What will happen to the shopkeeper? Zwirn is lackadaisical and does nothing. Perhaps Dolik was right when he said that he has an eye for the shopkeeper’s wife? What am I to do? Should I go to the lawyer or wait for Dolik and try to find out what rumor he has heard. It is true that every conversation with Dolik costs money, because he gets me into a card game and gets money out of me. But if we put it down to business expenses, it does not matter.
The cigarette between the agent’s fingers is crushed and he has already taken out another. I am afraid this one will end up like the first.
Chapter two and fifty. Over the Glass
Reb Hayim came and took the key, swept the floor and polished up the furnishings, and cleared away the dust with which the Beit Midrash had been filled while I was away. When I came in after him, I found the lamps full of kerosene, the basin full of fresh water, and white cloths spread on the tables; the whole hall was made ready to welcome the Sabbath in purity, and a pale greenish light completely filled the Beit Midrash, like a light that is not perceived by the eye but moves the heart.
It was good to sit by the table, or go up to the rostrum and read the weekly Scripture portion — twice in the original and once in the Aramaic translation. True, this was Naso, the second portion in the Book of Numbers, the longest in the Torah, but then this Sabbath eve was also a long one. He that gave the Torah is He that created the world and ordered the days, making them longer or shorter according to the order of the weekly portions.
But a man’s feet want to go outside, and they justify their wish by a commandment, such as this is Sabbath eve and a man must cleanse himself in honor of the Sabbath. So this man, whose heart is tender and persuadable, obeyed his feet, especially as they justified their call with a commandment. I took the key, locked up the Beit Midrash, and went out. It was still too early to go and eat; it was already too late to go to the forest; and it was not the right time to stroll in the town, for what would people say? — “Everyone is busy preparing for the Sabbath, while that man strolls about for pleasure.”
A man came up to me, stopped me, looked at me for a little while, and said, “Tell me, aren’t you my friend So-and-so?” He put out both hands and greeted me. I returned his greeting, saying, “You are Aaron Schutzling — what are you doing here? Don’t you live in America?” “And what are you doing here? I thought you lived there in the Land of Israel?” “It seems,” I replied, “that we have both been mistaken in each other.”
Aaron shook his head and said, “Yes, my friend, both of us have been mistaken in each other. I do not live in America, and you, if we may judge from the evidence of sight, do not live in the Land of Israel. And that is not all; when I look at the two of us it seems to me that there is no America and no Land of Israel in the world, but only Szibucz — or perhaps it does not exist either, but only its name exists. Well, what is this effendi doing in the streets of Szibucz?” “What am I doing here? Let me think.” “Why think? Thoughts are tiring. Come, let us go to the bathhouse. It is Sabbath eve and they have lit the stove; we’ll find a hot bath and wash in warm water and rinse in cold. Since I reached years of understanding I have found nothing better for the body than a hot bath. Of all the commandments that were given to Israel, I strictly observe this one, for every Sabbath eve I run to the baths.” “And what about the other commandments?” “Perhaps other people are strict about the other commandments. In any case, the Almighty will not be able to make Himself a warm coat out of all the commandments the Jews observe.” “A strange description!” “On the contrary, you ought to be pleased with this description, for it shows you that I believe God exists. And as for the commandments Jews observe, you and I know that they are not worth much.”
So two sons of Szibucz walk together in Szibucz, as they used to walk twenty years ago and more, before they left, one for America and the other for the Land of Israel. How old were we in those days, and what did we use to do? We were about seventeen or eighteen; I sat in the Beit Midrash, studying Talmud and Commentaries, while he was employed in the bakery, baking bread. And although we differed in our opinions, for I was a Zionist and he an anarchist, we were glad to talk to each other. Many times he used to tease me by calling me a bourgeois of the next world, because I studied the Torah and preached for Zion. And I would enrage him when I admitted part of his argument and said that there is no need for kings, since the King Messiah is destined to reign over the whole world. How many years have passed since that time! How many kings have tumbled off their thrones, and still the Son of David has not come.
The Messiah, Son of David, has not yet come and “the Land of Israel has not yet spread into all the other lands,” but this man has come back, and he is now in Szibucz. He is like a bridegroom who went to marry a wife, only to find her sick and woebegone; so he has come back home wearing all his fine clothes, but he has no pleasure in them, for dejection has dried his bones and the clothes are too big for him. So he tries to put on his old ones, but cannot find them, for he has put them away.
“If you do not wish to go to the bathhouse,” said Schutzling, “let us go into the hotel and drink a glass of ale in honor of this day when we have met.” I nodded and went in with him. For this I had two reasons: first, to meet my friend’s wish, and second, because my conscience troubled me for spoiling the innkeeper’s trade when I told the postman not to go to the hotel and drink brandy with my money.
“In the meantime,” said my friend, “you have been in the great world.” “And you?” “So have I, and we have come back from there.” “We have come back from there.” “In the past, when we used to stroll in the streets of Szibucz, it did not enter our minds that we would visit far-off countries.” “And when we were in the far-off countries it did not enter our minds that we would return here.” “If it did not enter your mind that you would come back,” he replied, “I wanted to return all the time.” Why had he been attracted to this place? Because America had not attracted him. “And now that you have returned,” said I, “you do not live in Szibucz.” He smiled and said, “In this world nothing is perfect. And if you like I will tell you: it is the tragedy of my life that I do not live in Szibucz.” “Do you love Szibucz so much?” said I. “When a man sees that there is no place in the world that he loves, he deceives himself into thinking he loves his town. And you, do you love Szibucz?” “I? I haven’t thought about it yet.” My friend took my hand, and said, “If so, let me tell you that all your love for the Land of Israel comes to you from Szibucz; because you love your town you love the Land of Israel.” “How do you know that I love Szibucz?” “Is it proof you want? If you did not love Szibucz, would you be dealing with it all your life? Would you be digging up gravestones to discover its secrets?” “You haven’t yet told me what you did in America and what you are doing today,” said I. ‘What I did in America? I worked like a horse to get my bread, until with all the sweat and strain I did not manage to eat my bread. And what am I doing today? I go around to sell all kinds of useless medicines the Germans invent. Don’t be sorry for me, my friend — as I am not sorry for myself. How long does a man have to live? My father, rest his soul, lived ninety years; and I will be content with fifty. And do I have to worry for my children? My father worried for me, and what use was it?” “How many children have you?” “How many children have I? Wait until I count them.” “Have you gone crazy?” “If you interrupt me I can’t count.” He started counting on his fingers: “Two that my first wife brought me from her first husband and one from her second, three daughters she bore me, and one son with the American woman, and my eldest son who was born of the dark seamstress. You remember that charming brunette; she forgave me before her death. From that son I have some satisfaction; since the day his mother died, he sends me money and clothes. And now, too, I have come with the help of his money to see if it’s worth while opening a bakery here. I’m sick of my father’s son having to go about as an agent for all kinds of rubbish, and he wants to take up his father’s trade. But it’s hopeless. You can’t say that Szibucz doesn’t need bread, but there isn’t anyone to pay the baker.”