“Your conversation has interested me a great deal, señor,” I said to him. “It may be that I shall remain in the Ghetto…”
“Remain in the Ghetto?” he asked astonished.
I nodded. “I should like to have the pleasure of speaking to you again. May I know with whom I have the honor– —?”
He looked at me, unable to overcome his surprise and perhaps also, suspicion.
“My name, señor, is Joseph Ben Israel—a student.”
“My name is—Isaac.”
I extended my hand which he seemed reluctant to take for a moment. Then suddenly, he pressed it in his and rushed away.
Rabbi Sholom was sitting in a large armchair, underneath which the straw had gathered into a small heap. Two wooden benches on either side of him, and in a corner piled on a large table old books and manuscripts.
The Rabbi, a man of about fifty, dressed in white linen and felt shoes, rose and approached us.
“Welcome, señores.”
“Rabbi, we are strangers—travelers. We arrived only a few days ago in Córdoba.”
“Does Córdoba please you?”
“A beautiful city, indeed.”
“I have not visited it for many years.”
“Is that possible?”
“The younger generation dislikes our people. It is not prudent to irritate one’s masters.”
His voice betokened neither irony nor anger, merely resignation—resignation mingled with confidence. His eyes were deeply set and clear as a child’s.
“Is it not possible that the younger generation will realize that it is better to love than to hate their neighbors?”
Rabbi Sholom combed his beard with his fingers and shook his head. “This hatred is too young. It is still a little clumsy. It will increase and overthrow the last dikes. Only then may we hope for a reaction, for a better understanding.”
Who was this man who could view unflinchingly misery and hatred? His features reminded me of no one, but his voice seemed familiar. Whose was it? I sought within my mind, as one seeks in a long dark attic, lighted only at intervals by the cracks in the walls.
A yellow curtain, faded and torn in a few places, was drawn aside slowly, and a young woman entered. Her hair, whose black glistened like a raven’s wing, was woven into two long braids that hung down her back.
“I am busy now, my daughter,” the Rabbi said in Hebrew. “I shall call you when I have finished.”
She looked at me, blushed, and walked out. She was evidently the girl that had attracted the eye of Don Juan. It was for her he died,—for had it not been for his desire to possess her, I should not have spoken of the things that unnerved him. Don Juan died for a Jewess!
“Is it permissible, señor,” the Rabbi asked, “to inquire from what country you come?”
“I come from many countries, including the Holy Land.”
Rabbi Sholom opened wide his eyes. “The Holy Land?”
“Yes, Rabbi. Many times did I pass by the Temple—at least, the site of it.”
He sighed. “The Temple.”
“As an aged mother awaits patiently until the long hours of the night the arrival of a straying son, so the soil of Jerusalem awaits the return of Israel.”
“You speak kindly of us and our misery, señor. We have so long been taught to fear the Gentile that– —” he smiled sadly.
“Rabbi,” I said in Hebrew, “it is not a Gentile who is speaking to you—but a Jew.”
He stood up, stared at me and breathed heavily.
“A Jew who has wandered into the enemy’s camp, but who has never in his heart accepted the enemy’s gods.”
“Adonai be praised! But is it really true what you are saying, my son?”
I raised my arm. “I am Isaac Ben Jehuda who has wandered from land to land, without renouncing in his heart the faith of his fathers.”
He approached and embraced me. “Sholom Alechim.”
“Alechim Sholom,” I answered.
“And your companion, Isaac?”
“He is neither a Jew nor a Christian, but an adherent of Ishmael.”
“A cousin…”
“A cousin and a friend.”
He extended his hand which Kotikokura raised to his lips.
“Rabbi,” I said, “I am weary of travel. I am weary of being a stranger. I yearn to return to the fold. Will you accept me?”
“Israel is like an aged father waiting into the late hours of the night for the arrival of his wandering son,” he said smiling.
“Rabbi, the wandering son has come with an impoverished heart, but not with an empty purse. May he be permitted to show his joy by helping his brothers crushed by the cruelty of the enemy?”
“Isaac, my son, had you returned as poor as a beggar, the joy of your brothers would not be less. But if you can help us in our misery, it is God Himself in His unbounded wisdom who chose the right hour.” He clapped his hands. The sexton entered.
“Rejoice, Abraham, the lost sheep has returned to the fold! Make it known to all that Rabbi Sholom is as happy as when his daughter was born unto him! Let all men and women come to his synagogue where they shall receive wine and cake in honor of their brother! Blow the shofar in praise of the Lord.”
Abraham ran out.
Rabbi Sholom drew aside the curtain and called out: “Esther, Esther, my daughter.” The girl came in, frightened a little. “What is it, father?” He kissed her forehead. “Do not fear, my dear. The Lord has led the steps of a lost son back to our house.”
She looked at me, lowered her lids, and blushed.
LIV: THE BOOK OF ESTHER—THE VENGEANCE OF DON JUAN—KOTIKOKURA THE GOLEM—THE PLAGUE—THE SUICIDE OF JOSEPH—I ABJURE ISRAEL
THE feast lasted several days. I ordered unlimited food and drink and distributed gifts to all. Tables were spread in the yards and streets. Musicians with improvised instruments—pots, pans, iron and wooden sticks, flutes, one-string harps, made a ceaseless noise to which men and women, old and young, danced, their feet raised to their chins, or waved wildly in the air, clapping their hands the while. Only the morning and evening services interrupted the merry-making. The prayers were mumbled, the words half pronounced or omitted. Years of hunger and dreariness were smothered and stamped under foot.
“Rabbi Sholom,” I said one evening, “you have received me as a son.”
“You are my son.”
“Are not the arms of woman as the ivy which winds itself about the trunk of the tree, keeping it rooted to the spot? Is not a single man like a bird always ready to fly away?”
“A single man is indeed as a bird.”
“Rabbi, be my father indeed. Give me your daughter Esther as wife. Let me be rooted to my people for all time.”
Rabbi Sholom smoothed his beard and meditated. “Isaac, my daughter is more precious to me than the apple of my eye. I tremble before I open my mouth to say: ‘Take her,’ lest– —” He closed his eyes.
“Father, she shall be no less precious to me than to you.”
Esther entered. Rabbi Sholom rose. “Approach, my daughter.”
She obeyed.
“I love you more dearly than my life. You are my comfort and my joy. But the time has come when God commands you to be a mother in Israel…”
“Father,” she said, pressing her head in his bosom.
I could not tell whether her voice denoted sorrow or joy.
“Our son Isaac—Isaac Laquedem—has asked for your hand in marriage. It is in my power to command you to take him. But he who uses his power against the will of his subordinate is a tyrant, not a father.”
He patted her hand.
“Esther, do you desire to be the wife of Isaac?”
She nodded.
Rabbi Sholom embraced me. Greater than the delight of possessing a beautiful woman was the vanity of having vanquished Don Juan. Poor Don Juan!
Esther was as gentle and as faithful as Lydia, but found passion’s rites, save those sanctioned by custom, abhorrent. The nuances of love, the subtle delicacies of the senses, she refused to learn. She clipped her beautiful hair much against my wishes, and covered her head with a black wig which seemed dusty always. Her meticulous insistence upon every trifle of the dogma palled upon me and her daily prayer that I raise a beard irritated me immensely.