The second compartment, Gag ‘al Gag (Roof Upon Roof), described in Chapter 11, visits a similar punishment on its scholarly inhabitants but stresses other aspects of their ordeal. The hugeness of this compartment consists in its spatial dimensions rather than its population. Not only is it so vast that no boundaries are perceptible to the eye but the compartment as a whole is suspended within a void (talui ‘al belimah). The inhabitants all have prominent foreheads and pinched eyes from excessive study, and they are frozen in an endlessly repeated gesture in which they pluck hairs from their beards and float them into space. Yet instead of being isolated from one another in this vastness, as they were in the other compartment, here they are piled one atop the other. In this crush, they do in death what they did in life: they pronounce ḥidushim. The difference between their scholarly activity now and then results from the peculiar conditions of academic integrity that are involuntarily visited upon them by Gehinnom. When they were alive and going about their business of issuing ḥidushim, if they found they had been hasty or exaggerated and thus made an error, they always had available to them the option of retraction. But here in Gehinnom, every word they uttered while alive is “permanently engraved in public view with his signature attached” with no possibility of denial.
The corruption of Torah study by grandiosity is the sin that has landed these prodigious scholars in Gehinnom. When a scholar penetrates the contextual truth of a passage of Talmud (poshet lo devarim kifshutam), the truer his insight the less his need to inflate his importance on the strength of it. But the more forced and over-ingenious is his insight, the more desperate he is to put it on display to his colleagues. And thus his punishment in Gehinnom. When he opens his mouth to broadcast his ḥidush, his lips fly away from him, and when he sticks out his tongue to find his lips, his tongue gets impaled on his incisors and begins to swell. The tongue thickens and swells up to the size of a church bell, a figure of speech the shamash insists is apt, “for just as a church bell peals without knowing why, so the tongue wags without knowing why it was put into motion” (32). The scholar he was seeking to address now tries to cry out in fright, only to have his own scream swallowed between his lips. It is little wonder that the angel appointed over this compartment of Gehinnom is called Otem, after the Hebrew verb that designates the shutting of the ears and the failure of comprehension.
In gauging the panic and horror these sights induce in the shamash, it is important to recall once again the function of dramatic irony in the story. We the readers have been given by the narrator some preparation for inferring a correlation between the particular punishments inflicted on these scholars and the particular sins that provoked them, by means of the remarkable opening scene of the story: the embarrassment of the garrulous son-in-law and his banishment from the synagogue. But the shamash, so many decades earlier, comes upon these tortures entirely unprepared, and when he does react there is a “double whammy” effect to his reaction. He is unhinged at first by the absence of an evident explanation for the tortures he has witnessed; yet once an explanation is provided by the Rabbi, the shamash’s panic grows greater instead of being mitigated. The first wave of the shamash’s response is horror because the boundary between him and the tortured souls momentarily disappears and he feels that the same grotesque tortures may be happening to him. “Panic seized me. Maybe my mouth was contorted. Maybe my lips had flown apart” (32). Having hidden his face out of horror in the folds of the Rabbi’s cloak, the shamash loses his bearings, and he fears that his ears are growing to enclose his body. When he wordlessly implores the Rabbi for an explanation, it is not delivered immediately. The Rabbi first takes the shamash’s measure to determine exactly how much he is capable of understanding, and the shamash uses the benefit of his retrospective wisdom to delay the rush of events and interpolate a vignette about a Jewish jeweler who measured the ears of the Gentile noblewoman so that he could fashion earrings of exactly the right proportions. The Rabbi even makes the shamash ask a second time, for he “wanted to see how important my question was to me. Sometimes the mouth wants to ask more than the heart wants to know” (33). This wisdom about unnecessary speech, which is the moral preoccupation of both the narrator and the shamash throughout the story, is, again, retrospective wisdom that was not available to the shamash when he first gazed upon these hellish afflictions.
When, after several additional delays, Rabbi Moshe fashions his custom-made response, he delivers a series of clarifications that provide some explanation but no consolation. He explains, to begin with, that what they have seen is a special compartment of Gehinnom — a kind of infernal VIP lounge, so to speak — reserved for great rabbis, heads of yeshivot, and rabbis of whole regions. Special emphasis is placed on the fact that these torments have been in operation for ages, and that the pitiable denizens of this compartment include sages from the time of Talmud and the expulsion from Spain. The nature of their punishments, he goes on to point out, are dictated by the nature of their offenses; because they sinned in matters of speech, they are punished by being rendered mute. If in life they sat one atop the other in the synagogue and beit midrash blathering to each other, now in death they are spread out at a great distance from one another and cannot get a word out of their mouths. They are tantalized by being free to produce all the ḥidushim they wish and at the same time obstructed in communicating them to anyone else. At the root of their reprehensible behavior during their lifetime — the fundamental key to all their troubles — was the sin of talking and flogging their ḥidushim during prayers and the reading of the Torah: “Our Master’s words disturbed me more than anything my eyes had seen” (34). When the shamash first came upon the afflicted souls without the benefit of any accompanying explanations, the monstrousness of their suffering seized him with raw terror; but that terror had nothing to do with him personally. Now, with the benefit of those explanations, the terror has metamorphosed into a cognitive-theological-moral complex that has turned around to seize him by the throat. “Who can say that he has never committed that sin?” anguishes the shamash. “Who among us keeps his lips and tongue under control at all times? Who has not talked during the service or the Torah reading? And if those learned in Torah bear such a punishment, what about the rest of us?” (34). Although he well knows that conversation during prayers is a transgression, his mind simply cannot stretch itself to comprehend the rationale for an otherworldly retribution so extreme in its ferocity. Using his best scholastic casuistry, the shamash can appreciate the regrettable extra burden placed on the angels, who now have to exert themselves to separate out true prayers from idle conversation. But this consideration does not go very far in addressing the disturbing phenomenon of the incommensurability between sin and punishment. The shamash glumly concludes, “The matter still remains unsettled” (35).
A surprising digression at this juncture in the narrative makes an important connection between two of the story’s preoccupations. The shamash is struggling to resolve the troubling contradiction between a seemingly minor offense and its terrible punishment, when he suddenly halts his story and surveys his listeners, among whom, he realizes, are scholars as well as community leaders who are not scholars. He turns to them and says:
Now listen to me all you people of Buczacz. You think that Gehinnom is only for Torah scholars. Well, let me tell you otherwise. There is one area there compared to which all the rest of Gehinnom is like Gan Eden. I never noticed it at first because it was covered in dust. But the voices that could be heard through the dust suggested that there were people there. I could not tell if they were people or cattle or fowl until I went in and saw that it was one huge market fair, like the ones our great-grandparents and those who came before them used to tell about, before Khmelnitski, may his name be blotted out. There were traders, dealers, noblemen and noblewomen, goods galore — like you’ve never seen before. Silver and gold and all kinds of expensive things. Then suddenly the whole fair was thrown into a panic. The Tatars had arrived. They came on swift horses in rumbling hordes. My body trembles even now as I recall it. I will stop talking about it and go back to where I left off. (35)