Judah the Pious
Authors: Francine Prose
A Novel
Francine Prose
TO BEA
I
L
EGEND HAS IT THAT
the heavenly gatekeeper actually raised his arms and danced down the steps of his golden watchtower to greet the Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov; his passage was obstructed by the small angels who had had to climb up for a better view of the newcomer. It is said, too, that the celestial judges applauded Eliezer’s freedom from all earthly vanity, his lifelong disregard for the style of his robe and the cut of his hair; these praises signified the elders’ decision to ignore that one morning when the rabbi had been overcome by a spell of mirror-gazing, that morning when he had glanced into a glass for the first time in fifty years, and had seen fifty thousand images of himself standing before the King of Poland.
The palace in which this lapse occurred had been planned as a miniature Versailles; but the transcontinental journey home had so blurred the architect’s memory of the French original that only a dim recollection of one glittering corridor remained. Therefore, mirrors had been installed throughout the royal summer residence—covering the walls, the ceilings, the bedposts, the windowsills, the shutters, and lining every surface of the magnificent audience hall where the king received official guests.
Faced with so many reflections of himself, the Rabbi Eliezer could not help gaping at how old he had grown, how his hair had turned the color of stained linen, and how the folds of yellow flesh hung from his neck like the skin of a boiled chicken. But soon a second thought made the old man grin. “Indeed,” he chuckled softly, “a commemorative portrait of my visit with the king could extinguish the fire of patriotism in every Polish heart.”
But of course, no artist would ever have been tempted to paint the scene which reappeared in mirror after mirror; it had none of the stirring grandeur of an emperor’s coronation, or the mustering of a doomed battalion. Planted on the Persian carpet, the old man’s grimy feet seemed like the base of some tasteless statue. His beard was greasy, his hair matted, his pock-marked nose drooped almost to the top of his thin, twisted lips. Apart from a mangy beaver hat, his only garment was a tattered robe of heavy black wool, not unlike the torn shrouds which sometimes hung from the backs of dying women in charity hospitals. In fact, his bright blue eyes appeared to be the only clean things about him.
If the Rabbi Eliezer was a dark smudge on the glass, then the young king and his advisors were the palace’s natural jewels, for which the gilded mirrors could be the only proper setting. Concentrating on the king’s reflection now, the old man decided that a painted wooden cherub must have descended from his perch on the enormous wall-crucifix to rest on the throne. Eliezer had never seen such a boy before; towheaded, blue-eyed, a bit plump, the king seemed to glow like the surface of a pearl. “A child of sixteen,” muttered the rabbi, “and a young sixteen at that.”
Gradually, the courtiers’ faces grew contorted with fury at the old man’s refusal to look directly at them. Clustered around their lord, they whispered excitedly until a sleek, mustachioed young colonel broke from the group and strode across the hall towards Eliezer.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
The Jew had burst out laughing.
The nobleman’s hand clenched and unclenched, as if it were grasping an imaginary riding crop. “What,” he muttered, choking with rage, “just what in the court of the supreme ruler do you find so funny?”
“I am laughing at all of us,” gasped the rabbi. “But, more than that, I am laughing with the amazement of finding myself where I find myself.”
Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov would never have found himself in such exalted surroundings but for a strange combination of circumstances.
That winter, two Polish noblemen had reluctantly attended the funeral of the eminent Jewish doctor who had guided them back from that worldly purgatory known as the French pox. Unfortunately, however, the gratitude which had sent them on one last visit to their physician quickly vanished in the dilapidated cemetery. As the service wore on, the aristocrats felt increasingly cramped and uneasy, irritated by the bitter cold, the gibberish-like prayers, and the unrestrained tears of the mourners, whose very appearance offered a constant affront to their esthetic sense. Indeed, they would surely have bolted from the cemetery, were it not for their conviction that true gentlemen do not behave so rudely in the presence of death.
Thus, it was only an accident of courtesy which caused the nobles to remain until the end of the service, when, fixed in this uncharitable frame of mind, they chanced to find evidence of the barbarity they had been expecting all along.
The ceremony was over; the coffin had been lowered into the ground and covered with earth. But suddenly, on a signal from their leader, the black-robed Jews bent down, scooped up handfuls of frozen dirt, and tossed it back over their shoulders at the grave. Then they brushed off their hands and filed solemnly from the cemetery.
The two aristocrats stared at each other, confused by what they had seen. But after three hours, twelve steins of ale, and much debate, they finally agreed on the worst possible interpretation of that odd custom, an explanation which made their mouths run dry with horror.
It was obvious, they mumbled fuzzily, that the spiteful Jews were teasing their dead with a last sweet taste of soil; they were tantalizing their ghosts into coming back from the other world and stalking innocent people.
The news of this outrage rushed through the countryside, helped along by the tavernkeepers, who knew that indignation always afflicted their customers with a terrible thirst. Merchants peddled the rumor from town to town, and found their sales of crucifixes and lucky amulets doubling in volume. Even the washerwomen discovered that a few veiled references to the “funeral conspiracy” often served to distract their clients’ attention from a frayed cuff or a stubborn stain.
Soon, everyone in Poland was whispering about the incident. All the old tales of poltergeists and hauntings were resurrected, and the people nodded in sudden comprehension. Tempers crackled like dead leaves, until at last, fearing a massacre, the court announced its intention to prohibit the Jews from further endangering the citizens’ welfare.
Hearing rumors of this, the Jews shrugged helplessly and prepared to change their habits once again. There was nothing else to do, for who might they find to plead their case? Their great lawyers, skilled in the arts of persuasion, had become such strangers to the faith that they were no longer capable of conducting a religious argument; their rabbis and scholars, intimate with the finest details of scripture and ceremony, were unaccustomed to convincing unsympathetic listeners. Besides, there was no one in the community who had really mastered the elaborate, highly figured speech of the court; and those citizens prominent enough to know how this language sounded were reluctant to risk their high positions in an attempt to speak it.
For all these reasons, the scribes had already resigned themselves to the task of deleting the final ceremony from the prayer books, when a second rumor made them pause and set down their pens:
The Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov had volunteered to represent his people before the ruler of Poland.
Now the court nobles logically assumed that the Jews were sending their king, since no one but the chief defender of their faith could possibly perform such an important errand. But the Jews knew differently, for, with the apparent exception of the two old women who looked after his cleaning and mending, and swore that their master was the Messiah in disguise, nobody had ever heard of the Rabbi Eliezer.
Immediately, the community elders ordered a careful investigation into the origins and opinions of their newfound spokesman. But, even after their trustiest sources had been cross-examined, little information could be found. The rabbi, they learned, was a very old man—just how old no one knew. Since his arrival in Rimanov thirty years before, he had continued to live the life of a stranger, so that even his closest neighbors could only remark on the congenial way he smiled good morning, and on the tired stoop of his shoulders as he shuffled towards the bazaar between his two withered companions.
Despite his obvious poverty, despite his ill-nourished appearance and constant solitude, he consistently rejected all offers of charity and invitations to dinner, and, particularly, any overtures which might lead to the most innocent inquiry about his personal history. Occasionally, an enterprising gossip managed to corner him into commenting on the weather or on the coming holiday, but, as soon as the conversation turned ever so slightly from these formal topics, the rabbi would suddenly sag and stumble, as if he had just remembered that infirmity was an old man’s prerogative.
Of course, there were many who actually preferred knowing nothing about their mysterious neighbor, for their total ignorance gave them total freedom to speculate about the rabbi’s past. Poor men swore that he had once been fabulously wealthy, but had given up all his jewels, furs, and tasty delicacies for a return to the simpler pleasures. The rich burghers, on the other hand, took one look at his huge, now-emaciated frame, and concluded that he had been a free man, a traveling acrobat perhaps, wandering footloose over back country roads, finding adventure and indulging in wild delights with unspeakably exotic women. Thus, because his life had not been circumscribed by the city walls, Eliezer’s past was forced to serve as a dumping ground for all the frustrated dreams and fantasies of the citizens of Rimanov.
All these fantasies were dutifully reported to the elders. Who could blame them for becoming alarmed? For all they knew, Eliezer of Rimanov could have been a dangerous heretic, or a foolish blusterer who might provoke the nobles and bring the wrath of the court down on thousands of blameless heads. Therefore, they hastily assembled a delegation of eminent men, and set out for the rabbi’s home.
As soon as the distinguished visitors had bowed low enough to pass through Eliezer’s tiny doorway, they began to congratulate themselves on their foresight, for it seemed that their worst suspicions had been confirmed. Shaking their heads, they realized that they had been lured on a fool’s errand by an eccentric old recluse. The dinginess, poverty, and incredible slovenliness of the one-room hut struck them as truly unique. Prints, papers, cabalistic scribblings and books with disturbing, unfamiliar titles lay everywhere, scattered across the floor, completely covering the rickety table and the narrow bed.
The only space not taken up with worthless scraps was that occupied by the rabbi himself, who sat reading obliviously on a hard wooden bench in the center of the room. The investigators were of course impressed by his unattractive appearance and by his failure to offer them the chairs he did not have. Then, as if all this were not enough, they suddenly realized something which, even much later, they could scarcely believe: the Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov did not appear particularly honored by their presence.
“So,” he smiled, “you have come to see whether I am fit to address a king?”
Amazed that such an obvious lunatic could apparently speak perfect sense, the entire delegation was unable to answer this simple question. Determined to proceed with the investigation, if only for the sake of form, the committee members at last produced quills and notebooks from beneath their fur cloaks, and the chairman hesitantly stepped forward.
“There are a few questions we wish to ask you,” he muttered. “Only a few questions,” he emphasized, clearly still unsettled. Then, remembering the dignity befitting him as the man whose riches had built the main temple of Lublin, he raised his arm in a commanding gesture, and beckoned for the chief rabbi of Vilna to come up and take his place.