I spent a year in Jaffa before I settled in Jerusalem. In my own way I was persuaded that I was to be tested to see whether I was satisfied with Jaffa, so I was delayed there for a year until I went up to Jerusalem. Don’t be surprised to hear me say so, as if I consider myself worthy of being tested. But as every man who does not live in the Land of Israel is put to the test to see whether he is worthy of settling in the Land of Israel, so every man in the Land of Israel is put to the test to see whether he is worthy of settling in Jerusalem. And so after staying a year in Jaffa and its suburbs, I took my staff and my knapsack and went up to Jerusalem.
On the eve of Shabbat Hazon (the Sabbath before the Ninth of Av) before sundown I entered the gates of Jerusalem. If God be with me I shall tell what happened at the time I was fortunate enough to come to Jerusalem. For now I shall relate what happened to the book.
And so on the Sabbath eve before sundown I came to Jerusalem. I laid down my staff and my knapsack, washed myself of the dust of the road, and put on my Sabbath clothes and ran to the Western Wall. From there to the Hurvah Synagogue, from there to other synagogues, from there to the hostel, and to the streets of Jerusalem which were lit up quite clearly. Though Jerusalem was desolate, the moon, by the grace of God, had not ceased to shine upon it.
After the Ninth of Av my friends in Jerusalem took me to some places for which Jerusalem is commended. In the end they brought me to the Ginzei Yosef Library, which in those days we believed was the depository for all the books of Jewry. How strong was our faith in those days!
On the way to the library I told my friends about Rabbi Shmaria’s book which I had sent so many years ago to Ginzei Yosef in Jerusalem.
I was reminded of Buczacz and began telling about her. Perhaps I said too much and aroused their annoyance, because in those days which we now call the Second Aliyah every newcomer to the Land of Israel tried to forget his place of origin, and if he couldn’t, he endeavored not to mention it, for a new focal point requires a new frame of mind.
One of my friends laughed at me and said, “Even before you came to the Land of Israel you had already made your mark in Jerusalem.”
We went into the library and one of the two librarians who were there was kind enough to show us various books, and of each book he said, “It’s the only one in the world, unique, a gift from so-and-so.” And more than anyone else he praised Dr. Joseph Chasanowitsch of Bialystok, who denied himself bread for the sake of amassing a store of books in Jerusalem.
We looked at the books, everyone in his own way and everyone trying to say a word in expression of his feelings.
When we were about to leave I said to the librarian, “I too sent a book to Jerusalem.”
The librarian asked me for the name of the book. I told him, “It doesn’t have a name, but its description is just so, and in such-and-such a year I sent it, addressed to the man in charge by the name of So-and-so I sent it.” There I stood, telling what I knew, without distinguishing between what was relevant and what was not. Had it not been for my friends who wanted to see other things in town, I would have put before the librarian some of the novellae of Rabbi Shmaria. Those were the days when I still had such a formidable memory and librarians were so keen to hear something of the wisdom of the law.
“I will go and see where the book is,” said the librarian. He went from room to room and from cupboard to cupboard. After he had investigated all the cupboards, he said, “I have searched for it but have not found it. If your book has reached us, I will find it. It may be lying among the books that haven’t been given out for binding. Due to lack of funds, piles and piles of books are lying around that still haven’t been given out for binding. All the same, I will look for it and if I find it I will show it to you.”
Gratefully I took my leave of the librarian. His eyes testified to his good heart that was ready to oblige.
Many times did I go to the library and many times did I speak to the librarian. When I didn’t mention Rabbi Shmaria’s book, the librarian would, and he would say, “I still haven’t found it, but if not today, then tomorrow.”
So the years passed. That librarian went the way of all flesh and the librarian who succeeded him has also passed on, but the book was not found.
What a pity the book was lost.
On One Stone
Those were good days. I remained secluded in my house, writing the adventures of Rabbi Adam Baal Shem. This wise sage knew the Kabbalah in both theory and practice. He could recognize ghosts and demons as they set out upon their ways. He would throw a shawl over their eyes so that they could not see to do any harm. He was an expert on trees and could tell which ones grew by God’s grace and which ones were formed from the bodies of sorcerers in order to trick people. These he would cut down, limb by limb. Thus he saved many of Israel from the depths of evil and restored them to their own root. All this Rabbi Adam did only by the word, for he possessed holy writings of an esoteric sort. And when the time came for Rabbi Adam to depart from this world, he hid the writings in a rock, upon which he cast a spell that it not open itself, so that no unfit person could study those writings and turn the world back to chaos and confusion.
As though in a vision I saw the rock and the writings inside it. I could discern every letter and word, every line, every page of writing, every leaf. Had these writings belonged to the root of my own soul, I would have read them, and out of them I would have fashioned worlds. But I didn’t deserve to read them; I could only sit and look. My eyes would surround them like the metal settings in which precious stones are placed but which never combine with the stones themselves. Still, even if I didn’t manage to read them, I can tell about them. If we come into this world to put in order those things that previous generations have left behind, I can claim a certain measure of success.
When I got around to writing the tale of the rock, I began to worry that I might be interrupted in the middle. Even though I dwelt cut off from the world, I suspected that once I got into this matter and began to write the tale itself, people would come and bother me. That’s the way it is with people. They’re never there when you look for them, but just when you don’t want them, they come around. I took all that I needed for writing — ink, pen, and paper — and went to the forest near my town. I went in among the trees, and there I found a certain rock where I made myself a place. I laid my writings down on the rock, and there I sat and wrote. When I stopped my writing, I would see the trees, the birds, and the grass, as well as the river that flowed through their midst. My heart took great joy in hearing how the birds would speak their piece before their Father in heaven, how each shrub in the field would speak up before the Everpresent, how all the trees of the forest would bow down before Him. The river’s waters flowed gently, never raising themselves up too high. I did this for several days, until I had finished writing the tale of the writings Rabbi Adam Baal Shem had possessed on the theory and practice of Kabbalah. When the day of his death came, he was afraid that they might fall into the hands of improper folk, so he got up and went to a certain rock. He opened the rock, hid his writings there, and closed it up. No one knows where that rock is.
I wrote a lot about this matter, and I had still more to write. But on the day when I was going to finish the story, a man came by and asked me the way to town. I saw that he was elderly and walked with some difficulty. The path was strewn with rocks and the sun was close to setting. Fearing that he might not make it to town while there was still light, I left my writings and went to his aid. I walked along with him until we were close to town.