His wife, Martha, is strange. People tell me that she was once one of Oslo’s most beautiful women. Now she insists on dressing like a witch, possibly to chase away the demons she believes in and whom, in order to blunt their evil powers, she hides in secret places in her enchanted garden. She lives only to protect her husband—from the living, of course, as well as the demons. After my second visit she confesses to me that her love for Johan is absolute and that she will do anything to keep it intact. I have the feeling that she sees a rival in every being her husband might love. In short, she is jealous of everybody, including me.
They have a beautiful daughter, Anne, a novelist who lives in Oslo. Her brother, Espe, does not leave his father’s side. Borgen tells me that years ago Espe was the victim of a serious accident. His body broken, his brain damaged, he lay day and night without regaining consciousness. The doctors said he would never recover, but Johan rejected their verdict: The word “never” did not suit him. Riveted to his son’s bedside, he held his hand. Day and night, he clasped his dying son’s hand in his own. How is one to explain the transfusion of energy and strength that occurred? Slowly, Espe came back to life.
And here he stands before me, smiling as he gazes at his father. There is between them a bond of tenderness, trust, and wisdom that I feel privileged to witness.
Johan is already ill when we first meet. How does he manage to be stronger than the cancer that is gnawing at him? He suffers in silence. And when we walk along the beach, we speak of other things. He is not religious, but the words we use are. He seems to know how to cope with the body’s failings. But the failings that attack the soul, the evil inherent in life—how is one to banish them without denying life itself? Could the saints possibly know secrets that are inaccessible to mortals? Is that what saintliness means: the art of freeing oneself from all temptation, therefore, from all human traits?
I am told that before he died, Borgen asked for a glass of champagne. He raised it to his family, turned his eyes toward the absent or perhaps toward absence, and emptied the glass after uttering the usual skol.
It was his last word.
In 1970 the free world is stunned and outraged by the Leningrad trials.
A quixotic episode. Heroic as well? No doubt. A group of young Russian-Jewish daredevils decided to hijack a commercial Aeroflot plane to Scandinavia. From there they intended to continue to Israel. Their effort was part of a larger plan devised in Jerusalem in hopes of attracting world attention to the plight of Soviet Jews. It was a dramatic but dangerous idea: You don’t play games with the KGB. The group was awaiting the green light from the Israeli authorities, when an informer who had infiltrated the dissident movement gave them away. The group’s members were arrested, imprisoned, judged, and condemned by a Leningrad tribunal. Several death sentences were pronounced, provoking waves of protest in all the capitals of the West. The largest demonstration took place in Brussels in February 1971, bringing together eight hundred delegates from thirty-eight countries. At the head of the Israeli delegation was David Ben-Gurion—an imposing presence, regal but melancholy. The lion of Judea was too old. Though physically still vigorous, he was barely coherent. Many of us regretted that he had been pulled out of retirement.
In my brief address I told a Hasidic tale: Rebbe Uri of Strelisk knocks at the door of his friend Rebbe Moshe-Leib of Sassov and asks for his help: He is collecting funds to enable a poor young girl to get married. However, since he himself knows only impoverished people, he has been unable to gather the required sum. Could Rebbe Moshe-Leib offer him some advice or help? And the Rebbe answers: “I, too, beloved brother, meet only those in need; I don’t know any rich men. Therefore I cannot give you any money. All I can do for you is dance. And that should be sufficient.” “In conclusion,” I said, “let me tell you that on Simhat Torah in Moscow, I have seen these young Jews dance. It was indeed sufficient.” I speak of their courage wherever I go. In Paris I find myself seated next to filmmaker Claude Lanzmann and his young colleague Efrem Sevella, just arrived from Moscow. In flavorful Yiddish the young man recounts the struggle of the scientist Mikhaïl Sand in confronting the Soviet regime. Sevella explains that his comrades had all pitched in to enable him to “ascend” to Israel. He speaks with emotion and conviction. But a few years later, Sevella publishes in France a vicious book, Farewell Israel. Every possible negative statement about the Jewish state can be found there.
These demonstrations of solidarity were not in vain. They succeeded in obtaining the commutation of death sentences. In time, all the accused arrived in Israel.
These events have left me with a manuscript, an unpublished novel called “The Trial of Krasnograd.” Together with my diary, it remains in my private genizah. Soon I begin work on the story of Paltiel Kossover, the proud but star-crossed hero of my book The Testament, which deals with the Communist experience, not the Holocaust. You see, mostly I keep my word. I stay away from the “forbidden theme.”* At this moment I am also working on Souls on Fire, a book I live and retell with joy. I put into it everything I received from my grandfather Reb Dodye: his love of his people, his passion for songs and stories. As I write, I see him on a Friday night as he enters the light-filled house with dancing steps. He sings and I sing along with him into my very prayers and silences. It is with him and his youngest daughter, my mother, in mind that I compose my Song of Songs in homage to Hasidic tradition; it was their tradition and it remains mine. This explains why that particular book occupies a special place in my work and in my life. More than my fictional tales, it is linked to my early life, to my childhood. I have said it often: Hasidism is a world that is mine; it contains my murdered dreams but also my efforts to bring them back to life.
How to define Hasidism? A group in revolt against the establishment? A mystical sect? A religious movement with social overtones?
In my novels Hasidism becomes framework and vantage point; the Besht (the Baal Shem Tov) or Rebbe Levi-Itzhak of Berditchev comes to the rescue of my characters, just as they responded to my requests long ago.
A strange destiny, that of the Hasidic movement. It survived the Holocaust, whereas the majority of its followers became its victims. The killers succeeded in assassinating millions of Hasidim but not the ideal of Hasidism, which is now popular once again, especially with the young.
As the apotheosis of an evolving humanism, Hasidism places the emphasis on the sacred aspect of man and that which makes him human. In a society dominated by the awesome magic of technology, young people discover with wonder the Beshtian precept that the mystery of the universe resides in man, just as the secret of life resides in life itself.
And then, let us not overlook the sociophilosophical elements: Our generation resembles that of the Baal Shem Tov. Just as in his time, it is necessary today to build on ruins, to hold on to something—another human being, a faith. Hasidism? An antidote to resignation. What is its lesson to its disciples? Is it difficult to sing? Never mind. It is because it is difficult if not impossible to sing, to pray, to hope that we must try. Even if living in a world dehumanized by its own guilt is difficult, never mind. Let one person, just one, extend his hand to a beggar, a fugitive, a refugee, and life will become meaningful for others. Evil exists? Death is triumphant? Never mind. Nothing is as whole as a broken heart, said Rebbe Mendel of Kotzk.
There is in Hasidism a quest for nature’s beauty, a glimpse into its secrets. In his youth, the Besht was a tutor. He accompanied children to heder and taught them not only to sing but also to see. He prevented them from moving too quickly. Look at this tree, he would say; and the sky; and these mountains. At a time when Jewish children were used to walking fast, fearful of being assaulted by hooligans, the Besht made them slow down, to take in the beauty of the landscape. A human being in God’s universe, that is a thing of beauty.
Yes, I do like to celebrate the movement that personifies celebration.
But celebration of what? Of Torah? Yes. Of God? Yes again. Of life? Even if it is
made of poverty, misery, and suffering?
These are troubling questions that I discuss in another volume, Somewhere a Master. In it I describe the great Masters’ challenges to the sadness and despair in which they and their disciples lived. How did they succeed in overcoming the pain they must have experienced as they listened to a barren woman, a father reeling under the burden of debt, the parents of a dying child? How did they manage to keep their faith intact as they confronted the injustices that befell their followers and the entire Jewish people?
My generation needed to hear their answers and to follow their example.
Thanks to my Hasidic tales, I am able to speak publicly with less apprehension. I emphasize their wisdom and humor. To shed the image people have of me—the messenger returned from over there—I try to elicit a smile or even laughter. As much as I resist speaking about the Tragedy, I delight in opening the gates to the Hasidic garden. To my surprise, there is an audience for this kind of pilgrimage. Unquestionably, people prefer stories and anecdotes to scholarly analyses. And so I try to combine the two by encouraging the public to reflect.
I care about people learning to savor the meaning of the Hasidic message in particular, of the messianic wait in general. I feel good when I evoke the fervor and wealth of a tale by Rebbe Nahman or a parable of Rebbe Mendel of Kotzk. There I feel no need to censor myself. I am less fearful of revealing what ought not to be revealed. There is no danger of blasphemy. I know what words need to be said; I only have to repeat those I heard from my grandfather’s lips.
—Sing, Grandfather. I beg of you. I need to hear you sing.
—I cannot.
—Make an effort. Try, Grandfather. You always said one had the right to fail, but not without trying.
—I cannot. Not anymore. I cannot even try.
—I shall help you.
—You cannot help me any more.
—Are you forbidding me to try?
—I am not forbidding you anything, my little one. I am only telling you that I can no longer sing.
—Not even for me?
—For nobody.
—For God? For God, whom you have loved?
—Not even for Him.
—Why, Grandfather?
—That’s how it is. We cannot help it. Neither you nor I.
—Is that your punishment?
—No. It has nothing to do with punishment.
—Then what does it have to do with, Grandfather?
—I am dead, my little one. The dead no longer sing.
—What about me, Grandfather …?
—What about you?
—May I then sing for the dead?
The Jewish tradition tells us that it is through study that we may—no, that we must—honor the memory of the dead. We study a Mishna, and in so doing affirm our attachment to those who have preceded us in this quest.
Is that why my passion for study continues unabated? Indeed, it grows. King Lear is mistaken: One is never too old to learn. To rediscover ancient texts is to celebrate them; to celebrate them in their diversity, their timeless beauty. Prophetic, talmudic, philosophical, poetic, ethical celebrations. One must approach Jewish tradition through its fervor and present it with the help of its illustrious and inspired thinkers.
That is what I strive to do in my Messengers of God. The book is based on lectures delivered at the 92nd Street “Y” in New York, at Boston University, and at the Centre Rachi in Paris. Adam or the mystery of the Beginning, Cain and Abel or the First Murder, the near-sacrifice of Isaac, the return of Joseph, the metamorphosis of Moses, the ordeal and triumph of Job—every chapter requires months of research. There again, Saul Lieberman is indispensable. I submit to him every essay and solicit his critical comments, which I carefully take into account. I say nothing, publish nothing, without his Haskama, his consent.
In my notebook I write:
As a child, I read the biblical tales with a mixture of wonder and anguish. I imagined Isaac on the altar, and I wept. I saw Joseph prince of Egypt, and I laughed…. Jewish history unfolds in the present. Unlike mythology it affects our life and our role in society. Jupiter is a symbol, but Isaiah is a voice, a conscience. Zeus is dead without having lived, but Moses remains alive. His exhortations, delivered long ago to a people about to be freed, resonate to this day; his Law commits us. Without a Jew’s memory, his determined collective memory, he would not be a Jew or would not be.
If Judaism, more than any other tradition, demonstrates such loyalty to its past, it is because it fulfills a need. Thanks to Abraham, whose temerity guides us, thanks to Jacob, whose dream intrigues us, our survival, prodigious in many ways, has maintained its mystery and significance. If we have the strength and the will to speak out, it is because our ancestors express themselves through every one of us. If the eyes of the world so often seem fixed on us, it is because we evoke a bygone era and a destiny that transcends it. Panim in Hebrew is used in the plural: Man has more than one face. His own and that of Adam. The Jew is haunted by the beginning more than by the end. His messianic dream is linked to David’s kingdom. He feels closer to the prophet Elijah than to his next-door neighbor. What is a Jew? Sum, synthesis, vessel. Every ordeal endured by his ancestors affects him. He is crushed by their sorrows and invigorated by their triumphs. For they were living creatures, not icons. The most pure, the most righteous among them was subject to moments of ecstasy and despair, and we are told about them. Their holiness defined itself in human terms. That is why the Jew remembers them, because he sees them at the crossroads of their existence. Anxious, exalted, singled out, they are humans, not gods. Their quest informs his own and influences his choices. Jacob’s ladder disrupts his nights. Israel’s anguish increases his solitude. He knows that to speak of Moses means to follow him into Egypt and out of Egypt. Whosoever refuses to tell his story stays behind.
This is true for all our ancestors and their journeys. If the near-sacrifice of Isaac concerned only Abraham and his son, their ordeal would be limited to their own suffering. But it concerns us…. Somewhere a father and his son head for a burning altar; somewhere a boy knows his father will die before God’s veiled gaze; somewhere a storyteller remembers and is overwhelmed by an ancient and nameless sadness; he wants to weep. He has seen Abraham and he has seen Isaac go toward death, and the angel, intent on singing the praises of the Lord, did not come to rescue them from the quiet, black night.
Quatre maîtres hassidiques (Four Hasidic Masters) and Cinq portraits bibliques (Five Biblical Portraits), which are part of the Célébrations, are entrusted in America to Jim Langford, editor in chief of Notre Dame Press, for I am close to the Catholic university of Notre Dame, and to its president, the liberal Theodore Hesburgh. Our dialogues both private and public are ecumenical and fraternal. Both of us are devoted to the same principles of tolerance. I respect his faith as he respects mine, and the fight against religious and political fanaticism has never failed to unite us. We have always confronted the merchants of hate together. Our signatures can be found at the bottom of many a petition in support of human rights. Eventually I welcome him to the President’s Commission on the Holocaust, created by President Carter. Ted is a believer of the kind I favor. No one could hope to have a better interlocutor or a more faithful ally.
For the moment, since I belong to no organization or movement, I feel free. When I take a stand, I commit to no one but myself. Sometimes I am right; often I am not. So what? I learn from my mistakes. To enhance discipline and intellectual rigor—that is the goal. To be more demanding of myself. And of others? The problem is that I don’t like to polemicize for fear of offending. When it does happen, I am ill at ease; but never mind, I start again. When the subject is one that is essential to me, I have difficulty controlling my anger even though I may instantly regret it. But I don’t always understand my hosts. Why do they invite me? Why do they want to hear me say things that will surely displease them? Who knows …?
Once, speaking to an important women’s organiza
tion, I barely contain my disappointment. The organizers had asked me to divide my address into two parts: the Holocaust and Soviet Jewry. On the day of the lecture, they express concern: “Please don’t take too long; we are planning to devote a few hours to receptions for our regional delegates.” Strange: The angrier I get, the more I show my displeasure, the more people applaud. I say things that shock and hurt, things that should prevent the audience from swallowing their meal. Instead they applaud and congratulate me … after the meal.
It’s all inexplicable to me.
I don’t understand, and yet I find myself unable to refuse the various invitations that reach me through my agent, Lily Edelman. My friends mock me: “Just because another Jew asks for you, you don’t have to accept.” They are not altogether wrong. It’s true that I always carry around the feeling of owing something to my people.
That is how it happens that I accept the invitation to address the Council of Jewish Federations. Its annual assembly, an important event that brings together donors and organizers of many kinds, is held in a different city every year. This year, 1971, it takes place in a big hotel in Kansas City, Missouri. My address is scheduled for Saturday night.
Since I must spend Shabbat there, I decide to use the time to gauge the mood, study the topics under review, meet the different committees. In short, to find out what preoccupies the leaders of North American Jewry. I shall then adapt my words to their concerns.
Why not confess? I was immediately overcome with a feeling of estrangement, as though I found myself attending a huge gathering of union leaders. The discussions center exclusively on budgets and fund-raising, old and new methods, statistics and forecasts. Everyone is a specialist in some field. How does one approach the millionaire who remains aloof? Who should be delegated to see him, and when—in the office in the morning or at home at night? So much for the spiritual atmosphere I was expecting.