The winter cold had gone; the air was tepid, neither cold nor warm. I walked along with Pinhas Aryeh. Once he made me walk to his right, and once he made me walk to his left, and he talked without a stop. He did not notice that I was silent, or perhaps he noticed but did not care. Suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Surely you are one of us?” I do not know whether he really thought so, or whether he believed he was giving me pleasure by this. From then on, for all the rest of his stay in Szibucz, we used to walk together.
Spring was abroad, and the soil felt rich and soft. The skies, which had been sealed by clouds, grew clearer now; wisps of cloud embraced each other, then parted gently, as clouds do when there is peace on high. Below, too — in Szibucz, that is to say — there was a noticeable change for the better. Men were pleasant to each other and looked graciously upon this man.
Babtchi put away her leather coat and put on a new dress, like most of the girls in the town; if I am not mistaken she grew her hair longer and arranged it in a kind of coil above her neck at the back. Three or four times I met her on the street. The first time she nodded her head and greeted me, her hair dancing on her neck; the second and third times she lowered her eyes modestly. From the time I first knew Babtchi I had never seen her like this. A person’s clothes change his character, and God’s holy days change his clothes.
My companion watched her pass and said, “Who is that girl walking there? Isn’t she the daughter of Zommer the innkeeper?” I nodded and went back to the subject we were talking about before. Said Pinhas Aryeh, “He served you right, that Yeruham, when he spurned you and came home. The return of that pioneer is worth more than a thousand warnings from all the God-fearing.” I lowered my head and said nothing. “Why have you grown so sad?” asked Pinhas Aryeh. “I remembered the story of his father,” I replied. “Are you so grudging and spiteful?” said he. “What spite? What grudge?” said I. Said Pinhas Aryeh, “I reminded you of the act of the son who spurned you, and you reminded me of the act of the father who defiled the Torah, hinting that even our camp is not free from sinners.” “What is your camp?” I asked. “Those who walk in the way of the Torah,” said Pinhas Aryeh. “You are indeed to be envied,” said I. “You have taken the Torah for your own, as if you and the Torah were one.” “Are you angry with me?” said he. “I am not angry, but you make me laugh,” said I. “This is a displeasing way you have, to pre-empt the Torah for yourselves, as if it had been given only to you, especially as you use the Torah for purposes that have nothing to do with it. I do not say that we (we as opposed to you) live by the Torah, but we want to live by it — only the vessels of our souls are broken, and cannot hold it. The Torah is whole, but the case in which it is kept is broken. And our longings will lead us to accept the Torah a second time — the eternal Torah that is never changed by the conditions of the times or the passing of the ages. While you and your colleagues, my friend, wish to gain power through the Torah, we wish to give the Torah power over ourselves. And if our capability is small, our will is great. In such matters, the will is more important than the capability, for the will has no end, but the capability — alas — is small and circumscribed. The will flows from the abundance of the supreme and infinite Will, while the capability is of man born of woman, whose days are short and full of pain. The capability is slack, but the will is alive, and we hope it will repair the broken vessels of our souls. Now, Reb Pinhas, I take my leave of you.” “Why are you in such a hurry? Perhaps I can answer you.” “I have no doubt you can answer me,” said I. “If you like, I will answer myself instead. But mere arguments accomplish nothing. Your thinking repels me from the beginning, because you make the sacred secular. The political affairs that interest you do not concern me, for to me the State and its affairs are only minor servants of the Torah, and it is not for the Torah to serve them. I know, Reb Pinhas Aryeh, that I have not clarified the matter sufficiently, and to tell you the truth I have not clarified it to myself either, so silence is best. I don’t believe that it is talk that will help us see this subject whole.”
“Surely you say the same things we do,” said Pinhas Aryeh. “I say the same things, yet we disagree,” I replied. “The reason we disagree is that you have aroused disagreement in Israel, estranging one Jew from another, for you regard anyone who does not belong to your group as if, heaven forbid, he had no share in the God of Israel.” “And is it we who have caused the estrangement?” said Pinhas Aryeh. “Surely it is you who have caused it, by estranging yourselves from the Torah, and thereby estranging yourselves from Israel!” “You are a happy man,” said I, “to have solved all doubts and grasped the truth with your own hand; grasp it firmly, or it may escape. And now that we have truly finished, I am going.” “Where?” “To the old Beit Midrash.” “I am going with you,” said Pinhas Aryeh. “I will take the key and open the door,” said I.
As soon as we entered the Beit Midrash, Pinhas Aryeh declaimed, “How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob,” and extolled the Torah and its students, praising me for abandoning the idols of my youth and returning to the Beit Midrash. When I wanted to sit down he drew me outside. It was plain that all he had said in praise of the Torah and its students came readily to his lips from the speeches he used to deliver at meetings. Or perhaps he really loved the Torah, but since he was so busy making others love it he did not manage to study it himself. Or perhaps it was enough for him to go over that daily page of the Talmud, which perhaps he studied every day.
Although Pinhas Aryeh, the rabbi’s son, was born in Szibucz, he was a new man to the town. Of the other men who grew up in Szibucz before the war, some studied the Torah because they loved it and some because they had nothing else to do, but this Pinhas Aryeh — may God save him — did not open a book, nor did I ever hear a word of commentary on the Torah from his lips. Nevertheless, he used the Torah as a keystone for his actions, whether in matters arising out of the Torah or those that had nothing to do with it.
Like his father, he loved to tell jokes, but a joke that served the father to flavor his talk served the son as a complete conversation, like a man who is frivolous and jests. Once I said to him, “I am surprised at the way you jest and joke.” “And I am surprised that you do not like jokes,” he answered. “If you want to know the spirit of the people, listen to their jests.” I said, “That is the spirit of the people in its dispersion and not in its ingathering.”
Each of us seemed strange to the other. He seemed strange to me because he loved argument, and I to him because I refrained from argument. Finally I became argumentative against my will because he credited me with ideas that had never come into my head. He seemed strange to me because he was immersed in newspapers, and I to him because I did not read them. Once I asked him where he found the time. He said he made the time because he had to read, for the sages said, “And know what thou shalt reply to a heretic.” When he said this I knew that his enjoyment in the reading came first, and the purpose second. “Do you also read the books they send you for review?” said I, jesting. “I write reviews of them,” he replied, jokingly. “What do the authors say?” I asked. “If I praise them, what have they to say?” he answered. “And if you disparage them?” “Why should I pain scholars by disparaging them?”