Judah the Pious (27 page)

“At any rate,” he continued pompously, straining to pronounce his official decision in a properly ceremonious tone, “you have clearly won our bargain. Your people may continue with their custom. But one thing still bothers me.

“How shall I defend myself when my advisors accuse me of having based my royal decree on some charming but fantastic fairy tale, told by an obscure old Jew?”

“King Casimir,” said Eliezer, slyly raising one eyebrow, “what I have told you today is factual history. Let me explain: in my father’s old age, he lived in such fear of the spirits that he consistently referred to himself in the third person, as Judah ben Simon, in the hopes of throwing the demons off his track.”

Attempting to evaluate this new information, the king kept silent until he had reached the obvious conclusion. Then, he began to stare at the rabbi with an intent, dumbfounded gaze, as if he were seeing some supernatural curiosity for the first time.

“So you are the child conceived in a dream,” he said, in a low, awe-struck whisper.

“Yes, I am,” nodded the old man proudly.

“But how do you know?” demanded the boy.

“By now,” replied Eliezer, “there can be absolutely no doubt that I am Judah ben Simon’s son.”

“And how do you know that?” insisted the King of Poland.

“Ah,” said the Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov, “that is another story, much longer and more complicated than the one I have told you today. That is the story of my fine, exciting life, a story which I regret to see so near its end.”

Embarrassed by this disquieting and morbid turn, the King of Poland half-rose from his seat. “Well,” he muttered nervously, “at least you will have the consolation of knowing that your body will be buried with all the proper ceremonies.”

“I do not care about that ritual!” exclaimed the Rabbi Eliezer. “I need no mourners to tell my spirit it is free to leave this earth. Not for one moment did I ever give a thought to those filthy handfuls of stony graveyard dirt; as far as I am concerned, they can leave my body out in the open, and let the crows pick out my eyes. No, my dear Casimir, I came here because I wanted to see the sovereign of Poland, just once before I died.

“That is the truth,” the old man chuckled happily. “And it is something you would never have predicted.”

Leaning down from the throne, Eliezer kissed the king’s pale forehead with his dry, wrinkled lips. Then, with a laugh just as boisterous as the one with which he had entered the court, the Rabbi Eliezer of Rimanov stood up, walked through the mirrored halls, and departed.

Three years later, a group of Cossacks, grown poor and restless during the unprecedented peace of King Casimir’s reign, descended on the town of Rimanov and massacred nine hundred people. During the general slaughter, the troops invaded the home of Rabbi Eliezer, who harangued and insulted them until the very moment of his death. In revenge, they cut out his tongue and nailed it to the lintels of his doorway—thus displaying the organ which, unbeknownst to them, had once so sweetly addressed their sovereign.

After the pogrom was over, the Jews of Poland realized that they still knew nothing about the man who had made it possible for them to retain one of their dearest customs. The people wept with vexation and dismay when they learned that their newest saint had carried his history with him into the grave. Eventually, they began to make up stories concerning the sage’s early life, and at last, in an effort to understand and preserve the Rabbi Eliezer’s heroic achievement, they invented this legend of his meeting with the king.

Francine Prose is the author of sixteen novels, including
A Changed Man
, winner of the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and
Blue Angel
, a finalist for the National Book Award. Her most recent works of nonfiction include the highly acclaimed
Anne Frank: The Book, the Life, the Afterlife
, and the
New York Times
bestseller
Reading Like a Writer
. A former president of PEN American Center and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, as well as the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Prose is a highly regarded critic and essayist, and has taught literature and writing for more than twenty years at major universities. She is a distinguished writer in residence at Bard College, and she lives in New York City.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1973 by Francine Prose

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

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