The bridge began to empty of passers-by. Some of them went to the town and some turned toward the wood behind the slaughterhouse on the bank of the Stripa beside the oaks. I looked down at the river again. A fine odor rose from the water. I breathed in deeply and savored the air.
The well in the old market at the center of town could be heard again. Some little distance away was the gurgling of the King’s Well, and the water of the Stripa also added its voice — not the water I had seen at first, for that had already gone, but fresh water, which had taken its place. The moon shone from the river and the stars began to dwindle. I said to myself: The time has come for sleep.
I went back to my hotel and found it closed. I was sorry I had not taken a key with me, for I had promised the people that I would not trouble them much, and now I had to rouse them from their sleep. Had I known that the klois still existed I should have gone there, for there the people would be awake all night singing hymns and psalms, and some would be studying all night long the talmudic tractates of Yoma, treating of the Day of Atonement itself, and Keritot, which deals with grave offenses.
I put out my hand to the door, as one puts out his hand when he does not expect it to open, but as I touched it the door opened. My host knew that his guest was outside, and he had not locked the door in his face.
I entered on tiptoe so as not to disturb the sleepers. If I had not worn my boots when I went out, they would not have heard my footsteps. But the streets of the town are dirty and I am fastidious, so I wore may boots, and when I came in they sensed my entrance and turned in their sleep.
A memorial light burned on the table in the middle of the dining room, and a prayer shawl and a prayer book lay there. The smell of warm povidl, which had been put away in the oven, sweetened the air of the house. For many years I had not felt its taste or come across its smell — that smell of ripe plums in the oven, which brings back the memory of days gone by, when Mother, may she rest in peace, would spread the sweet povidl on my bread. But this was not the time to think of such things, although the Torah has not forbidden the enjoyment of odors on the Day of Atonement. My host came out of his room and showed me my bed, leaving the door open so that I could undress in the candlelight. I closed the door behind him and went to bed.
The memorial candle shone into my room. Or perhaps it did not, and it only seemed to me that it shone. I said to myself: This night I shall know no sleep. Rubberovitch’s hand or Bach’s foot will come to terrify me. But as soon as I lay down on my bed, sleep overcame me, and I slept. And it is almost certain that I did not dream.
Chapter three. Between the Services
An hour and a half had passed since dawn. The morning dew still lingered; an air of purity mantled the town and its ruins, the spirit that rests on the houses of Israel on the morning of the Holy Day. I walked slowly, saying to myself: I need not hurry; no doubt the people have not risen too early, lest sleep overtake them during the service. But as soon as I entered the synagogue I saw that the Morning Service was over; they were taking the Scrolls out of the Ark to read the Torah before the Additional Festival Service.
Neither the Scroll the cantor was holding nor the Scroll from which the final portion was to be read was adorned with crown or other embellishment, for the precious sacred ornaments, the glory of the Torah, made of pure silver by skilled craftsmen, had been taken by the government during the war to buy guns and ammunition, and the Torah was left without its adornments. The Trees of Life, the staves on which the Scroll is rolled, protruded sadly, their faded color wringing one’s heart. See how humble is the King who is the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, who said, “Mine is the silver and mine is the gold,” but has not left Himself even an ounce of silver to adorn His Torah.
May God not think me sinful if I say that most of those summoned to the rostrum for the reading of the Torah were not of the kind that deserve this honor on the Days of Awe. Why should these men have been honored on the Holy Day? Surely it is fitting to give great honor to the Almighty by summoning for the reading God-fearing men and such as study His Torah. Had they bought the honor with generous donations? Not so. On the contrary, their pledges were scanty, and I felt certain they did not esteem the honor.
I am not one of those who compare the present to days gone by, but when I see the petty standing in the place of the great, and the poor in deeds in the place of men of great achievement, I grieve over this generation, whose eyes have not seen Israel’s greatness, who believe that Israel never had any greatness at all.
An old man, one of the last of the Great Synagogue’s elders, chanted the portion aloud, with the proper intonation and with tears in his voice. It seemed as if he were weeping not only over the death of Aaron’s sons but over the members of his own generation who had passed away. Since I had not yet recited the Morning Service I went to the old Beit Midrash to pray.
The old Beit Midrash was totally changed. The bookcases, once full, had disappeared, and nothing was left but six or seven shelves. Some of the long, heavy benches, on which the elders once sat, were empty, and others were occupied by men who saw no difference between one place and another. On the seat of the learned sage, presiding judge of the religious court, sat Elimelech Kaiser, one of the group I had met yesterday in the street; it was he who had mocked at me when I inquired about a hotel. One day, perhaps, the town will produce great scholars and restore the glory of the Torah, but the books that were lost will never be restored. Five thousand books we had in our old Beit Midrash — or perhaps only four thousand or even three thousand, but more than there were in all the other houses of study in the town and its surroundings.
The ceiling and the walls were altered, too. That ceiling, once black with soot, was now covered with whitewash, and those walls, which were worn and rubbed, were covered with plaster. I do not say that the black was more beautiful than the white, or the worn surface more pleasing than the plaster, but that soot had come from the smoke of our fathers’ candles, which lighted the Torah for their study, and those walls, so long as they were worn, showed the mark of every man who had sat there. And if we felt ourselves lowly in comparison with those who had worn those walls smooth, we were important because we lived in their generation. Now the plastered walls looked as if no one had ever sat there.
The Beit Midrash was almost empty. I doubt whether there was twice the quorum of ten, and most of them worshipped without a prayer shawl. And this on the Day of Atonement, on which we worship all day wrapped in our prayer shawls. I remembered a story of how the dead came to the synagogue on the Eve of Atonement and it became very crowded; so the congregation took off their shawls and the dead went away. Thereupon it was made a custom to pray on the Eve of Atonement without a tallit. But that happened in another town and the custom was applied there at night, when the wearing of the tallit with its fringes is not obligatory; so why were they now praying without it? An old man stood before the pulpit chanting the prayers melodiously. From the way he stood it could be seen that he was a humble man, and if he had a home it was no doubt empty. Every single word he uttered showed his heart was crushed and broken. If it pleases the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, to make use of broken vessels, this vessel was suited for His use.
After the memorial prayer, some of the congregation sat down to rest. I sat among them and asked why they were praying without the tallit. “We have not managed to buy new ones,” said one with a sigh. “And where are the old ones?” I asked. “Where are they? D’you think I know? Either gone up to heaven in flames or made into sheets for whores.” “Some have been stolen and some burned,” added another. “When were they burned and when were they stolen?” I asked. They all sighed and said, “In the last pogrom, when the Gentiles surrounded the town and plundered us.”