touched me; no one had taken it into his head to shut me up in a fortress. I read those pamphlets with their tales of long ago without really understanding them. Though their authors wrote in Yiddish, their language was not mine.
I looked at Ephraim in confusion, not knowing whether to be angry or laugh. “Have you gone mad, Ephraim? You’re abandoning the holy texts for
this
?”
Embarrassed, he put his head between his hands and didn’t answer.
“Seriously, Ephraim, is this how you intend to hasten redemption?”
“Yes,” he said defiantly.
“My poor friend! Our sages were right to forbid the study of mysticism until a certain age: it endangers the mind.”
“I haven’t lost my mind, Paltiel. Now listen to me carefully. I still want to save the human race and rid society of its ills; I still wish to bring the Messiah. Only—I’ve found a new way of doing it, that’s all. I’ve tried meditation, fasting, asceticism, but with no success. There is only one path leading toward salvation—”
“Which one?”
“The path of action.”
“Action? But I believe in that too. What is prayer if not an action? What’s the practice of mysticism if not an act of faith in God?”
“I’m talking to you about an action related not to God but to history, to the events that produce history, in short, to man himself.”
Seated on a bench between two desks, I with my Book of Prayers according to Rabbi Itzhak Luria, he with his idiotic pamphlets, we made a fine pair, Citizen Magistrate.
“Would you like to have a real discussion?” said Ephraim.
“Why not?”
“Then first of all promise to say nothing to anyone.”
“I promise.”
“It’s not enough to promise—swear.”
“I swear.”
“It’s not enough to swear—swear before the open Ark, while touching the sacred scrolls.”
I refused, of course. One doesn’t play around with the Torah.
“If you don’t trust me, too bad,” I said. “Let’s drop the whole thing.”
“I do trust you. If I demand an oath from you it’s for your own safety as well as mine: you’ll watch what you say; otherwise you might let something slip at the wrong time and place.”
“So, what could happen to me?”
“It’s better not to know, Paltiel. You’ve heard of the Secret Police, haven’t you? Well, they exist, and for them torture has become a science. If they catch you in their net, it’s all over for you. They’ll never believe you weren’t mixed up with … with all that.”
“Mixed up with what?” I cried.
“The Revolution,” he said gravely.
Ephraim tried to give me a quick course in political science in the manner of a Talmudic lesson, but I didn’t take him too seriously, at least not that night. And yet his fear was real: though he seemed to be more afraid of his parents than of the Secret Police. In spite of his arguments and exhortations I stood my ground and refused to take an oath before the holy Ark. My word had to be enough—take it or leave it. He stood up; I thought he was leaving. Not at all. Deliberately, methodically, he started his work: one pamphlet in each desk, tracts in the
talith
bags. Incredulous, I watched him without moving. But he, entirely at his ease, had the audacity—and the ingenuity—to ask for my help, without which he could not finish in time. And like an idiot I could think of nothing better to do than to agree.
And that is how, without my realizing it, without even thinking about it, I became his accomplice. He was kind enough to promise to return the following week to continue our discussion—and our work. And, of course, he kept his word.
His explanations and arguments could be recited by the youngest of our Pioneers. Simple and simplistic, yes—but sincere. And persuasive for a romantic adolescent of sixteen like myself, for they played on my sensibilities. The emphasis was on human misery and not on religious defiance. If Ephraim had used real Marxist propositions I would have turned my
I looked at Ephraim in confusion, not knowing whether to be angry or laugh. “Have you gone mad, Ephraim? You’re abandoning the holy texts for
this
?”
Embarrassed, he put his head between his hands and didn’t answer.
“Seriously, Ephraim, is this how you intend to hasten redemption?”
“Yes,” he said defiantly.
“My poor friend! Our sages were right to forbid the study of mysticism until a certain age: it endangers the mind.”
“I haven’t lost my mind, Paltiel. Now listen to me carefully. I still want to save the human race and rid society of its ills; I still wish to bring the Messiah. Only—I’ve found a new way of doing it, that’s all. I’ve tried meditation, fasting, asceticism, but with no success. There is only one path leading toward salvation—”
“Which one?”
“The path of action.”
“Action? But I believe in that too. What is prayer if not an action? What’s the practice of mysticism if not an act of faith in God?”
“I’m talking to you about an action related not to God but to history, to the events that produce history, in short, to man himself.”
Seated on a bench between two desks, I with my Book of Prayers according to Rabbi Itzhak Luria, he with his idiotic pamphlets, we made a fine pair, Citizen Magistrate.
“Would you like to have a real discussion?” said Ephraim.
“Why not?”
“Then first of all promise to say nothing to anyone.”
“I promise.”
“It’s not enough to promise—swear.”
“I swear.”
“It’s not enough to swear—swear before the open Ark, while touching the sacred scrolls.”
I refused, of course. One doesn’t play around with the Torah.
“If you don’t trust me, too bad,” I said. “Let’s drop the whole thing.”
“I do trust you. If I demand an oath from you it’s for your own safety as well as mine: you’ll watch what you say; otherwise you might let something slip at the wrong time and place.”
“So, what could happen to me?”
“It’s better not to know, Paltiel. You’ve heard of the Secret Police, haven’t you? Well, they exist, and for them torture has become a science. If they catch you in their net, it’s all over for you. They’ll never believe you weren’t mixed up with … with all that.”
“Mixed up with what?” I cried.
“The Revolution,” he said gravely.
Ephraim tried to give me a quick course in political science in the manner of a Talmudic lesson, but I didn’t take him too seriously, at least not that night. And yet his fear was real: though he seemed to be more afraid of his parents than of the Secret Police. In spite of his arguments and exhortations I stood my ground and refused to take an oath before the holy Ark. My word had to be enough—take it or leave it. He stood up; I thought he was leaving. Not at all. Deliberately, methodically, he started his work: one pamphlet in each desk, tracts in the
talith
bags. Incredulous, I watched him without moving. But he, entirely at his ease, had the audacity—and the ingenuity—to ask for my help, without which he could not finish in time. And like an idiot I could think of nothing better to do than to agree.
And that is how, without my realizing it, without even thinking about it, I became his accomplice. He was kind enough to promise to return the following week to continue our discussion—and our work. And, of course, he kept his word.
His explanations and arguments could be recited by the youngest of our Pioneers. Simple and simplistic, yes—but sincere. And persuasive for a romantic adolescent of sixteen like myself, for they played on my sensibilities. The emphasis was on human misery and not on religious defiance. If Ephraim had used real Marxist propositions I would have turned my
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