will know before he appears.
And indeed, Citizen Magistrate, I was actually a Communist without knowing it. I too wanted to help the poor, the hungry, the damned of the earth. Except that I believed I could do so by appealing to the Messiah: he and he alone would heal the scandal of human injustice, alleviate the pain of human existence.
But this Messiah, how could we hasten his arrival? Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn knew how: We needed to study our holy texts closely, immerse ourselves in our esoteric tradition, learn the names of certain angels and free certain forces. Such is the disquieting beauty of the messianic adventure: only man, for whose sake the Messiah is expected, is capable and worthy of making his advent possible. What man? Any man. Whosoever desires may seize the keys that open the gates of the celestial palace and thus bring power to the prisoner. The Messiah, you see, is a mystery between man and himself.
One evening the door of the study opened, and a figure appeared. I held my breath as a man dressed in a huge kaftan cast furtive glances around the room. Not seeing me, he grew bolder and stepped forward. Elijah the Prophet, without a doubt, I thought as I got up to welcome him and solicit his help. I could hardly control my happiness. At last, I thought, my wishes are coming true; the prophet is here and he will lead me to where all islight. Rejoice, O Israel! The hour of thy deliverance is at hand! But prophet though he was, the night visitor was not expecting to see me at that hour in that place; he made a gesture of alarm, almost panic. It was then I became aware of my error.
“Ephraim,” I exclaimed, a trifle disappointed. “What are you doing here so late?”
“The same as you,” he said, irritably.
“Are you studying Kabbala?”
“Yes, I am.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t have the right to reveal that to you.”
“Are you also looking for the ultimate secret?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re trying to get an
Aliyat-neshama
, to let your soul ascend into heaven?”
“What else?”
His answers excited me. So I was not the only one who wanted to upset the plans of Creation. And Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn was not the only master in this domain. I scrutinized Ephraim more closely. He was known to be erudite and pious, and a glorious career was predicted for him; he would probably succeed his father as rabbinic judge. I was gratified by his visit. We could be friends, study the same works and together overcome the same dangers. But why was he behaving so strangely? His kaftan was hiding something bulky.
“What’s that?” I asked out of simple curiosity.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Faker, I thought, he must have come across some rare treatise.
“Come on now, Ephraim—show it to me!”
“No—I’m not allowed to. Besides, I really must go. I’m in a hurry, someone is waiting for me.”
I didn’t insist. He turned on his heels, and clumsilybumped into a desk. As he put out his hand to keep from falling, he dropped his package. And you’ll never guess, Citizen Magistrate, what it contained—pamphlets and booklets of a very nonmystical nature.
Yes, indeed, my first lesson in Communism was given me by Ephraim that very night, at the House of Study. Funny, isn’t it? Ephraim, a Communist agitator. Ephraim, the future rabbinic judge, distributing clandestine tracts.
“Let me see!”
Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and agreed. I sat down on the steps leading to the podium and started reading. Eerily bloody stories glorifying the terrorist activities of the revolutionaries at the beginning of the century. Attempts on the lives of the Tsar and his family, bombs flung at the governor’s motorcar, the assassination of the Minister of Police.… How stupid, I thought, how childish. All these adventurers, these criminals whose inevitable destination was Siberia—what did I have in common with them? The Tsar had not harmed me personally; his Secret Police, the Okhrana, had never
And indeed, Citizen Magistrate, I was actually a Communist without knowing it. I too wanted to help the poor, the hungry, the damned of the earth. Except that I believed I could do so by appealing to the Messiah: he and he alone would heal the scandal of human injustice, alleviate the pain of human existence.
But this Messiah, how could we hasten his arrival? Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn knew how: We needed to study our holy texts closely, immerse ourselves in our esoteric tradition, learn the names of certain angels and free certain forces. Such is the disquieting beauty of the messianic adventure: only man, for whose sake the Messiah is expected, is capable and worthy of making his advent possible. What man? Any man. Whosoever desires may seize the keys that open the gates of the celestial palace and thus bring power to the prisoner. The Messiah, you see, is a mystery between man and himself.
One evening the door of the study opened, and a figure appeared. I held my breath as a man dressed in a huge kaftan cast furtive glances around the room. Not seeing me, he grew bolder and stepped forward. Elijah the Prophet, without a doubt, I thought as I got up to welcome him and solicit his help. I could hardly control my happiness. At last, I thought, my wishes are coming true; the prophet is here and he will lead me to where all islight. Rejoice, O Israel! The hour of thy deliverance is at hand! But prophet though he was, the night visitor was not expecting to see me at that hour in that place; he made a gesture of alarm, almost panic. It was then I became aware of my error.
“Ephraim,” I exclaimed, a trifle disappointed. “What are you doing here so late?”
“The same as you,” he said, irritably.
“Are you studying Kabbala?”
“Yes, I am.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t have the right to reveal that to you.”
“Are you also looking for the ultimate secret?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re trying to get an
Aliyat-neshama
, to let your soul ascend into heaven?”
“What else?”
His answers excited me. So I was not the only one who wanted to upset the plans of Creation. And Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn was not the only master in this domain. I scrutinized Ephraim more closely. He was known to be erudite and pious, and a glorious career was predicted for him; he would probably succeed his father as rabbinic judge. I was gratified by his visit. We could be friends, study the same works and together overcome the same dangers. But why was he behaving so strangely? His kaftan was hiding something bulky.
“What’s that?” I asked out of simple curiosity.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Faker, I thought, he must have come across some rare treatise.
“Come on now, Ephraim—show it to me!”
“No—I’m not allowed to. Besides, I really must go. I’m in a hurry, someone is waiting for me.”
I didn’t insist. He turned on his heels, and clumsilybumped into a desk. As he put out his hand to keep from falling, he dropped his package. And you’ll never guess, Citizen Magistrate, what it contained—pamphlets and booklets of a very nonmystical nature.
Yes, indeed, my first lesson in Communism was given me by Ephraim that very night, at the House of Study. Funny, isn’t it? Ephraim, a Communist agitator. Ephraim, the future rabbinic judge, distributing clandestine tracts.
“Let me see!”
Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and agreed. I sat down on the steps leading to the podium and started reading. Eerily bloody stories glorifying the terrorist activities of the revolutionaries at the beginning of the century. Attempts on the lives of the Tsar and his family, bombs flung at the governor’s motorcar, the assassination of the Minister of Police.… How stupid, I thought, how childish. All these adventurers, these criminals whose inevitable destination was Siberia—what did I have in common with them? The Tsar had not harmed me personally; his Secret Police, the Okhrana, had never
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