I turned over the pages idly, with disinterest, yet wondering what to answer the rabbis’ widows who were waiting expectantly for what I had to say. Then I came to a certain place where the following was written: “Copied from the actual sacred manuscript of our illustrious teacher, by Elyakim, surnamed Getz, a servant of the holy work.” I was surprised and astonished. Was there so much power in that amanuensis that salvation and mercy were wrought through him? Whether or not it was so, I did not know what to do. The book had been printed a number of times and was to be found in many hands, and even had it been the manuscript of the author I did not know who would buy it.
I had a shrewd idea and said, “I am surprised at you, dear ladies. Would you take a book that our town has been privileged to own and abandon it to the outside world? And what will happen to the women who will be in need of it?” They sighed and answered, “If the town had been in need of it, we would not have sold it for all the money in the world.” “What do you mean by ‘if the town had been in need of it’? Are the women in your town like the beasts of the field who have no need of a talisman? Tomorrow you will be asked for the book and what will you answer? ‘We have sold the book’? Surely they will ask you, ‘Why have you done this thing?’ as Pharaoh said to the Jewish midwives — though Pharaoh said it because the midwives let the children live, and you, dear ladies — but let me not put words into Satan’s mouth.… If you listen to me, even if you are offered all the silver and gold in the world you should not sell it.”
Said one, “Pharaoh only ruled out male children, but the women in Szibucz rule out female children, too. Have you seen a cradle rocking since the day you came here?”
“Israel is not yet barren,” said I. “I myself witnessed the marriage contract of the hotelkeeper’s daughter. Surely you know Rachel, his little daughter, who married a certain young man called Yeruham Freeman, the one with the curly hair?”
It was painful to see the women’s distress. The bread had vanished from the house and all their hopes lay in the money they would get from the book, and this man was telling them about some hotel-keeper’s daughter who had married some young man.
“Ladies,” said I, “who revealed to you the secret that this manuscript has this power you speak of?”
Said one, “When the women used to come to our saintly grandfather to beg him for assistance he would push them away with the stem of the pipe in his hand, for our grandfather would say, ‘You want to use me for idolatry, heaven forbid. You seek salvation from the Holy One, blessed be He, and you fix your eyes on a mere mortal. If it is salvation you need, entreat the Almighty and He will save you.’ Once he was sitting and writing his book. A woman came and cried, ‘Rabbi, Rabbi, save me, for three days now my daughter is in the grip of labor pains.’ His pity was aroused and he said, ‘The new interpretations I have written today in the book will help that woman to bear in comfort.’ No sooner had the words left his lips than she bore a male child.”
I said to her, “All the time that saintly man was alive, the living Torah in his mouth wrought salvation. How do you know that the same was true after his passing?” Said one, “Have you not learned, sir, that righteous men are greater in their deaths than in their lives? Sarah’le, Sarah’le, tell the gentleman how it happened.”
Sarah sighed and said, “When my husband, peace be upon him, was born, my mother-in-law’s birthpangs were particularly painful, and they almost despaired of her. By that time her saintly father was no longer in the world. They went to prostrate themselves on his grave and could not find it, for that week a heavy snow had fallen and covered the whole of the graveyard, to the tops of the tombstones and even higher. So many mothers in childbirth had been helped by that saintly man, and now that his daughter was in great distress he was hiding himself, and his grave could not be found. So the Almighty put an idea into the midwife’s mind, and she took his book and put it down beside the woman. As soon as she had put it down, immediately the woman bore her son, and that son was my husband. So everyone knew that there was a power in the book.”
“What do you think the book will fetch?” said I. Said one, “What do we know?” Said a second, “We ought to send it to America.” Said a third, “Or to Rothschild.” “I am prepared to send the book to any place you like,” said I, “but I am not responsible for the money.” They all looked up in surprise and said, “And would Rothschild want us to give him the book for nothing, when we are poor women?” Said one, “I believe that if this sacred book comes into Rothschild’s hands he would weigh it against gold.” Said a second, “After all, sir, you come from the Land of Israel and you know that Rothschild has a kind heart for Jews, for if anyone comes to him he gives him a colony.” “Rothschild has a kind heart,” said I, “but the men who surround him are not all good. That is why I asked how much you think this manuscript is worth.” Said they, “How much is the book worth? What do we know? How much do you think it is worth, sir?” Said I, “There is no fixed price for books, especially for a holy book like this. If I were Rothschild I would give fifty dollars for it.” The widows’ faces lit up and they said, “Fifty dollars”; then they closed their eyes and each one whispered, “Fifty dollars, fifty dollars!” I said to them, “Since I am not Rothschild, how much do I have to give for the book if I buy it for myself — not for myself, but to do a good deed with it? There is a colony in Israel where there is a lying-in home, to which women come to give birth, and I had the idea of sending the book there.”
Said Sarah, “If the book were all mine I would give it for forty dollars, even thirty dollars, so that good deeds should be done through it.” Said her sisters-in-law, “On condition that we are partners in the good deed.” Said I, “If you particularly want to have a share in the good deed, I will not prevent you.”
So I gave them thirty-five dollars and said, “In the meantime let the book stay with you, and if in thirty days you do not change your minds I will come and take it.” “Heaven forbid that we should change our minds,” said Sarah, “especially as we have devoted part of the money that we have taken off the price to the good deed.” “Didn’t you say, sir,” said another, “that you would give us fifty dollars, and you gave us thirty-five? So with the money we took off the price we became partners in your good deed.” I nodded my head and said, “In any case, I leave the book with you until I come and take it.”
Next morning Sarah came to my hotel and brought me the book. “I heard,” said she, “that anything that has been dedicated for the sake of the Land of Israel must not be left lying in the house.” She put the book on the table, kissed it and stroked it, and smiled at me, as one smiles to a partner, for through this book we had become partners in a good deed.
Chapter one and forty. End of Winter
Hanoch’s memory was buried in oblivion. Although the rabbi had forbidden his children to say the Kaddish prayer and his wife to go into mourning, there was no doubt that Hanoch was dead. I, too, was of that opinion. Since the night he had met me beside the spring, it was clear to me that he was dead.
Hanoch’s wife took out a box to the marketplace and set up a stall. Her neighbors in the market did not hinder her; on the contrary, if she met with a difficult customer, they reminded him that she was at one and the same time a widow and a deserted wife, that her house was empty of bread but full of orphans, and it would be a very meritorious act to buy something from her. Even the Gentile women favored her, remembering that Hanoch her husband had been such an upright Jew; they would bring her eggs, vegetables, and honey, sometimes even a chicken, and wait until she should sell something and pay.