why did you think so?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know and yet you say so?” “I know, but I don’t know if you will know when I tell you.” “Tell me, dear, tell me.” “You tell me.” “How can I tell you when I don’t know what?” “Then I’ll ask you something else. Where is it more beautiful, there or there?” “What do you mean, Raphael, what do you mean by ‘there or there’? Or perhaps you meant to ask about there or here, meaning in the Land of Israel or in Szibucz.” Said Raphael, “Yesterday I read in a book about the River Sambatyon and the Ten Tribes and the Sons of Moses, and I ask where is it more beautiful, there or in the Land of Israel?” “You’re asking something that is clear of itself,” I replied; “after all, the Ten Tribes and the Sons of Moses look forward all their lives to go up to the Land of Israel, and unless the Holy One, blessed be He, had not surrounded them with the River Sambatyon, wouldn’t they hurry to the Land of Israel? But all week long the River Sambatyon races rapidly and casts up stones, so that no one can pass, and on the Sabbath, when it rests, they cannot cross, because they are very pious men and observe the Sabbath. And you ask where it is more beautiful! Certainly in the Land of Israel.”
“I thought,” said the child, “that because they are not under the yoke of the Gentiles and the servitude of the nations, it is more beautiful near the Sambatyon.” “Perfectly true,” I replied, “they are not under the yoke of the Gentiles and the servitude of the nations, but they do not have the joy of the Land, for there is no joy of the Land but in the Land of Israel.” “Are they really not under the yoke of the Gentiles?” said the child. “Haven’t you read that in your book?” said I. “And aren’t the Gentiles jealous of them?” “Indeed they are jealous of them; that is why the Gentiles go out to war against them.” “And what do they do?” “They fight back.” “Like here?” “What do you mean, like here?” “Like what happened here in our town, when the Gentiles came and fought each other and killed each other.” I stroked his cheek and said to him, “How can you compare the Sons of Moses our Teacher to the nations of the world? For the Sons of Moses are pure and holy, and heaven forbid that they should shed blood and defile their souls.” “Well, then,” said Raphael, “if people make war against them and try to kill them, what do they do? If they don’t kill their enemies, their enemies will kill them.” “They have made themselves staves of magnetic stone,” I told him, “and when the enemy attacks them, they go out to meet them with their staves, and draw the weapons out of the enemy’s hands. And when the enemy sees that he has no weapons, he turns tail and runs away. But anyone who has not managed to escape comes to the Prince of the Jews, lays his head on the doorstep of his house, and says, ‘My life is in your hands, my lord. Do to me as I wished to do to you.’ So the Prince comes out of his house, raises his hands to heaven, and says, ‘May the Lord witness your afflictions and restore you to better ways.’”
“Where did they get these staves?” asked Raphael. “It is a secret of the Lord for them that fear Him.” “Have you ever seen one of them?” “I have never seen any of them, but I have seen Gentiles who came from there, and they told me about them.” “And have you seen one of our Jews who has been there?” “No,” I replied. “Why have Gentiles deserved to go there and not Jews?” asked the child. “There are Jews who have had that privilege,” said I. “But anyone who has found his way there does not come back. Tell me, if you were there would you want to come back here?” “And why have the Gentiles come back from there?” “Gentiles who cannot endure the righteousness of the Sons of Moses cannot live with them. And sometimes the Gentiles leave because they long for their own town and their own home, as in the story I told you of one of the princes of Ishmael who found his way there during the war of the Turk. You remember the story you read under the tree?” “That prince was with the Jews of Khaibar and not with the Sons of Moses,” said Raphael. “If so,” said I, “I will tell you a story of a certain Arab who happened to meet the Sons of Moses. I saw this Arab in Jerusalem, and he was a great lover of the Jews; he would bow down to every single Jewish child, for every Gentile who has had the privilege of living among good and pious Jews no longer hates the people of Israel, but loves them and proclaims their righteousness to the world.” While we were talking, the child’s father came up.
Daniel Bach was content, first, because he was content by nature, and second, because he had received a letter from his father. “And what did your father write?” I asked. “Well, he did not mention the quarrels in his congregation in Ramat Rahel, and he didn’t write about the graves of the righteous men on which he prostrated himself.” “Then what did he write about?” “About the vineyards and the chickens and the cows, and the plantations they planted in Ramat Rahel, and how much milk each cow gives and how many eggs the chickens lay. If I did not recognize my father’s handwriting, I would say the letter had been written by someone else, for what has my father to do with cattle and chickens and plantings?
“Now I know why they disparage the Land of Israel,” said Daniel Bach. “If this is what happens to an old man who has spent all his life in study and prayer, what can you expect of all the young men who do not study and pray?”
Sara Pearl came out. When she saw me she said, “Where have you been, sir, all this time? Since the eve of Shavuot I believe we have not seen you.” I told her about my comrades on the farm, with whom I spent the festival, and while I was talking I felt glad I had not told Yeruham Freeman about them first, for when you talk about something a second time it does not have the same power as the first time.
Daniel Bach has already heard about those boys and girls who have gone out to work in the fields, and he is not impressed. “If I did not know their fathers,” said Mr. Bach, “perhaps I would be impressed by them. But since I know their parents I am not happy about the children.” However, he has no intention of spoiling my joy; anyone who wants to be happy, let him be happy.
And I am happy about them and about the time I spent with them. Let not God regard it as an offense on their part that through them I neglected the Torah for several days and have not yet returned to my studies.