Rachel fingered her hair, looked up at me, and said, “My hair isn’t prickly either, though it is cut short.” “Perhaps it isn’t prickly,” said I, “and perhaps it is; but even if it isn’t prickly actually, it does prick my thought. And this, Rachel, is particularly hard to take. Besides, there is something missing of your hair, and perhaps the part that was cut off is the essential part. To complete my description I must add about that daughter of kings that her clothes were beautiful and very well fitted. She wore a woman’s gown, not a half-masculine garment, and her shoes were neither broad nor heavy. Now, Rachel, let us leave this princess, whom I have seen only twice, that time I spoke of and a second time. She was attended by two girls, as well as the chief vizier of her father the king. You will understand yourself that I greeted her the second time. I am a faithful soul, and if I do a good thing once I go on with it. So, since I greeted her the first time, I greeted her again the second. How surprised that vizier was. If he had been a wise man he would not have been surprised, for she was a king’s daughter, and even though they had taken the kingdom from her father, the kingdom still existed. I have already told you, Racheclass="underline" Woe to him who forgets that he is a king’s son. And since she did not forget that she was a king’s daughter, I did not forget either.”
Rachel is a modern girl and is not interested in legends about the sons and daughters of kings. What she wants to hear is stories about girls like herself, such as the stories of Ya’el Hayot and little Ruhama.
But for a man who has reached my years, it is not fitting to repeat tales of youth, so I told her the story of Tirza and Akavia. I said to Rachel, “This is a thing worth hearing. There was a certain man called Akavia Mazal and he was as old as Tirza’s father, and Akavia Mazal did not think of Tirza even in a dream. But Tirza went and hung on Akavia’s neck. Isn’t this a miracle! In your opinion it is a simple matter, an everyday affair, and if it didn’t happen today it may happen tomorrow. Blessed be this hour when you have said so!”
And since I hold dear all good things I wanted to fix the time when Rachel’s words were said. So I took out my watch and looked at it. “Why did you look at your watch?” said Rachel. Said I, “It is already midnight. What are you thinking about, Rachel?” Rachel looked at me and said, “I’m not thinking about anything.” “If you like,” I said, “I will tell you what you were thinking about.” “I was not thinking about anything.” “You were thinking about little Ruhama.” “Who is this Ruhama?” “And didn’t I tell you about her?” said I to Rachel. “But wasn’t her name Ya’el Hayot?” asked Rachel. “Ya’el Hayot is one thing and Ruhama is another,” I replied. “This is little Ruhama, who is hidden like a ray of sunlight among the clouds. Father in heaven, how easy it is for girls to forget!”
I went into my room and lit the candle. I looked in the mirror to see if I was sad. But I was not sad; on the contrary, I was happy. And if you do not believe me, ask the mirror if it did not see me laughing.
At that moment I heard the thump of a wooden leg. I said to myself: Daniel Bach, our neighbor, is coming home. I will open the window and ask him what his father has written from the Land of Israel. But I was lazy, so I did not open the window and ask him about Reb Shlomo, but got into bed, put out the light, and lay down at full length. Sleep fell upon me and closed my eyes.
Chapter fifteen. The Key That Was Lost
Yesterday I was happy as if all the world were mine; today I am sad, like one whose world is lost. What happened was that when I tried to enter the Beit Midrash I could not find the key. I said to myself: Perhaps I left it in the hotel when I was putting on my coat. So I went back to the hotel, but did not find the key. I said to myself: Perhaps I have lost it on the way. So I went about on all the roads, but did not find it.
I went to the Beit Midrash and stood before the locked door. Many thoughts passed through my mind in a short time, and this is one of them: The Beit Midrash still exists, but I am standing outside, because I have lost the key and cannot get in. What shall a man do to get in? Let him break open the door and enter.
But this door had more strength than I. No matter how hard I tried, I did not succeed in opening it. Our fathers, when they built synagogues and houses of study, used to make them with thick walls, doors, and locks. Once the doors of the Beit Midrash are locked, they can be opened only by one who has the key in his hand.
The people of the hotel saw my distress but said nothing. All the salvation of men is only a sigh, and each man needs that sigh for himself.
So far as I can see, the hotelkeeper has no reason to complain. For several days the hotel has been full, and instead of that old man who had a case in court and brought them no profit, there is a traveling salesman, a young man, who eats much and drinks much, lives and lets live.
The salesman sits in front of a glass of brandy and jokes with Babtchi, calling her Babbete, which means, “Granny.” “What will be the end of that affair?” the salesman teases. “What affair?” asks Babtchi in surprise. “The affair that never happened,” says the salesman. Babtchi laughs with all her might until her whole body shakes: “And who will pay the musicians?” Says the salesman, “This affair doesn’t need musicians.’ Babtchi slaps his hands and says, “Ha, ha, ha,” and blows the smoke of the cigarette in her mouth into the salesman’s face. Says the salesman, “With the same trouble the lady could have kissed me on the lips.” “Certainly not,” says Babtchi, “only on the mustache.” “What a pity I haven’t grown a mustache,” replies the salesman. “Well,” says Babtchi, “you must wait until you’ve grown a mustache hanging down to your feet.” The salesman laughs, “Ha, ha, ha!” Says Babtchi, “All this gentleman can say is ha, ha, ha!” and, putting her hands on her hips, she echoes him, “Ha, ha, ha!” “Babtchi, Babtchi,” cries her mother from the kitchen, “bring me some salt.” “Perhaps I should bring you some sweets?” Babtchi answers. “Perhaps we should have a game of cards,” Dolik suggests to the salesman. “What put that into your head?” says Babtchi. “What have we left but cards?” answers Dolik. “Cards for us and boys for you.” “If you’re thinking of this gentleman,” says Babtchi, “you ought to know that he has a wife and children.”
In comes Lolik and finds Rachel sitting all melancholy. “Have you heard?” he says, “There’s a rumor in the town. Yeruham… “Before he can finish, Rachel’s face grows pale, and she says, “Go on.” “Haven’t you heard?” asks Lolik. “If not, I’ll tell you: Yeruham has pushed his forelock over to the right side of his forehead.”
Let us come back to our subject. The key has vanished and I cannot get into the Beit Midrash. Says Dolik, “If you can’t open the door, you bring an axe and break it in.” Says Krolka, “Merciful God, merciful God, is it possible to do a thing like that to a house of prayer?” Dolik mocks her: “We can’t do that to one of yours, but we can to one of ours.” Krolka covers her face with her apron, crying, “Don’t listen to him, don’t listen to him!”
Since the day I found the Beit Midrash locked I can find no place to go. Before I lost the key I used to go to the market place and talk to people, or walk out to the forest, or stroll in the fields; since I have lost the key all these places have become strange to me. If I go outside, I find no satisfaction in it; if I return to the hotel, I find no satisfaction there. But I don’t allow melancholy to take hold of me. I think of thousands of pathways, sometimes for a stroll and sometimes to look for the key. Finally my feet grow used to walking. My feet grow used, but not my soul. My soul weighs heavily on me and my feet carry it with difficulty. Every day I search my room; there is no place I do not look. I know that all my trouble is in vain, but I seek and seek again. Often I run to the Beit Midrash. Maybe the Almighty will perform a miracle for me and open the door. I even looked in the heaps of torn pages from the sacred books that lie in the courtyard, for when I was a young man and used to sit early and late in the Beit Midrash, I used to hide the key there, so that if anyone came before me he would find it.