A great and unusual emotion prevailed among the population of the
little town. From all parts they thronged towards the large brown
house of prayer, where, under the three-storied roof covered with
moss, the row of high and narrow windows blazed with light. The sky
was covered with stars twinkling feebly and paling before the full
moon.
The interior of the temple, large and roomy, would easily hold
several thousand people. The high and smooth walls, forming a perfect
square, were cut across by a long, heavy gallery, divided into
niches, not unlike private boxes, and surrounded by a high, open-work
grating. Wooden benches, standing closely together, filled the body
of the synagogue from the entrance door up to the raised platform,
which was surrounded by a highly ornamental grating. There was a
table on the platform, used for unfolding the leaves of the Tora on
days when extracts from it were read to the people. It served also as
a pulpit when, on solemn days, speeches or religious discourses were
delivered. Here also stood the choir of young men or grown-up
children, who united their voices or answered to the intonating
singer.
The platform was about a dozen feet from the principal part of the
building, which looked very impressive in its dignity and blaze of
colour. It was the altar, or the place where the holy of holies was
preserved. The top of the altar reached to the ceiling, and consisted
of two great tables incrusted with lapis-lazuli and covered with
white letters, like strings of arabesques, in a rich and fantastic
design, in which the initiated eye could read the Ten Commandments.
The tables of lapis-lazuli were supported by two gilt-bronze lions of
huge size, resting on two heavy columns of the intensest blue,
surrounded with white garlands of vine-leaves and grapes. All this
rose from a heavy stone foundation, the large surface of which, from
top to bottom was covered with inscriptions from the Bible. The two
columns stood like guards on either side of a deep recess, veiled
entirely with a red silk curtain richly embroidered with gold. Behind
this curtain, only raised at certain times, lay the holy of holies,
the Tora, a great roll of parchment covered with costly silk and tied
with ribbons embroidered in gold and silver.
Seven chandeliers of a hundred lights each, illuminated the gallery
above, showing behind the transparent grating innumerable
female figures in bright coloured dresses; below were the benches,
where the men were sitting on their soft white talliths. Around the
necks of the more prominent members gleamed large silver bands worked
in delicate bas-relief. The costliest and largest of the seven
chandeliers hung suspended by heavy silver cords before the red silk
curtain and reflected in the heavy gold embroidery, and showed the
delicate design of the vine leaves twining round the columns. Here
stood Eliezer, the singer who intoned the old psalms, the limitless
melodies of which resound with all the voices of human joy,
suffering, and entreaty. Never had the beautiful voice produced
richer or mellower tones; never had it vibrated with such deep
emotion. It almost seemed as if that evening a superhuman power had
taken possession of him. Now and then his voice died away in a low
wail; then it rose again with such voluminous power of entreaty as if
it carried him on its wings before the throne of Jehovah--to plead
for something or somebody.
The whole building was filled with the sound, in which the choir of
young voices joined from time to time. There was a deep silence among
the congregation. Here and there some one whispered:
"It is like the angel Sandalphon, who offers to Jehovah the garlands
made from human prayers."
Others shook their heads sadly. "He is pleading for his friend, who
is to be excommunicated to-night."
Suddenly the singer's voice was interrupted by a heavy thump,
repeated several times. It ceased, as if the golden string had been
torn asunder by a brutal hand. The choir disappeared from the
platform, and in their place stood one man, whose dark, piercing eyes
looked more baneful than ever. In his hands he held a heavy book,
with which he struck the table as a sign for silence. Throughout the
building everything was quiet, except in the portico, where some
twenty people surrounded a young man who, with a deathly pale face
and compressed lips, stood leaning against the wall.
Whisperers crowded around him.
"It is still time. Have mercy upon yourself and your family! Run
quick, quick, throw yourself at the feet of the Rabbi! Oh, Herem!
Herem! Herem!"
He did not seem to listen. His arms were crossed over his breast. The
contracted forehead, marked with the red scar, gave him the
expression of inward pain, but also of inflexible courage.
"In the name of the God of our fathers," sounded the loud voice of
Isaak Todros.
A long sigh like a tremor seemed to shake the whole congregation, and
then everything was silent.
Isaak Todros spoke slowly and impressively:
"By the force and power of the world, in the name of the holy
covenant and the six hundred and thirteen commandments contained in
the covenant; with the malediction of Joshua against the town of
Jericho; with the malediction of Elisha against the children who
mocked him; with the shamanta used by the great Sanhedrims and
Synods; with all the herems and curses used from the time of Moses to
this day; in the name of the God eternal; in the name of Matatron,
the guardian of Israel; in the name of the angel Sandalphon, who from
human prayers wreathes garlands for the throne of Jehovah; in the
name of the archangel Michael, the powerful leader of the heavenly
army; in the name of the angels of fire, wind, and lightning; in the
name of all the angels conducting the stars on their courses, and all
the archangels who are spreading their wings above the throne of the
Eternal; in the name of Him who appeared in the burning bush, and by
the power of which Moses divided the waters; in the name of the hand
who wrote the tables of the holy law, we expel, disgrace, and curse
the strong, disobedient, and blasphemous Meir Ezofowich, son of
Benjamin."
He paused a little, then, with a vehement motion, raised both his
arms above his head, and, amidst the deepest silence, he went on
faster and louder:
"Be he accursed by heaven and earth; by the angels Matatron,
Sandalphon, and Michael; by all the angels, archangels, and heavenly
orbs. Be he accursed by all pure and holy spirits which serve the
Lord; accursed by every power in heaven and upon earth. Let all
creation become his enemy, that the whirlwind crush him and the sword
smite him. Let his ways be dangerous and covered with darkness, and
let the greatest despair be hi only companion thereon. Let sorrow and
unhappiness waste his body; let his eyes look upon the heavy blows
falling upon him. Let the Lord never forgive him; nay, let the wrath
and vengeance of the Lord eat deep into his marrow. Let him be
wrapped up in the curse as in a garment; let his death be sudden, and
drive him into utter darkness."
Here Todros paused again to draw breath into his exhausted lungs. His
voice had become every minute more laboured, and his sentences more
broken. His face was burning, and his arms waved wildly over his
head.
"From this moment," he shouted again, "from this moment the curse has
fallen upon him; let him not dare to approach the house of prayer
nearer than four yards. Under the threat of excommunication, let no
Israelite approach nearer to him than four yards distance, nor open
to him his house, nor give him bread, water, or fire, though he see him
dying with thirst, hunger, and disease; nay, let everybody spit upon him,
and throw stones under his feet, that he may stumble and fall. Let him not
have any fortune, either what he has earned himself or what comes from his
parents; let it be given up to the elders of the Kahal, to be used for the
poor and needy."
"This curse which has fallen upon him, let it be made public
all over Israel wherever you go, and we will send the tidings of it
to all our brethren to the farthest confines of the world."
"This is our decree, and you all who remain faithful unto the Lord
and his covenant, live in peace."
He had finished; and, at the same time, by some prearranged
contrivance, all the lights in the seven chandeliers grew dim, and in
the four corners of the edifice trumpets began to sound in a low,
mournful wail, in which joined a chorus of sobs and loud moans. A
heart-rending cry came from the portico, which was all the more
terrible as, it came from the breast of a young and powerful man.
There was the noise of many feet, and the sound of somebody driven
out. Meir disappeared from the house of prayer. Among the benches
near the altar came the sound of rent garments, and grave men fell on
their faces.
"In the dust lies the mighty house of Ezofowich," said several
voices, pointing at them.
From the gallery came the loud sobs and wailing, of women, and in the
background of the edifice people without silver ribbons round their
talliths wrung their hard, work-stained hands.
Todros wiped the perspiration from his brow with his ragged sleeve,
and, leaning upon the balustrade with heaving breast and twitching
lips, looked at the singer. He did not leave the platform, for,
according to the prescribed rules, a blessing for all the people
ought to follow the curse. It was the singer's duty to intonate it.
Todros waited for it. Why did the singer delay so long? Why did he
not take up his last words, "Live in peace," and intonate the
blessing? Eliezer stood with his face turned to the altar. Whilst the
Rabbi pronounced the curse his whole frame had shook under the folds
of the tallith. By and by he grew quieter, stood motionless, and his
eyes seemed to look far, far in the distance. At last he raised his
arms. It was the sign for silence and prayer. The trumpets, which had
kept on the low, mournful wailing, grew silent, the human sobs and
cries ceased. The dim light blazed up again, and amidst the deepest
silence, interrupted by some stifled sobs, rose the pure and silvery
voice of Eliezer:
"O Lord, who blessed our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses,
Aaron, David, the prophets of Israel, and all righteous people, pour
down thy blessing upon the man who this day has been injured by an
unjust curse."
"God in thy mercy shield and guard him from all unhappiness, prolong
the years of his life, and bless all his undertakings. Release him
from distress, and darkness, and fetters, together with all his
brethren in Israel."
"Do this, O Lord. Say all unto me, Amen." He stopped, and there was a
short silence of stupefaction, and then out of several hundred
throats came the cry, "Amen!" "Amen!" called out the members of the
Ezofowich family who rose from the floor, shaking the dust from their
rent garments. "Amen!" called out the group of poor people who had
wrung their black, work-stained hands.
"Amen!" came from the voices of the weeping women in the gallery.
"Amen!" repeated at last a chorus of young voices.
The Rabbi took his hands off the balustrade, and looked around the
congregation with amazed eyes.
"What is that? What does this mean?"
Then Eliezer turned his face to him and the people. The hood of his
tallith had slipped from his head on to his shoulders. His face,
usually white, was flushed, and his blue eyes glowed with anger and
courage. He raised his band, and said, in a loud voice:
"Rabbi, it means that our ears and our hearts will not listen to any
such curses any more!"
These words were like the signal for battle. Scarcely had he finished
speaking when some fifty young men ranged themselves on either side
of him. Some were the excommunicated man's personal friends; others
had only seen him from a distance; among them were even those who had
blamed him and condemned his rashness.
"Rabbi!" they called out, "we will hear such curses no more!"
"Rabbi! your curse has made us love the accursed!"
"Rabbi! with that herem you have laid a burden upon a man who was
pleasant in the sight of God and man!"
With a mighty effort Todros seemed to rouse himself from the numbness
into which the unexpected rebellion had plunged him.
"What is it you want?" he shouted. "What are you speaking of? Has the
evil spirit bewitched you? Do you not know that our Law commands us
to curse those who rebel against the holy covenant?"
Not from among the young men, but from the benches where the elders
were sitting, came a grave voice:
"Rabbi! do you not know that when the old Sanhedrim were in fierce
debate whether to adhere to the teaching of Hillel or Shamai, a
mysterious voice, 'Bat Kohl,' taken for the voice of God himself, was
heard, 'Listen to the Law of Hillel, for it is full of charity and
gentleness.'"
All heads were craned in the direction whence the speech had come. It
was from Raphael, the uncle of the excommunicated.
At this moment Ber made his way through the crowd and stood at the
side of the young men.
"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "have you ever counted the intellects you and
your forefathers crushed with your despotism; all the souls eager for
knowledge that you thrust into darkness and suffering?"
"Rabbi!" said a youthful almost childish voice, "will you and those
that stand by you always keep from us all knowledge after which our
minds are yearning?"
"Why do you not, Rabbi, teach the people to use their intelligence as
a sieve, to divide the grain from the chaff, and the pearls from the
sand? Rabbi! you have made us to eat the pomegranate with the bitter
rind; we begin to feel the acrid taste of it and it causes pain."
"Unhappy, misguided youths! Reprobates!" shouted Todros passionately.
"Did you not see with your own eyes that the people hated him, stoned
him, and marked his forehead with a red scar?"
Proud and scornful laughter answered his speech. "Do not agree with
everything the people say," and one voice continued: "The curse you
pronounced against him has softened many hearts and opened many
eyes."
"Malicious promptings stirred up hatred against him; but to-day all
hearts are full of compassion, because with your curse you have
killed his youth."
"It is worse than death, Rabbi; for amongst the living he will be
like one dead."
"And is it not written in the statutes of the great Sanhedrim: 'The
tribunal which once in seventy years pronounces a sentence of death
will be called the tribunal of murderers?'"
"In the Sanhedrim, did not childless and stony-hearted men sit?"
"Who soweth wrath, reapeth sorrow!"
Such and similar were the sentences which fell like hail around the
Rabbi, accompanied by threatening looks and indignant gestures.
Todros answered no more. He remained quite motionless and, with his
mouth open and eyebrows raised, presented the picture of a man who
does not understand what is going on around him. Suddenly, the
melamed rushed from the crowd, jumped over the balustrade, and
spreading out his arms as if to shield the beloved master, confronted
the people and shouted in angry tones:
"Woe! woe! to the insolent who does not reverence those who serve
them before the Lord!"
Eliezer replied:
"No wall is to be raised between the Lord and his people. We
appointed men from amongst us to study the Law in order to teach it
to the ignorant. But we did not, tell them: 'We deliver our souls
unto you in bondage'; because every Israelite is free to search for
the Lord in his own heart and to explain His words according to his
intelligence."
Others exclaimed:
"In Israel there are no higher or lower grades. We are all brethren
in the eyes of the Creator; no one has the right to fetter our will
and intellect."
"The false prophets have lost us, because they separated us from
other nations, that we are even as prisoners in the dark, left in
loneliness."
"But a time will come when Israel will shake off his fetters, and the
blind and proud spirits shall fall down from their heights and the
imprisoned souls will regain their liberty."
Isaak Todros raised his hands slowly to his head, as a man who tries
to rouse himself from sleep; then he leaned again on the balustrade,
raised his eyes, and sighed deeply:
"En-Sof!" he said in a dreamy whisper.
It was the kabalistic name of God which whirled across his despairing
mind. But as if in protest against the doctrines which had encumbered
the pure Mosaic faith, a chorus of voices answered:
"Jehovah!"
The melamed's body shook as in a fit of ague. With violent speech and
gesture he called upon the people to stand up for their beloved sage,
and punish the audacious rebels. But the more he spoke, the more
amazed he grew. Nobody moved. The rich and prominent of the community
sat silent, their foreheads supported on their hands, their eyes
riveted to the floor. They were in deep meditation. The bulk of the
people remained motionless and mute.
The melamed understood at last that all efforts to rouse them were
useless. He became silent, but his eyes opened wider in great wonder;
he could not understand why they did not listen.
But through the misty brain of Isaak Todros passed a ray of light,
and he got a glimpse of the terrible truth. Something whispered to
him that in the young breasts all the dormant desires and aspirations
of which the excommunicated man had been the interpreter, had stirred
into life. The young man was, then, not the only one; but he was
bolder, more enterprising and proud. He heard another whisper. The
young heads whose fearless attitude bad made him powerless to-day,
had been touched by the wings of the angel of Time, which, as he
perceived in a dull, indistinct way, was full of rebellion and
upheaving and would break down the barriers he had raised between
them and the highest truth. And he heard again why the people had not
stood up for him, because the angel of Time, who carries with him
rebellion, and battle, also brings charity and forgiveness, and
sweeps away curses and hatred with his powerful, yet soft, wings.
All this Todros heard in a dim and vague way; but it was enough, to
benumb his heart, full of petrified faith and pride.
"Bat Kohl," he whispered.
The voice of his own conscience he took for the mysterious voice said
to be heard in great crises by the lawgivers and priests of Israel.
"Bat Kohl," he repeated with trembling lips, and turned his gaze
around the building.
The interior of the synagogue was half-empty. The people dispersed
slowly and silently, as if they were seized by a great sorrow and
doubt. The poor and rich, until now great admirers of the Rabbi.
There was the rustle of the belated women in the gallery, and then
everything was quiet and deserted.
As in times of yore, Joseph Akiba was coming back in the moonlit
night, to his shepherd's hut, so Meir pale and trembling approached
the house of his fathers.
He went there, but without the intention of entering it again. He
knew that he would have to go away, to pursue in loneliness and
misery the great aim he saw in the far, far distance, and which was
so difficult to reach. He wanted to see the house once more, but did
not intend to cross its threshold. Among the many darkened windows,
he saw one where a light glimmered. He stood still and looked at it.
Through the window he saw the motionless figure of his great-grandmother
in her easy chair. A wave of moonlight made the diamonds sparkle.
Meir slowly ascended the steps of the porch and touched the door
latch. It yielded to the pressure; contrary to the usual custom the
door was unlocked. He entered the narrow passage and stood at the
door of the sitting-room, which was wide open. The whole house was
wrapped in darkness and silence.
Was everybody asleep? Not likely; but not the slightest noise was to
disturb the last farewell between the great-grandmother and her
great-grandson and drive him from her knees. It was the last time he
rested under the roof of his fathers.
"Bobe," he said softly, "Elte Bobe!"
Freida slept peacefully as a child: the rays of the moonlight played
on the wrinkled face like childish dreams.
"I shall never see you again, never any more."
He pressed his lips to the dear old hand that had given him the
treasure which was his salvation and ruin, life and death.
Freida's head moved gently.
"Kleineskind!" she whispered, without opening her eyes.
Meir lost himself in thought. His forehead resting on his
great-grandmother's knees, he said farewell to everything and
everybody around.
At last he rose and slowly left the room.
In the dark passage he suddenly felt two strong arms closing around
him, and a heavy object was put in his pocket.
"It is I, Ber. Your grandfather looked around the family for a
courageous man who would give you a handful of money on the way; and
found me. Everybody in the house mourns for you; the women have taken
to their beds, crying; your uncles are angry with the Rabbi and the
elders; the grandfather is almost beside himself with grief--but
nobody will see you any more. It is thus with us; reason drags one
way; the old faith the other. They are afraid. But Meir, do not
grieve! You are happy. I envy you! You have not been afraid to do
what I did not dare to do, and you will win. To-day your friends
stood up for you, and the people were silent and did not defend the
Rabbi. It is the beginning; but the end is still far off. If you
showed yourself to-morrow before the people, their wrath would flare
up again. Go! go into the world. You have youth on your side and
courage; life is before you."
"Sometime you will come back and put an end to our sins and darkness.
We have many diamonds, but they want sifting. Go forth now, to
conquer. Be like Baale Tressim, armour-clad like our ancestors; and
my blessing and the blessings of those who, like me, wished, but
could not--longed, but did not obtain what they longed for--be with
you."
They exchanged farewells, and Ber disappeared as silently as he had
come. The deep silence of the whole house seemed to bid the
excommunicated youth to go hence.
When he left the house it had begun to dawn. The market square and
the adjacent streets were asleep. The whole town was wrapped in the
gray mist of an almost autumnal morning.
He swiftly crossed the mist-covered fields to get away, and say
farewell to her who had promised to be a faithful Rachel to him, and
to claim from her his treasure.
The door and window of the little hut stood wide open.
"Golda!" he called softly, "Golda!"
There was no answer.
He repeated his call, but the silence remained unbroken. He drew
nearer, and looked at the spot where old Abel was wont to sit. It was
empty.
A strange, undefined dread took hold of him.
He looked around, up the hills and along the fields, and called in a
loud voice:
"Golda!"
There was a slight rustle not far off. It came from a wild rosebush,
from among the branches of which rose the sleepy figure of little
Lejbele.
Meir went quickly up to him. The child disengaged himself from the
branches, and put his hand under his coat.
"Where is Golda?" asked Meir.
Lejbele did not answer, but handed him the roll of papers.
Meir bent towards the child.
"Who gave you that?"
"She," answered Lejbele, pointing to the hut.
"When did she give it to you?"
The child answered:
"When the people were coming she rushed out of the hut, woke me, and
put the roll under my coat, and said, 'Give it to Meir when he
comes.'"
Meir began to tremble.
"And afterwards?" he asked, "afterwards?"
"Afterwards, Morejne, she hid me in the bush, and went back to the
hut."
"How many people were there?"
"Two, Morejne, three--ten--I don't know."
"And what did they do? What did the people do?"
"The people came, Morejne, and shouted and screamed at her to give up
the writing; and she screamed that she would not, and the goat in the
entrance ran about and bleated."
Meir trembled in all his limbs.
"And then what happened?"
"Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her
zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was
white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running
amongst them and bleating."
"And then--and then?"
"Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear,
because there was such a noise in the hut--such moans. Then the
people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and
the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has
gone."
Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes.
He knew everything now.
"Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper.
"There."
The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in
the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible--and the pond. Beyond the
pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily
sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered
yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh
and innocent love--there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying
at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black
hair.
A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and
only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the
scroll of paper.
Meir had gone into the hut.
What a terrible story was revealed to him! The straw lying about
Abel's couch, and amongst it, like drops of blood, Golda's red
corals. The broken spindle and the old Bible torn in shreds told
their tale. It was a long and cruel tale to which the young man
listened, his head pressed against the wall--a tale so long that
hours passed over his head, and he still listened with beating heart
and trembling limbs.
When he stood again on the threshold, the sun was shining brightly.
How terribly changed he looked. The forehead, marked with a red scar,
was seamed and corrugated as if long years of suffering bad ploughed
the once smooth surface. The half-shut eyes had a dull despairing
lustre, and his arms hung down limp and powerless. He stood thus a
few minutes, as if listening intently for the sound of the voice he
should never hear more, when a weak hand tugged at his clothes, and a
small voice said:
"Morejne."
Lejbele stood before him, his mournful eyes raised to his, and
stretched out a roll of paper. It seemed as if the sight of the
papers reminded Meir of something, roused him from sleep, and told
him to do something that was sacred and important. He passed both
hands over his forehead, and then took the Senior's legacy from the
child's hands, and at the touch of it he raised his head, and his
eyes seemed to regain their old power and courage. He looked at the
town waking up from sleep, and murmured something in a low
voice--something about Israel, its greatness in the past, and its
great sins, and that he would never desert it, and not give back
curses for curses; that he would carry the covenant of peace to other
nations, drink at the source of wisdom, and come back sometime-sometime,
he repeated, thinking of the far future; and with a last look embracing the
poor little hut, as if in farewell to his short and pure dream of love,
he slowly ascended the hill.
The child, standing motionless near the door, looked after the
retreating figure of the young man. His wide open eyes became
suffused with tears. When Meir was about half-way up the hill, one
convulsive sob burst from the child, and he began to run. At first he
moved very fast, but finding they were about a dozen steps apart, he
slackened his speed, and tucking his hands under his sleeves, walked
slowly and gravely after him.
Thus walking, one after the other, the excommunicated youth and the
child of the poor man, they disappeared beyond the hill, where they
beheld a broad, sandy road leading into the wide, unknown world.
Has the humiliated, excommunicated, and despised youth reached the
aim after which he strove so ardently? Has he found in the world
people ready to open their hearts and doors, and help him on the road
to learning?
Has he, or will he come back, and bring with him forgiveness, and
that light, by the power of which the soil on which now grows nought
but thorns--will it produce cedars of Lebanon? I do not know.
The story is too recent to have its end yet--for stories like this
have no end. But as it is similar to many of the same kind of
stories, reader! of whatever race, or country, or religion, if you
meet this obscure apostle on your way, give him cordially and quickly
your brotherly hand in friendship and help.
THE END.