“I have put that question to wise men,” I said, “but their answers did not satisfy me, until a certain wise man gave me an explanation. This wise man is one whose good deeds come before his learning. At the time when most of our wise men remained abroad and preached sermons about Zionism, he went up to the Land and succeeded in doing what the organs of speech cannot do. He used to say, ‘Do, and expect nothing.’ And since he did, his deeds combined to make a substantial reality. For such is the way of deeds: if a man does one thing today and another tomorrow, in the course of time they combine into a great deed. After the Arabs had destroyed my house, leaving me without a roof to my head, he invited me into his house and gave me a bed and a table. Once he found me grieving. ‘Do not grieve,’ he said to me, ‘all will be well.’ ‘What good can we expect?’ I said to him. ‘If we build, our neighbors destroy; if we plant, our neighbors uproot. See how many settlements have been laid waste in one day, see how many families have been killed in one hour — and you say, “All will be well.” If good were to come out of all this it would have come already, for our neighbors know that we have turned the desolate wilderness into a settled land, and they have been the first to enjoy the benefits, but in the end they have done us all this evil. It seems to me that the early days were better than these, and you say, “All will be well.” You, who said, “Do, and expect nothing,” have suddenly become an advocate of hope.’ He replied, ‘At first I expected nothing, but now I expect many things, for we have already entered into the second era.’ And he sat down and explained: ‘There are three eras in the life of a people. In the first era, the nation is small and weak, despised by its neighbors, who look upon it as if it did not exist. And since it is lowly and despised, sometimes people have pity on it and treat it kindly, like a strong man who is kind to the weak. The second era comes when the nation rouses itself from its lowliness and becomes stronger and stronger. If its neighbors are wise, they establish bonds of friendship and brotherhood with it, and they benefit each other. If they are not wise, they hinder it at every turn, and in the end they make war upon it. It defends itself, and girds itself with strength and valor, because it knows that if it falls into its enemies’ hands, no one will have mercy on it. So it does not fear the clash of shields or the onslaught of fighters. When its neighbors see this, they make peace with it, then they seek its friendship, and then regard it as a nation equal to themselves. First they seek its friendship for their own advantage, then for the benefit of both, and then they help each other. Until now we have lived in the first era, when a nation is lowly and despised, and now we have reached the second era, of a nation that has fortified itself and gained in strength; our children, who will come after us, will be privileged to reach the third era, of a nation like all the other nations. And what will come after that — no eye has yet seen that.’”
Mr. Bach stroked his neck with both hands and looked at his sick son, who was slumbering. Then he stroked his good leg and said, “In the meantime, they do with us whatever a murderer’s heart may desire.”
I looked at his slumbering son and said, “So long as we are living in the second era.” “And when will we reach the third era?” said Mr. Bach. I got up from my chair and said, “That depends on me and you and every man of Israel. When we go up to the Land and join our brothers, who are engaged in battle there.”
As I was going out, Mrs. Bach took me by the arm and led me to her son’s bed. “Look at him, sir,” said she, “doesn’t he look like an angel of the Lord of Hosts? When I imagine that murderers could lift their hands against a child like this, I tremble.” Said I, “Why should the murderers come?” Said Mrs. Bach, “But surely you want us to go to them.” “To them?” said I, “to whom?” “To those murderers who killed Yeruham,” said Mrs. Bach. “Not at all, madam,” said I. “I want us to come to ourselves, so that the power of the murderers may be weakened.” Said Mrs. Bach, “But then you ran away from there, sir.” I sighed and said, “I ran away from there? And perhaps I really did run away, for anyone who leaves the Land of Israel, even for a while, is regarded as one who runs away.”
Chapter three and forty. Signs of Spring
After breakfast on Sunday morning I went, as usual, to the Beit Midrash. It was a fine day and signs of spring could be seen in the land. The ice had broken; jagged pieces floated on the river; puddles of snow-water shimmered in the street and a new sun shone upon them. Bells sounded from the two Gentile houses of worship; the townsfolk, with their women, came and went. The shops were closed on the outside and the shopkeepers stood idle in the doorways, while their women stood inside and bargained with customers who had come surreptitiously to buy. Suddenly two policemen appeared — or perhaps it was one policeman who looked like two. The shopkeepers and all the other people took off their hats, bowed their heads, and smiled affectionately at the policeman. The policeman twirled his mustache and moved on. The shopkeepers clasped their hands behind their backs and looked after him until he had disappeared from sight.
Ignatz adorned himself with the decorations he had acquired in the war, some through his own deeds and some by taking from the dead. He pushed out his chest and thrust his face at the passers-by, crying, as usual, “Pieniadze!” meaning “Alms!”
Yoshke, or Veptchi, or some other frequenter of the Beit Midrash, came up to me and said, “The priest is taking a long time for his sermon today.” I felt indignant and wanted to say to him, “I see you are more interested in the priest’s sermon than in our public service, for it is several days since you came to the Beit Midrash.” But another man accosted me and said, “The bastard gives us lots of trouble.”
I thought he was talking of Ignatz, who was rumored to be the son of a Gentile from a Jewish mother and suspected of tale-bearing to the authorities. When he saw that I did not know whom he was speaking of, he continued, “Haven’t you heard that that priest is the son of a Jewish father?” “A Jewish father?” “A Jewish father and a Gentile mother.” “A fine thing,” said I. “If it is true it may very well not be a lie. Or, contrariwise, if it is not a lie it may very well be true. But I tell you that the whole thing should have been different from the start. How? That Jew, the priest’s father, should have made advances to Ignatz’s mother, and that slave, Ignatz’s father, should have made advances to the mother of the priest. Or perhaps you have confused the story of Ignatz with the story of the priest.” “You make jokes, but I say we should weep,” said the man. “Since the day the bastard came to our town we have no peace, for on every one of their feast days he incites the Gentiles against us with his sermons. Now do you believe the story is true?”
“What truth? What story?”
“The story tells of a certain lady who had a Jewish tenant farmer, a fine, handsome man. She seduced him to an act of sin, and from that sin she bore a son. She handed the child over to a nunnery and they passed him on to a monastery, and the monks taught him that religion of theirs and its ways, until he became chief of the priests in our town.” I nodded my head and said, “If that is the way the story has been handed down to us, let us accept it.”
The man was indignant, “I knew the priest’s father after he repented,” he said. “When I used to see him sitting in sackcloth on the threshold of the porters’ synagogue, fasting and reciting psalms, my very bones would quiver. If he had been in some other town, they would have presented their petitions to him, as they do to the rabbis of the Hasidim.”
My shoulders suddenly felt heavy. I unbuttoned my coat and went on.