This time the internal struggle lasted barely a minute. Shotzen poured himself a generous glass, cursing his weakness. On his second glass, his curse became a resignation. On his third, it became a toast.
He wasn't sure if he imagined the knock at the door or not. He stopped in mid-gulp and held his breath, listening. The second knock gave him a start.
“Yes?” he answered, almost choking on his schnapps. The bottle was on the desk, empty now, but Shotzen placed it back into the nightstand.
“Menachem? It's Michael.”
Shotzen pursed his lips—this was his disapproving look—and he opened the door. Thrist was dressed for Mass, roman collar pristine and starched and green cassock meticulously ironed.
“May I come in?” he asked.
His tone didn't match his dress; it was dull and lacking conviction.
“Of course.”
Shotzen stepped aside and allowed him entrance. He closed the door quietly and found Thrist staring at his glass of schnapps. It still held a finger or so.
“Not on account of my reprehensible behavior, I hope,” Thrist said.
“My disease needs no provocation,” Shotzen answered. He and Thrist had talked many times about alcoholism. In fact, Thrist was the only one that Shotzen discussed it with.
“I am sorry, Menachem.”
“Passion is a refreshing emotion to see in you,” Shotzen replied. “In our many dialogs throughout the years I don't recall you ever yelling like that before.”
“It was inexcusable, both the tone and the content.”
“Nothing is inexcusable, as long as there is remorse. Apology accepted, Father.”
Shotzen offered his hand, which the priest clasped in both of his.
“You are a dear friend.”
“As are you.”
Thrist sat on the bed and nodded at the manuscript.
“Working on the memoirs?”
“Pathetic, no? There sits my life, never to be read by anyone under penalty of government execution.”
“Time passes, Rabbi, whether we want it to or not. At least you have something to show for it.”
“True. My legacy. How preferable it is to a wife and child.”
Thrist’s long face became longer. “Have you ever heard from Reba?”
“Not once since I granted her the get, the divorce. And why should I? Ha-shem told the Jews to be fruitful and multiply, and I... I have no lead in my pencil. Between the sterility and the alcohol, it is no wonder she grew to hate me.”
“You could have adopted.”
Shotzen smiled. “I could have stopped drinking as well. I'd still have it all; her, my synagogue, my congregation—perhaps even my father would still be alive. He died of shame, you know, when I showed up at Temple and read from the Torah drunk as drunk can be.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“I so dislike that expression,” Shotzen frowned. “But what of you, Father? No desire for children? Women? Adonai made you a man, He cannot then deny you a man's needs.”
“God can bless the beasts and the children, because I never cared much for either,” Thrist said with the barest of smiles. “And sex?” “I was created to serve God. Perhaps that is why he denied me any charisma whatsoever.”
Shotzen laughed, “I'm happy that you're able to find your sense of humor, after this afternoon. If I were the devil, I would have done the same thing to test your faith.”
Thrist nodded. “So you agree it is a possibility that Bub is the devil?”
“No. No more than I agree that Jesus was the moshiach. But when something has the appearance of Satan it would make sense for it to also imitate the demeanor.”
Thrist absorbed this. “And if Bub indeed knew Christ?”
“The beauty of faith, Michael, is that there is no need for proof. Belief in a feeling is more powerful than belief in a fact. Ha-shem could surely appear to the world at any time and squelch all doubts. But Adonai prefers faith.”
“But what if Bub is a sign from God? Think of it, Rabbi. Nothing happens by accident. The Lord preordains all. Bub was sent here, by God, as proof of His existence. I agree with the power of faith, but Christ also taught us the power of proof.”
“Familiar argument. Christ was not the son of Adonai. Ha-shem can not be man. None of the prophesies were fulfilled.”
“They were all fulfilled.”
Shotzen reached for his glass and finished the schnapps. He was halfway to the nightstand when he remembered the bottle was empty.
“Let's stick with the current argument,” Shotzen said. He sat on his bed, facing Father Thrist. “What do we know of ha-satan?”
“The Adversary. First mentioned in Job 1:6. Taken to mean the opponent of God.”
Shotzen nodded, his double chin jiggling. “But before that was Ma'lak, the shadow side of Ha-Shem, turned to humanity because Adonai was too bright to be seen by mortals. Later, In Jubilees, it had become a separate entity. Mastema, the Accusing angel.”
“Dualism,” Thrist added, “probably taken from Zoroaster. Ahriman the Lord of Darkness. Zarathrustra's concept of good and evil as opposing forces.”
“Zoroaster's era is highly debated; he could have lived anywhere from the 18th century B.C. up until the 7th... five hundred years after Moses. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he may have taken his ideas of deities from the Egyptians, Set and Ra, and prior to them, the Mesopotamians with Ereshkigal. The Queen of the Underworld. The first recorded mention of hell.”
Thrist nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Predating Judaism. But none of these would be an accurate description of our Bub, so let's move ahead.”
“Agreed. In Enoch, Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, was cast out of heaven because of lust. Or pride, in Enoch's second chronicle, or free will according to Origen of Alexandria, or disobedience, or a war in heaven...”
“He has many names and many incarnations. Satan-el. Abbaddon. Astarot. Rahab. Rofacale. Moloch. Leviathan. Baal-beryth. Metatron...”
“Metatron is an archangel.”
“He is referred to in Exodus, interpreted as the lessor Yahweh, ordering atrocities upon his chosen people. He could indeed be the first devil, the shadow side of God.”
“You are misguided, as usual, but let's go on. There's Beliel, the prince of Sheol. Also Baal-zebub. Azazel. Mastema. Mammon. Belphegor. Kakabel. Lahash. Sammael...”
“Tartaruchus,” Thrist continued. “Zophiel. Xaphan. Baresches. Biqa. Salmael...”
“I said Salmael.”
“You said Sammael, not Salmael.”
“They aren't the same?”
“Sammael is the Angel of Poison, Sumerian in origin. Salmael is a Duke of Hell, who each year calls for the annihilation of the chosen tribes of Israel.”
“Ah! How could I have forgotten that one? So which of these nasty beings do you believe Bub to be?”
Thrist touched his chin. “I'm not sure. He may not be any of them. He may be all of them. Our current conceptions of Satan and hell began after Rome fell. The hysterical visions of Pope Gregory the Great in the 6th century. Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England in the year 731. The Vision of Tundal in 1149 offers a detailed look at the tortures of Hell.”
Shotzen was familiar with them all. “Much more influential was Dante,” the Rabbi added. “He gave us the description of the circles of hell and its demons in 1306. William Blake, Bosch, Breughel, Giotto, Memlinc—all famous religious painters who gave modern man images of a bat-winged, cloven-hooved, horned angel from hell.”
“Martin Luther, John Calvin, Milton's Paradise Lost... they also helped hone the modern image. And Marlowe and Goethe's versions of Faust.”
“Yes,” Shotzen nodded, his chins bouncing. “The devil as an intellectual. Gentleman Jack. Old Nick. Old Scratch. Mephistopheles. Old Horny. Black Bogey. And now, he's an icon of pop culture.” Shotzen shrugged. “He's in cartoons, movies, television shows, commercials...”
“Worshiped by thousands of school children in the form of rock music. Did I ever tell you about the time the arch diocese sent me to a Black Sabbath concert in the early 1970's?”
Shotzen sighed. “Yes. You've shown me your souvenir T-shirt. I doubt there is anything about you I don't know.”