When he had finished, he got off the platform, pressed the hands of the mourners, climbed onto the platform again, and sat down, like an orator who knows his place.
Next came a teacher who had become a banker. As a man who knew the taste of learning and the value of money, he emphasized the virtues of the deceased, who had combined learning with trading, and by virtue of his talents had succeeded in setting several of Jerusalem’s alms-hunting institutions on a sound financial basis and making them into national institutions, which added to the national capital and increased the strength of the nation.
After he had finished, he got down off the platform, pressed the hands of the mourners, and found a place to stand, like a man who seeks no more than a station for his feet.
Next came a townsman of the deceased. He recalled the honor of his house abroad, which was a place of assembly for Lovers of Zion and devotees of the Hebrew tongue. And first and foremost of all the deceased’s achievements in his town was the splendid edifice of the modernized heder, which was the archetype of the Hebrew school, whose waters we drink and in whose shade we shelter.
After he had finished, he got down off the platform, pressed the hands of the mourners and pushed his way in somewhere, for during his eulogy someone else had taken his place.
Next came the last of the eulogists, Mr. Aaron Ephrati, a dignified old man respected by all. He started to sing the praises of the deceased, who had served the entire community without distinction of rich or poor, for since he had grown up in wealth and lived all his days in wealth, he regarded wealth as a matter of course, and not as a special virtue that entitles its possessors to make distinctions between rich and poor. And when he had set up the modernized heder, he had not behaved like those wealthy men who have their sons and daughters educated in the schools of the gentiles and leave the modernized heder for the common people, but sent his sons and daughters to the same modernized heder, so that they should get a plain Jewish education. And so as to combine the light of Judaism with the beautiful and the useful, he had sent them to high school and the university, so that they might fulfill the maxim: “Be a man and a Jew both in your tent and outside.” Finally, Mr. Ephrati turned to the sons and daughters of the deceased and said to them: “Your father has still left you things to do, for his aspirations were in keeping with his greatness. Though he is dead, you are alive, and the sons must add to the deeds of their fathers.”
After Mr. Ephrati had finished speaking, the cantor of the synagogue climbed onto the platform, took out a hexagonal velvet biretta, bent down and put the biretta on his head, took out a cantor’s tuning fork and put it in his mouth, bent and struck the tuning fork on the table, stuck it in his mouth again, put it close to his ear, and began to sing “O God, full of mercy.”
Since I am no judge of music, I was free to think my own thoughts. This prayer used to make my heart throb, I mused as I stood there, but today it just bores me. And another thought occurred to me: there are theater melodies which sound, when sung by the performers, like prayers and supplications, but sometimes prayers and supplications, when they are sung by the cantors, sound like theater tunes. On the cantor’s head the biretta quivered; on his throat his Adam’s apple shivered; around the hall the echoes rolled, over consolers and consoled; while biretta and pate, with every nod, invoked the infinite mercy of God.
I stand looking at the distinguished people who have come to pay their respects to the memory of Mr. Gedaliah Klein. Although I would not compare my work with theirs, I feel sorry that I do not succeed in doing my own work. And the man with the biretta, with his cantor’s tongs, warbles his notes like a bird’s sweet songs, stretching his throat toward God on high, emitting each word with a groan or a sigh; and everyone listens to the lamentation — wiping his tears, or his perspiration.
All the people are on their feet, including the daughter of the deceased. Her black veil quivers over her comely features, and she is surrounded by important people, whose faces are pink with satiety and complacency, like practical men rooted in the life of the nation, who can adapt their behavior to the nation’s needs, or the nation’s needs to their behavior. Fine clothes like theirs were never seen in Jerusalem until Hitler started killing the Jews, so that all the great craftsmen fled, and some of them settled in the Land of Israel.
I look at the clothes and say to myself: I will get some clothes like these too; perhaps I will raise my spirits. But I am afraid the great tailors may see how humble I am and not take much trouble with such a fellow; they may not even make me as good a garment as this one, which was made by the Jerusalem tailor. And if they make me a fine garment, my friends and relatives will be ashamed of their clothes when they meet me, as I am ashamed to be seen by these men with their fine clothes. But all these were futile thoughts, for to get fine clothes you need money, and to get money you need the desire for money, and to have the desire, you must have a desire for the desire. And where will I get the strength for those desires?
The memorial light was still burning there, when the cantor finished the memorial prayer. He doffed his biretta and wiped his pate, and put on his hat, brooding on his fate: “If I sang in the theater, at home or abroad, all the beautiful women would applaud; but here not a soul has a word to say — that’s your reward when you sing to pray.”
After the recital of the mourners’ kaddish, the audience mingled with each other, shook out their clothes, which had got wrinkled with sitting, and took out cigarettes for a smoke. “If anyone tells you there’s such a thing as free will,” said Mr. Schreiholz, “don’t believe him. For two and a half hours I was waiting to smoke, but I didn’t do it out of respect for this solemn occasion.”
People from the suburbs who were in the hall started to push their way out to get their buses. I should have hurried, too, and run for my bus, but I wanted to pay my respects to Mr. Gedaliah Klein’s daughter.
She sat like a mourner, her black hat adding to her charm; a peaceful sadness covered her face, like a well-bred woman who has been bereaved, but has not been bereft of her distinction. Public leaders, men and women, came up to her one after another and pressed her hand, and she pressed the hands of them all.
I bowed my head and greeted her. But she did not notice me. I bowed and greeted her again. Perhaps she nodded slightly, and perhaps she did not nod to me at all. I felt no grudge against her. Why should she have to move her head in return for two or three lines I had written her? Countless letters of condolence had been sent her, and they were still being sent.
I left the assembly hall. The entire square was full of cars for Mr. Klein’s family and the eulogists. A little while later, nothing was left of them but the odor of burnt gasoline and cosmetics and dust.
I set off for the bus station, but when I reached it the bus had gone. I waited for the next, but it did not come, so I gave up the idea of riding home and set out on foot.
An old carriage came along. The coachman reined in his horses and said to me, “Get in.” I felt no desire to get in. The horses set off without me. Silently, silently, they moved off without lifting their feet, and, if I am not mistaken, the motion of the carriage was not visible either.