There were as many stories and parables told about him as about Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai. It was a pity Hilda attended his classes for only two semesters. Something had prevented her. Yes, they had organized a kindergarten in the community and she wasn’t able to drive to Jerusalem so often.
The engine was running sweetly and without laboring and Daniel passed Latrun. On the other side of the valley was Emmaus. It was probably at just this time, in the short twilight after the evening meal, that two travelers had come together there with a third. They spoke to him but did not recognize him. Now there is a small monastery there, vines and olives are grown, and the produce is labeled “Emmaus.”
Darkness fell. Emmaus was left behind and he drove on toward Tel Aviv. He knew the road well. He would pass through Tel Aviv and ten kilometers before Haifa would turn off to the kibbutz of Beit Oren. This was a wonderful region, with the best mountain views in Israel. Already he could see Mount Carmel. Another twenty kilometers and he would be at the monastery. Evening prayers. Four hours of sleep. Would Neuhaus be alive when he woke in the morning or would he already have departed to “my Teacher, your God,” as he put it? What a splendid way to go, surrounded by family, friends, and pupils. What a wife he had been sent. Did I see that golden halo above Marysia’s head? Of course I did. Not a halo, but the radiance of my own love directed toward her.
Hilda shone with the same light of femininity and spiritual innocence. How many marvelous women there were in the world. Were none of them for him? There had been no Marysia prepared for him, no Hilda, no Gerda. Their hair braided in a plait or gathered in a bun, or in curls down to their shoulders; their necks, shoulders, fingers, breasts, and bellies. How good it would be to live with a woman, a wife, being one flesh like Professor Neuhaus and his Gerda. Even crazy Efim and Teresa consoled themselves one in the other. And I with You, Lord. Glory be to You …
The road was almost empty. It was a weekday evening and people had already come home from work. The strands and clusters of lights had been replaced by darkness transected by the probing needles of headlamps.
What infinite experience of death! There is no counting how many people have died or been killed in front of my eyes. I have dug graves, closed eyelids, collected parts of bodies which had been blown to bits, heard confessions, given the last rites, held hands, kissed the dying, comforted relatives, and conducted funeral service after funeral service after funeral service. Thousands of dead people.
Two deaths I have never forgotten, those two standing to the right and left of me. That great lean forester and the half-witted lad I sent to their deaths by firing squad in 1942. “These,” I said, bearing false witness. Twenty healthy young peasant men were saved, a traitor was shot, and along with him the guiltless village idiot. What did I do? What was it that I did then? I made one more saint for the Lord.
And in all that time I have never known an easier farewell than with Neuhaus. Natural, like friends parting for a time who know they will meet again soon. Great Neuhaus! He laughed at the idea of salvation. First you need to practice here on earth, to learn to cope with local unpleasantnesses like mosquitoes, indigestion, the wrath of superiors, a querulous wife, naughty children, loud music played by neighbors. If you can manage that in this life, there is some hope you will manage it in the next.
Who have I been fighting all my life? What for? What against? I seem to have brought a lot of passion to it, a lot that was personal to me. Perhaps I am jealous beyond all reason. Perhaps I am too much a Jew. I know better than everybody else? No, no. Honestly, no! It is just that I could see clearly where You are and where You are not. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.
The steady hum of the engine, the familiar murmur of prayers, the flash of oncoming lights responding to his headlights, and even the alternation of light and darkness combined wonderfully together. Everything had its rhythm in harmony with all the other sounds, noises, and movements, and even the beating of his own heart seemed to have its place in the overall orchestral score. It was probably the feeling jockeys have, hunters, and pilots who become welded into a single unit with a creation of a different nature.
He thought once more of Neuhaus. The whole world so beautifully in harmony and only his heart faltering, forgetful of the sacred order of systole and diastole, the unseen driver in the sinoatrial node having lost its sense of timing and the rhythmic wave no longer driving stimulation through the atrium to the ventricles. Something ceases to occur which has taken place for many years, minute by minute, deeply hidden from the person who carries the heart in their chest and gives never a thought to this beating which never ceases throughout a lifetime.
He had long passed Tel Aviv and took the sharp turn uphill toward Beit Oren. It was a narrow, one-track road and even though there were no oncoming vehicles, he lowered his speed. This slightly disrupted the even rhythm because the engine labored with lower notes. On a steep incline it strained and sneezed and all but stalled, but it did not stall, and the vehicle crawled on. The small mountain pass was very near and now revealed itself as a dark space with distant lights and a coastal rim with a double chain of streetlights. Then the road fell away, fairly flat but with many curves. Daniel held back, braking slightly, but suddenly felt the brake was not complying. He pressed it down to the floor, but the car continued to accelerate downhill.
The road twisted, he took the bend skilfully, and engaged first gear but the car was gathering speed and he was unable to control it at the next bend. Breaking through the barrier as if it were a twig, the vehicle flew 10 meters downward and crashed into the rocky slope. Flame branched upwards in two broad tongues, the car overturned slowly, found the only opening between two rocky outcrops, and hurtled downward, trailing a red veil behind it. A fiery track ran from where it hit the ground up to the roadway. The dry grass burst into flames and in an instant the fire reached the road. It could move only sideways, the road forming a barrier beyond which was a cliff on which no grass was growing. The fire spread in both directions beneath the roadway, a beautiful and terrible sight.
Hilda woke in the middle of the night as if the alarm had told her it was time to get up. She looked at her watch. It was 1:30. She was wide awake. She went outside and sat in a chair in the orchard. She had a strange sensation, a chill sense of anticipation as if something terrible and magnificent must be about to happen. Someone had left a box of matches out on the plastic table. She struck one, watched the cone of blue flame as it took light, and suddenly regretted not being a smoker. The match went out, almost burning her fingers. Her anxiety did not lessen, but nothing happened.
She went to the wall of the tiny garden and gasped. In the distance Carmel was in flames. A wedge of fire, crimson, bright and living, was running over the mountain from the crest downward. Hilda went back inside to phone the fire service. The number was engaged. Evidently somebody was already calling them, she decided, and guessed it must have been the fire which had wakened her. She lay back down on the narrow camp bed and fell asleep immediately.