On the way, I met Ignatz, but he did not cry “Mu’es” or “Pieniadze.” Perhaps it was because he looked into my heart and saw that the cry of “Mu’es” would have no effect, or because at that moment he was standing with the priest. From the winks of that noseless fellow, it was obvious that he was telling the priest something about me, for I noticed the priest turning and looking at me. If his intentions were good — good; if the contrary, may the Almighty turn it into good.
After taking leave of all my acquaintances I went to the rabbi. He sat me down on his right hand, and rebuked me for not showing my face to him for so many days now. I said I had been busy. “And is that the only reason why you did not come to visit me?” said he. “I come from the Land of Israel,” I replied, “so I find it hard to hear it disparaged, and when I come to you, sir, you speak ill of the Land.”
The rabbi took his beard in his right hand, looked at me with affection, and said pleasantly, “But I love you with all my soul.” “Who am I and what am I that you should love me?” said I. “I wish I might be found worthy to be a little grain in the dust of the Land of Israel.” “Do I disparage the holy soil?” said the rabbi. “I only disparage those who live on it.” “To which of its inhabitants do you refer, sir?” said I. “Is it to those who dedicate their lives to its soil, who revive its desolation, plow and sow, and plant life for its inhabitants? Or perhaps you refer to its guardians, who are ready to sacrifice themselves for every little piece of it, or to those who study the Torah in poverty and do not feel their sufferings, for love of the Almighty and the sacred Torah. Or perhaps to those who disregard their own honor in honoring the Divine Presence, and spend all their lives in prayer. Or perhaps you are referring, sir, to the humble people of the Land, to the carriers and porters, tailors and cobblers, carpenters and builders, plasterers and quarrymen and shoeblacks, and all the other artisans who support their families in honesty and beautify the Land with their handiwork. Once I happened to meet a tailor dressed in rags, and found that he knew all the rules and regulations of the Arba Turim by heart. I said to him, ‘You know so much and yet you put on patches.’ He showed me a barefoot cobbler, who knew how to quote every single source for the teachings of Maimonides, but was not fit to shine the shoes of a certain shoeblack who sat in the marketplace of Jerusalem and was capable of deciding the law on the basis of secret writings of the Zohar. And this last was only a humble pupil in the college of the porters, who were well versed in drawing out all the secrets of the Kabbalah from the Gemara. But no doubt your honor was referring to those whom the Land suckles with its milk and they impregnate it with their venom, as when a woman suckles her son, and a serpent comes and sucks with him and impregnates her with its venom. Father in heaven, if you can suffer them, we can suffer them too.” When I had finished I rose and said farewell.
The rabbi rose, took both my hands in his, and said, “Sit down, sir, sit down, sir.” He too sat down, put his head between his hands, and said nothing. Finally he raised his head, fixed his eyes on me to tell me something, and could not find the word to say.
The rabbi’s wife came in, bringing citron preserves and two glasses of tea. When her husband saw her he said, “This gentleman is going to the Land of Israel and we shall remain here. Sweeten your tea, sir, and drink while it is hot. Take some preserves, it is citron preserves.”
So as to take my leave of the rabbi with a blessing, I drank a little, tasted a little, and finally recited the blessing, “Who createst many living beings and their wants.” Then I asked how his son was. The rabbi rose, took a bundle of papers and laid them in front of me, saying, “Oh, stuff and nonsense.” I rose from my chair and took my leave of them. The rabbi shook my hand and said nothing at all. Then he laid his hand on mine again and stood in silence. I took my hand out of his quietly and left. He came after me to see me on my way.
As we stood by the doorpost, he took out a zloty and said, “I want to make you my messenger for a good deed. Give it to the first poor man you find in the Land of Israel.” “Perhaps,” said I, “the first one I meet will be one of those your honor is in the habit of disparaging.” The rabbi answered, “Thy people are all righteous: they shall inherit the Land forever. If a man has gained the privilege of dwelling in the Land of Israel, it is a sign that he is righteous.” “Not everyone who dwells in the Land of Israel is righteous,” I replied. “There are people among us who pretend to be righteous and denounce the truly righteous.” Said the rabbi, “‘What have you to do with the secrets of the Merciful One?’”
Chapter six and seventy. The Covenant
How great is the love for the Land of Israel! Because I came from there I was given the honor of being Sandak. Not the town rabbi, nor Rachel’s father, but I, who am neither a great scholar nor a member of the family.
I remembered my grandfather, of blessed memory, who was the Sandak for most of the people in the town, and there was not a man in the town for whom my grandfather had acted as Sandak to whom he did not send a gift on his wedding day. It happened that a certain man had a quarrel at law with another, so they went to the rabbi and he ruled against him. So the man went and slandered the other to the authorities. The rabbi asked my grandfather to give this man the privilege of being Sandak, so that the good deed should stand him in good stead before the Almighty. There was a piece of honey cake lying in a dish from one circumcision to the next, with a bell-glass over it, and my grandfather used to give me some whenever he tested me in the Gemara and I knew my lessons. Now I sit and marvel that I have attained my grandfather’s place without attaining a single one of his virtues.
Since I got up in the morning my knees had been knocking together. The soul was prepared to fulfill the commandment, but the body was afraid. Perhaps if they had circumcised the child in the Great Synagogue or the old Beit Midrash, as our fathers used to do, I would not have worried so much. First, because in the old Beit Midrash I am one of the family, and second, because Father Elijah is very punctilious and will not sit on those chairs where people have spent their time in jesting and trivialities. I said to myself: If you cannot improve the chair, improve the one who will sit on it.
The guests assembled and stood waiting for the town rabbi, who was the mohel who performed the circumcision. Meanwhile, the door opened and in came Daniel Bach, whom the owner of the hotel had cordially invited, and who had made it up with him. Great is the power of a religious duty, for it makes peace between man and his neighbor.
Now I will tell you something more: even Erela came, that Erela who had been meant for Yeruham from the hour of her birth, but Yeruham had married Rachel, so Erela had been left without a husband. And if you do not believe me, just wait a moment and you shall see the honor they paid her, by asking her to bring in the infant.
After an hour, or perhaps less, the rabbi came. He looked graciously upon everyone and asked if everything was ready for the ceremony. He stood chatting with one and chatting with another, then he took out the circumcision knife, laid it in carbolic, washed his hands with soap and water, and said to the doctor, “Cleanliness leads to purity.”
They wrapped up the child from the waist down to the heels with several swaddling clothes, put a cap of white silk on his head, and handed him over to Erela. Erela came into the hall, carrying the infant. All the people stood up and recited aloud, “Blessed be he that cometh!” Erela handed over the child to Kuba and Kuba handed him over to the mohel.