were, there was such feasting and merrymaking, such enthusiasm, that nothing else seemed to matter. It was as though evil and distress had already vanished from earth.
It was painful to go from one room to the next. I no longer paid attention to the songs, happy or sad, of the entertainers. The rabbis said the blessings and made the usual speeches but I didn’t even listen. Everyone seemed happy except me. I felt torn; my place was among the beggars.
At my Bar Mitzvah, which took place a few months later, I devoted my discourse to the scandal of social injustice in the context of Jewish tradition. I quoted the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, Maimonides and Nahmanides, Menahem Harecanati and the Maharal of Prague, the poets of the Golden Age and the Vilna Gaon. I was indignant, I protested: “Long ago, it was thought that if a Jew was poor it was because of society; if he suffered it was because of Exile; people forgot that it is also our fault, mine and yours.” And I concluded: “If it is given to man to commit injustices, it is also up to him to repair them; if the creation of the world bears the seal of God, its order bears the seal of man.”
My speech created something of a stir. One purist reproached me with having twisted a quotation; another claimed he had heard some blasphemous “insinuations.” As for my father, he came directly to the point.
“Remember this, Paltiel: with God everything is possible; without Him nothing has value.”
That same week Reb Mendel-the-Tactiturn accosted me in the House of Study and announced he had chosen me as a disciple. That was a consecration; Reb Mendel didnot accept just anyone into his intimate circle. Often he would reject candidates without the slightest explanation. Incredibly, he deigned to tell me why I had found favor in his eyes:
“I’m taking you with me to keep you from choosing the wrong path,” he said in his hoarse voice. “You are looking for the bark, not for the tree; you seek understanding, not knowledge; you aspire to justice, not to truth. But poor soul—what would you do if you learned that truth itself is unjust? You may tell me that’s impossible, but who’s to say? No—we must do everything in our power to
make
it impossible. And that is what I shall teach you.”
I entered the most fervent, the richest, most exalting phase of my life; I discovered the boundless humility and yearning of mystical experience. I pursued silence in words and words in silence. I was determined to take my self apart if that was required to attain self-realization. I stooped so as to see the summit. I mortified myself so as to feel a purer joy. To believe in salvation, I danced on the brink of the abyss.
Guided, challenged and shielded by Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn, I explored the pathways of messianism. I strained to unveil them, to comprehend them.
I passed my days and nights in the House of Study. When I wasn’t praying, I was studying; when I wasn’t studying, I was praying. If I allowed myself to succumb to fatigue and sleep, it was only to dream of Elijah the Prophet, who, according to tradition, holds the answers to all questions.
My questions revolved endlessly around the Messiah. I was aching to hasten his arrival, knowing that he would surely abolish the distance between rich and poor, sad and happy, beggar and landlord; put an end to pogroms and wars; unite justice and compassion, making certain that both were true.
You smile, Citizen Magistrate. I pity you. I pity you for not having experienced this kind of dream. But no, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover, you are not being fair to the good Citizen Magistrate who is reading you: he too has experienced this dream but his masters called it by another name—his Messiah was Marx.… Yes, Citizen Magistrate, but ours has no name. That is the majesty of our tradition: it teaches us that among the ten things that preceded Creation was the name of the Messiah—the name no one knows and no one
It was painful to go from one room to the next. I no longer paid attention to the songs, happy or sad, of the entertainers. The rabbis said the blessings and made the usual speeches but I didn’t even listen. Everyone seemed happy except me. I felt torn; my place was among the beggars.
At my Bar Mitzvah, which took place a few months later, I devoted my discourse to the scandal of social injustice in the context of Jewish tradition. I quoted the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, Maimonides and Nahmanides, Menahem Harecanati and the Maharal of Prague, the poets of the Golden Age and the Vilna Gaon. I was indignant, I protested: “Long ago, it was thought that if a Jew was poor it was because of society; if he suffered it was because of Exile; people forgot that it is also our fault, mine and yours.” And I concluded: “If it is given to man to commit injustices, it is also up to him to repair them; if the creation of the world bears the seal of God, its order bears the seal of man.”
My speech created something of a stir. One purist reproached me with having twisted a quotation; another claimed he had heard some blasphemous “insinuations.” As for my father, he came directly to the point.
“Remember this, Paltiel: with God everything is possible; without Him nothing has value.”
That same week Reb Mendel-the-Tactiturn accosted me in the House of Study and announced he had chosen me as a disciple. That was a consecration; Reb Mendel didnot accept just anyone into his intimate circle. Often he would reject candidates without the slightest explanation. Incredibly, he deigned to tell me why I had found favor in his eyes:
“I’m taking you with me to keep you from choosing the wrong path,” he said in his hoarse voice. “You are looking for the bark, not for the tree; you seek understanding, not knowledge; you aspire to justice, not to truth. But poor soul—what would you do if you learned that truth itself is unjust? You may tell me that’s impossible, but who’s to say? No—we must do everything in our power to
make
it impossible. And that is what I shall teach you.”
I entered the most fervent, the richest, most exalting phase of my life; I discovered the boundless humility and yearning of mystical experience. I pursued silence in words and words in silence. I was determined to take my self apart if that was required to attain self-realization. I stooped so as to see the summit. I mortified myself so as to feel a purer joy. To believe in salvation, I danced on the brink of the abyss.
Guided, challenged and shielded by Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn, I explored the pathways of messianism. I strained to unveil them, to comprehend them.
I passed my days and nights in the House of Study. When I wasn’t praying, I was studying; when I wasn’t studying, I was praying. If I allowed myself to succumb to fatigue and sleep, it was only to dream of Elijah the Prophet, who, according to tradition, holds the answers to all questions.
My questions revolved endlessly around the Messiah. I was aching to hasten his arrival, knowing that he would surely abolish the distance between rich and poor, sad and happy, beggar and landlord; put an end to pogroms and wars; unite justice and compassion, making certain that both were true.
You smile, Citizen Magistrate. I pity you. I pity you for not having experienced this kind of dream. But no, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover, you are not being fair to the good Citizen Magistrate who is reading you: he too has experienced this dream but his masters called it by another name—his Messiah was Marx.… Yes, Citizen Magistrate, but ours has no name. That is the majesty of our tradition: it teaches us that among the ten things that preceded Creation was the name of the Messiah—the name no one knows and no one
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