Read Online The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel - Free Book Online

Rabbi would shake himself and urge his disciple on: “Faster, my son, we must run faster; we must climb higher. Every minute counts. The danger is taking shape; the Angel of Death and Destruction is approaching. The blood of Jews will flow; it is flowing already. Only the Messiah can stop it; only He can save our people!” But Satan, the cursed devil, was on the alert. He never sleeps, and he was plotting his victory. The old Master thought that by being hasty, he was serving God, when, in fact, he was opposing His will. He was wrong. The universe of the Kabbalah has its own rhythm, its own method. Haste is dangerous: A word spoken too soon, a name invoked too late, these can jeopardize the entire endeavor by pushing humanity to the side of Evil and its destructive power. And that is what happened. The last stage in the ritual took place at dawn in the forest. It consisted of calling out the name of the angel Metatron seventy-one times, each time louder than the last, to the point of rapture, then the ineffable Name twenty-one times, then twenty-six times more, then reciting seven times a prayer known only to the High Priest. Well, the Master and his disciple were ready. They were wearing their prayer shawls as they began the ceremony, and then a torrential rain started to fall from dark, heavy clouds. They continued despite the rain. Now thunder and lightning took their turn striking at the earth. Still they persisted, in spite of the lightning, in spite of the thunder. Then during a pause in the storm, a huge wild dog appeared out of nowhere. It was black as the night, the biggest dog they had ever seen. It was foaming with rage and its baying was louder, more deafening, than the thunder itself. Jaws open, it was about to hurl itself on the two men and tear them to pieces. “Go on!” the old Master cried out. “That beast was sent by Satan to frighten us, to weaken our resolve. We must continue; it’s our only chance.” But the disciple was afraid, and he lost his concentration. In a moment, the dog was upon them. The old Master was knocked down. So was Hananèl, but he survived his wounds, although his Master did not. The Jewish community of the village mourned the old Master. His funeral procession stretched over streets and alleys. The old women cried their lamentation; young students wept unashamedly. Schools closed so their students could attend the funeral. Some said, “It was foolish to violate what is forbidden.” And others replied, “It was foolish, but it was also holy.” From then on, Hananèl was known as the Blessed Madman.
    But Hananèl felt guilty. Only he knew it, but the failure of their ritual was his fault. Satan’s dog had first attacked the old Master, while Hananèl was confronting another enemy, himself. At the very last minute, when the most secret portals of heaven were about to swing open, the young Kabbalist let himself be distracted. Because of the dog? Not at all: The dog had nothing to do with it. The dog had appeared only because Hananèl let himself be distracted by an impure vision: It was a woman he had seen one Friday morning in the market street when he was returning from the ritual bath in preparation for the Sabbath. It was a beautiful summer’s day. The woman, who surely was not Jewish, so immodest in his eyes was her dress, had looked at him, and he had seen a smile in her gaze. But was she just a woman? Probably not. She was Lilith, spouse of the demon king Ashmedai. That night, she had so troubled his rest that he did not dare close his eyes. And she came back night after night. She would appear unexpectedly, and always she was laughing. She laughed as she danced. She laughed as she sang, as she climbed walls, and as she pirouetted. She laughed as she came to the side of his bed and bent over him so he could see her glowing eyes. Hananèl was beside himself with fear. Suppose she touched him with her hand, with her lips? The more he tried to drive her from his thoughts,