All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (65 page)

The war in Israel was not over, not really. It simply took other forms: the infiltration of saboteurs and terrorists from Syria and Lebanon; Egyptian artillery fire against the Bar-Lev Line along the Suez Canal; airplane hijackings. Then, six years later, came the Yom Kippur War, followed by Anwar Sadat’s visit to Jerusalem, his speech to the Knesset, and the signing of the Camp David Accord. At the White House I shook the hands of Begin, Sadat, and Carter to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming. Later, much later, Yitzhak Rabin and Yasir Arafat, in the presence of three thousand guests and millions of
television viewers, exchanged handshakes. “Enough war,” declared the man who had won the Six-Day War. “Enough tears and funerals!”

In 1968 Paul Flamand brought me to Paris because, as he put it, “There is a chance that you may receive the Prix Médicis” (for
A Beggar in Jerusalem
, the first of my novels dedicated to Marion). As we sat in his office waiting for the jury’s decision, we spoke of politics, literature, Israel, America. Paul was impatient. I had never seen him so agitated. He stood up, sat down, telephoned his office. Still nothing. I was tired and jet-lagged, but calm. Unable to contain himself, he exclaimed, “How can you be so calm? Doesn’t this prize mean anything to you?” Of course it did. “It would be great to win the Médicis,” I told him, “but whenever something good happens to me, I remember where I was—now it is twenty-five years ago—and suddenly what seemed so good really isn’t anymore. And then again, when something bad happens to me, I also remember the past, and what seemed so painful really isn’t.” It all depends on your vantage point.

This doesn’t mean that I cannot be hurt by the wickedness of some people or that the respect of others affords me no pleasure. On the contrary, the survivor in me is at once vulnerable and strong. I am stung by the slightest offense, moved by the slightest act of generosity. But looking back on my life is enough to sustain me and keep me true to myself.

The Prix Médicis earned me two important encounters. One was with Marguerite Yourcenar, who had just been awarded the Prix Femina for her
Oeuvre au noir
(published in English as
The Abyss)
and the other with Albert Cohen, whose
Belle du Seigneur
won the French Academy’s Grand Prix for fiction.

Marguerite Yourcenar and I met at a book-signing. Sitting side by side, we exchanged memories and observations while writing “best wishes” to definite buyers and possible readers. She spoke little, contemplating as she did the world around her with a skeptically compassionate eye.

This woman whose smile seemed to contain its own secret is a writer whom one cannot read without entering her universe. Her historical novel
Memoirs of Hadrian
is a literary masterpiece that one reads and rereads with both an anticipation and a joy that never cease to renew themselves. It is not a coincidence that she became the first woman to be inducted into the Académie française.

Several times she invited Marion and me to her home in Maine.
Out of respect for her privacy, I kept postponing the trip. Then it was too late.

I met Albert Cohen at his apartment in Geneva. Frail, gracious, wrapped in a silk robe, he transported his enchanted visitors to sun-soaked isles peopled with brave characters. I loved listening to his vision of the Prophet Ezekiel, even though I prefer Jeremiah. He was interested in my Hasidic masters and enjoyed talking about them. I remember the mysterious light that shone in his eyes.

I discovered Cohen while reading
Solal
, a grandiose work of fiction with a philosophical sense of humor in which Cohen’s imagination carries the reader along toward faraway and mysterious horizons, those of the soul as well as those of destiny. Later on, I devoured
Mangeclous
and
Le Livre de ma mère
. A Sephardic Jew, a romantic and an adventurer searching for absolute love as others chase after absolute truth, Cohen keeps us under his spell to the point that endless readers identify with him.

During this period my relations with Professor Saul Lieberman grew closer and more intense by the week. I studied with him as I had never studied before. The only subject of contention between us was Hasidism. As a good Lithuanian of the school of the Gaon of Vilna, he had remained a Mitnagged, a man of the Establishment and therefore an opponent of Hasidism and its leader, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, also known as the Besht. He knew little about it except what its original adversaries had said: that Hasidism, founded by ignorant men (beginning with the Besht himself), glorified ignorance. It took me many months to even start to sow seeds of doubt in his mind. First I urged him to read the scholarly works of the Besht’s companions, who were great masters. Would they have followed a man who was utterly unknown at the time if he, too, had not been versed in study? Indeed, all of them were Mitnagdim who had “converted” to Hasidism. (There were few instances of Hasidim converting to the opposition.)

Little by little my master accepted the idea that Hasidism and study were not incompatible, that Hasidic tales possessed not only a certain charm but also genuine depth.

He began to attend my 92nd Street Y lectures in which I explored Hasidic teachings through a series of portraits of the movement’s founders. He was intrigued by Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk and liked Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, whose knowledge and original discoveries he admired. A precursor of Franz Kafka, this great master and descendant of masters (he was the Besht’s great-grandson)
was in my view the greatest storyteller of Hasidic literature. “He was also a scholar, an erudite man, a true
talmid ’hakbam,”
said Lieberman. Coming from him, this was a rare compliment.

In his office the day after the Bratslav lecture, when Lieberman treated me to a lecture on my lecture, I realized that he understood the Bratslaver Rebbe better than I did.

As I said, we met at least twice a week. Almost without preliminaries, we would sit down on opposite sides of his desk, the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds open before us, along with the corresponding books of commentary. Each session lasted three hours. Some subjects were familiar to me, for I had already studied them, though badly and hastily. That was true even of my studies with Shushani. Shushani was an
ilui
, a genius of immense knowledge, but not a methodical teacher. Only at the end of his presentation would his perspective become clear to his students. Lieberman was an
ilui
too, but also a
harif
and a
baki
, a man whose brain encompasses everything and dissects it before your eyes. He would lead you and excite your imagination, but at every step you knew where he was taking you; at each turn you understood his intent. Where Shushani’s teaching was intense but disjointed, Lieberman’s was highly structured. With Shushani it was his erudition that fascinated you, while with Lieberman there was that and much more, including the beauty of his reasoning. He showed how everything is linked, how Greek culture and Latin culture are integral to the Talmud, that you could not appreciate the sages of Tzippori if you were ignorant of the ancients of Athens. (He had mastered ancient Greek and Latin and was fluent in French.) Thus, he could read my writings in the original French. He often returned what I gave him annotated and corrected. Everything I write about the Bible and the Talmud, and even about Hasidism, bears his stamp, including the novels.

When a Hebrew weekly proposed to pay tribute to him, he asked me to introduce him. Naturally, I agreed. I described at some length the impact of his work on the entire field of contemporary Jewish studies and concluded with these words: “I don’t know how Professor Lieberman would like to be introduced, but I do know how I would like others to introduce me: as his disciple.”

I have always cherished his influence on me. I have only to open a treatise of the Talmud to see his smile and even hear the telephone messages he would sometimes leave for me: “Reb Eliezer, Reb Eliezer,
ve-Torah ma tebe aleha?”
—What shall become of the Torah if we forget to study it?

One Thursday night at the “Y” he saw me with Marion after a lecture. “I’ll officiate at your wedding ceremony,” he said to me the next day. At the time I didn’t know we would marry. He had already understood.

From that moment on he began to discuss practical matters with me. He proposed to confer
smiha
upon me—in other words, to anoint me a rabbi. “That way if your books don’t sell, you’ll have a job and a source of income.” It was the only time I ever said no to him. I refused, telling him I wasn’t cut out for a career as a rabbi. “Neither am I,” he replied with the sly little laugh I knew so well.

It was thanks to him that I met, often at his home, the great Israeli and American Talmudic scholars. Many of them possessed such vast learning that I felt intimidated by them and I rarely participated in their discussions, choosing rather to listen.

Gershom Scholem, founding father of modern mystical studies, was among his close friends. They were bound by complex relations. It was said that Scholem feared Lieberman, as did much of the Jewish academic world. Perhaps he only showed him special respect.

Scholem was tall and thin, a tense man with restless eyes, immense ears, and flaring nostrils. He looked like a warrior ready for battle, prepared to repel evil, be it Satan, a false Messiah, or a false prophet. He was deeply involved in the eternal struggle between the forces of Good and Evil, the Sons of Light and of Darkness. I admired the breadth of his knowledge and his boundless curiosity. He was eager to integrate every newly acquired piece of knowledge into a system whose key was Jewish mysticism. His works go beyond commentary, for he was a discoverer and an innovator. Today it is impossible to broach the mysterious, enchanting world of the Kabala without reading Scholem. His masterly book on the false Messiah Shabbatai Tzevi reads like a thriller, as does his monograph on Jacob Frank, another false Messiah. Despite their complexity, his essays on the origins of Lurianic mysticism and of the Gerona school are so illuminating that they make these texts not only accessible but absorbing.

At our very first meeting, at the home of Norman Podhoretz, editor in chief of
Commentary
, he talked to me about my native town as though it had been his own. He knew every street and every house. When he saw how astonished I was, he explained, “No, I’ve never set
foot in your Sighet. But I know things about it you’re probably not even aware of. Did you know there was a strong Frankist sect there?” I didn’t. Frankists were disciples of Jacob Frank, who flouted the fundamental laws of Judaism in an effort to hasten ultimate deliverance. They were men and women who led a secret life of debauchery. Adultery and incest in Sighet? I knew he savored my disarray, but he didn’t show it. “Frankist writings were found in the walls of a collapsed building,” he explained, looking mischievous. “Collective confessions and litanies.”

On the first day of Passover, which was also the day after our wedding, Marion and I visited him in his apartment in Jerusalem. I loved asking him questions about the forbidden memories of my city. Fania, who had been his pupil and now was his wife, took part in the conversation. You could sense the strong bond between them. We spoke of Martin Buber, and I asked Scholem why he had waited until the philosopher was very old before demolishing his ideas in a stunning essay. “Should I have waited till after his death?” he asked, clearly taken aback. He hadn’t understood that I meant why hadn’t he published his critique when Buber was still young and capable of responding to the attack.

Lieberman didn’t hesitate to discuss his complicated relations with Scholem. How could a rationalist and a scholar of mysticism get along so well? I had heard the following anecdote, whose authenticity Lieberman confirmed. Invited to deliver a lecture at the Jewish Theological Seminary, Scholem was introduced to an audience composed of New York’s intellectual elite by the seminary’s prestigious rector, Professor Lieberman. “Ladies and gentlemen, you surely know of Professor Gershom Scholem, who holds the chair of mysticism at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. What, then, is mysticism?” He paused, then added gravely, “Mysticism is … nonsense.” The audience was stunned. People looked at one another. Lieberman waited for the shock to subside, then he went on. “Ladies and gentlemen, nonsense is nonsense, but the history of nonsense is scholarship.”