And it was then, when he had regained his balance, that Reb Nachman finally discovered the source of the celestial music that had lured him from his house in a world so far removed, and yet so close. And when he followed that music to its source in the Celestial Temple his eyes came to rest on concentric circles of angels in the Temple courtyard. Then he realized that the music he had been hearing was being played by an orchestra of angels. And when he looked still closer he saw that each of the angels played a golden vessel cast in the shape of a letter of the Hebrew alphabet. And each one had a voice of its own, and one angel in the center of the circle played an instrument in the shape of the letter Bet.
And as he listened to the music, Reb Nachman realized it was that long note which served as its foundation, and sustained all of the other instruments. And Reb Nachman marvelled at how long the angel was able to hold this note, drawing his breath back and forth like the Holy One Himself, who in this way brought the heavens and the earth into being. And at that moment Reb Nachman was willing to believe that the world only existed so that those secret harmonies could be heard. And he turned to the angel Raziel, who had never left his side, and once more the angel knew what he wished to know, and said: “The score of this symphony is the scroll of the Torah, which commences with the long note of the letter Bet, endless and eternal, and continues with each instrument playing in turn as it appears on the page, holding its note until the next letter has been sounded, and then breathing in and out a full breath.”
And when Reb Nachman listened to that music he arrived at a new understanding of the Torah, and realized that among its many mysteries there was one level on which it existed only as pure music. And he was also aware that of all the instruments in that orchestra, it was that of the letter Bet which spoke to him and pronounced his name. Then the angel Raziel turned to Reb Nachman and said: “The souls of all men draw their strength from one of the instruments in this orchestra, and thus from one of the letters of the alphabet. And that letter serves as the vessel through which the soul of a man may reveal itself. And your soul, Reb Nachman, is one of the thirty-six souls that draws its strength from the vessel of the letter Bet, which serves as its Foundation Stone, and holds back the waters of the Abyss.”
And then it happened that when the angel Raziel said the word “Abyss,” Reb Nachman forgot all of his warning for one instant, and glanced down at the world so far below. And the next thing he knew was that he felt like a falling star. And that is when he realized that he was still standing in the field beyond the gate, following the first star that had fallen, which had now disappeared. And the celestial music, though faint once more, still echoed in his ears.
JACK DANN
Camps
In five years the Nazis exterminated nine million people. Six million were Jews. The efficiency of the concentration camps was such that twenty thousand people could be gassed in a day. The Nazis at the camp Treblinka boasted that they could “process” the Jews who arrived in the cattle cars in forty-five minutes. In 1943 six hundred desperate Jews revolted and burned Treblinka to the ground. These men were willing to martyr themselves so that a few might live to “testify,” to tell a disbelieving world of the atrocities committed in the camps. Out of the six hundred, forty survived to tell their story.
As I write this, The Institute for Historical Review, a California-based organization, is mailing copies of their journal to unsuspecting librarians, educators, and students. On the journal’s masthead is an impressive list of names, which includes an economist, a retired German judge, and various American and European university professors. The purpose of the institute and its journal is to deny that the Holocaust ever happened.
The story that follows is an attempt to “testify.” It is a transfusion of the past into our present….
AS STEPHEN LIES IN BED, he can think only of pain.
He imagines it as sharp and blue. After receiving an injection of Demerol, he enters pain’s cold regions as an explorer, an objective visitor. It is a country of ice and glass, monochromatic plains and valleys filled with wash-blue shards of ice, crystal pyramids and pinnacles, squares, oblongs, and all manner of polyhedrons—block upon block of painted blue pain.
Although it is midafternoon, Stephen pretends it is dark. His eyes are tightly closed, but the daylight pouring into the room from two large windows intrudes as a dull red field extending infinitely behind his eyelids.
“Josie,” he asks through cottonmouth, “aren’t I due for another shot?” Josie is crisp and fresh and large in her starched white uniform. Her peaked nurse’s cap is pinned to her mouse-brown hair.
“I’ve just given you an injection; it will take effect soon.” Josie strokes his hand, and he dreams of ice.
“Bring me some ice,” he whispers.
“If I bring you a bowl of ice, you’ll only spill it again.”
“Bring me some ice….” By touching the ice cubes, by turning them in his hand like a gambler favoring his dice, he can transport himself into the beautiful blue country. Later, the ice will melt; and he will spill the bowl. The shock of cold and pain will awaken him.
Stephen believes that he is dying, and he has resolved to die properly. Each visit to the cold country brings him closer to death; and death, he has learned, is only a slow walk through ice fields. He has come to appreciate the complete lack of warmth and the beautifully etched face of his magical country.
But he is connected to the bright, flat world of the hospital by plastic tubes—one breathes cold oxygen into his left nostril, another passes into his right nostril and down his throat to his stomach; one feeds him intravenously, another draws his urine.
“Here’s your ice,” Josie says. “But mind you, don’t spill it.” She places the small bowl on his traytable and wheels the table close to him. She has a musky odor of perspiration and perfume; Stephen is reminded of old women and college girls.
“Sleep now, sweet boy.”
Without opening his eyes, Stephen reaches out and places his hand on the ice.
“Come, now, Stephen, wake up. Dr. Volk is here to see you.”