“My cheeks were flushed at the touch of a woman I considered pretty and immodest. I was ten years old, not quite. We were spending our summer vacation in the mountains, near Kolvillàg. Each family had its own cottage but for meals we all gathered in a large rectangular dining hall. Our neighbors at the table were my schoolmate Bernard and his mother. She was constantly laughing in a provocatively infectious way. An invitation to pleasure, happiness, sin, that was her laughter. Jealous, the other women prattled on and on about her. She was doing things, Bernard’s mother, things; I had no idea what kind of things. Terrible, no doubt, for in my presence they were referred to cryptically. I was curious and kept my ears perked up. In vain. Nothing.
“After days and days of watchfulness I was no further ahead. My nights were sleepless: what was it that made this beautiful and joyous woman a sinner? She frequently disappeared after lunch followed by an old bachelor who sang well. They would come back an hour or so later, breathless, red-cheeked. And our dear busybodies, seeing them thus, would wink at one another knowingly. And so I learned that there existed a link between the color of cheeks and sin. I learned more than that the day my table companion had the outlandish idea to interrogate me about her son. I answered politely, respectfully, but there was so much light, so much blue in her blue eyes that I had to veil mine; I lost my composure, became confused. Thereupon, in order to encourage or reward me, she smiled at me and started to caress my cheeks, which at her fingers’ touch, caught fire. It was infinitely pleasant and infinitely painful; I became dizzy. And like her partner, I too was breathless. And like Bernard’s mother, I too knew sin.
“And you? Have you never loved anyone? Are you immune to desire? What are you, saint or idiot?”
He plagues him with questions, tries to elicit confidences. In vain. The young man is too shy, too puritanical perhaps. Well, no matter, Azriel muses. Since you refuse to speak about it, I will. My love stories always have sad endings, but all stories end sadly, don’t they? Mine, I can barely remember; they took place so long ago. Prague, Berlin, Vienna. The mad, exuberant years between the two wars. Student, laborer, vagabond. A Wandering Jew, learning languages and trades, carting his nightmares from country to country, from setting to setting, finding no respite anywhere.
The old man remembers the only woman who mattered in his exile. Rachel: confidante, accomplice, ally. She had the knack of amusing him. He fell in love with her because she made him laugh. And from that moment on, she rather made him feel like crying. One day she kissed him on the mouth. He confessed his innocence in matters of women. “A man who waits so long must have his reasons,” she said. “I would like to know them.” — “Impossible, you can’t.” — She gave him a long look and kissed him again. “No?” she said. — “No. It is better to leave it at that. You keep your secrets and I will keep mine.” She never spoke of it again.
Rachel: his conscience, his imagination, his home port. Sometimes when he had no place to sleep he would stay in the studio where she gave piano lessons to girls from well-to-do families. And then, whenever he fell in love—which happened frequently not to say constantly—he would rush over to her to make his report. She would weigh the pros against the cons, pronounce a favorable or adverse opinion, advise caution or daring, console when things went wrong—they were forever going wrong—and tease him gently when at the height of euphoria he floated on clouds of eternal, redeeming love. With one sentence, or even a single word, she would bring him back to earth, sobered.
Then he would compensate with the help of philosophy, his second passion. In his flirtations he considered it indispensable to call upon Plato, Maimonides, and Spinoza. When the stakes were considerable, he would fall back on Ibn Gabirol and Rabbi Moshe Haim Luzzato. With Rachel he would on occasion ramble on for hours, discussing the meaning of existence, the purpose of creation, the limits of perception, freedom or infinity. She would listen with a smile and conclude: “Boring, all that.” — “What? What are you saying? Boring?” — “Well, yes, my poor Azriel. What can I say? I find your infinity frankly boring, or if you prefer, infinitely boring.” He would get angry, sulk awhile, and forgive. Rachel had all the rights; she could do no wrong. He took the blame on himself; he should not be bothering her with his studies. Rachel preferred his confessions.
He suffered from a need to love. To be loved was less important to him. And so he chose his love objects somewhat haphazardly, or, more precisely, he let himself be chosen. An engaging smile, an insistent handshake were enough to set him off. Spellbound, tormented like a schoolboy, he slid in and out of infatuations with disconcerting ease, yet he would have deemed it immoral—and puerile—to maintain two simultaneous affairs. Purely platonic affairs, to be sure; the women in question had no inkling that he desired them with such violence—or that he desired them at all—or even that later he abandoned them.
His painful shyness made him unhappy. He would sometimes flee the very woman who for weeks had robbed him of his sleep. Blushing like a scolded child, he would stammer incoherent banalities, unable to understand himself what he was trying to communicate. In the presence of the beloved, or beloved-to-be, he assumed a guilty behavior.
He would have preferred loving women for what, in his opinion, was their spirituality. To be sure, the mere sight of a bare shoulder caused him palpitations, but he repressed them. As soon as he summoned up the courage to respond to their advances, he would launch into lengthy and complicated scholarly discourses so as to persuade them that as far as he was concerned, their physical charms scarcely made an impression. Convinced that he did not appreciate them sufficiently, they took offense. This in turn greatly chagrined him, particularly since he exaggerated both their beauty and their intelligence.
As he exaggerated their purity. This was an obsession which shaped his behavior and rendered him ridiculous. To his consenting, impatiently waiting partner, he would recite poems and sermons complete with footnotes and commentaries. The more burning his passion, the more compelled he felt to conceal it. Instead of embracing his companion, who would have been only too pleased, he outdid himself trying to demonstrate why it was important to sublimate one’s feelings and forgo their fulfillment. There were those who simply told him to go away, and those who became aggressive. He complained about both kinds, which moved Rachel to remark: “You are as fond of complaining as you are of loving.”
An accurate observation. Common sense personified, that Rachel. She spoke to the child in Azriel; she loved it and yearned to protect it. A man in love becomes a child again; this is what makes him susceptible to loving. Any woman who fails to understand that will know a confused, false and necessarily incomplete love.
For the child in Azriel, every woman he loved was immaculate, the better for being willing to wait. She lived in renunciation and anticipation. That she might have had lovers before him never occurred to him. In love, every time is the first time; repetition excludes love, and vice versa. Azriel was for the vice versa.
Convinced that the union of the flesh mirrors that of the soul, which in turn stems from the primary mystery of creation, he refused to reduce it to the level of the senses. To prevent this sacrilege, he pursued the unavowed goal of uniting beings while circumventing their bodies. With Rachel he succeeded on occasion, but not with the others. He spent the night with a young widow, the mother of two beautiful children, and decided that she was a virgin and therefore not to be touched.
Rachel knew this and was amused. She knew about everything. And yet, and yet. Not even she had succeeded in penetrating Kolvillàg and violating the sanctuary. Gracious Rachel, poor Rachel. She could not drive away the Marauding Angel. Nor could he. Had he married her, he might have saved her. But she had refused all compromise. The night she died Azriel remained at her bedside, watching her face, trying to discern the first signs of death, sure that he would succeed, even at the last moment, in annulling the decree. Toward dawn a long tremor tore through her, ripping her apart. She uttered a hoarse cry, charged with
terror, a cry springing from the depths of her childhood, or perhaps already from the land of the dead. A cry of farewell, of distress. She changed color at a dizzying, unreal speed before settling into immobility and pallor. Then she fell quiet. A whisper: “No, Azriel, no … don’t …” And because he wanted to absorb every word, every sound, he let the moment go by. By the time he had regained his senses, the Angel had already struck. Was she aware of leaving a world which until then had turned around her? Possibly. Azriel does not think so. The last glance cast is still that of a living conscience. The eyes of the dead are empty.
Azriel and his companion turn back to the waterfront. It is getting late. Empty, the terraces. Dark, the cafés. The buildings along the street are no longer streaked by shafts of light. One last couple embraces one last time before separating; the woman pushes the gate and disappears, her friend waits a moment before turning to go home. A hobo stares at his empty bottle; his companion sneers. Over there a solitary stroller converses with himself, shaking his head from side to side: he disagrees with his thoughts, his life style, his role in society. He disagrees with his fate.
And Azriel wonders: Send the boy home? Tell him never to try again? How can one be sure? One should get a good grip on him, make him come to his senses. One should, one should. Have I lived and survived only for this encounter and this challenge? Only to defeat death in this particular case? Could I have been spared in Kolvillàg so I could help a stranger? Were I younger, I would suggest a pact of friendship: Whatever I can do for you, I shall try to do with you. We shall share adventures, face enemies together; we shall learn to rule them without their knowledge, obtain obedience without raising our voices, explore the universe without moving. But I am too old.
“Listen,” he says. “One day the famous Rebbe Moshe-Leib of Sassov received a visit from his friend, the well-known miracle maker, the ‘Seraphin’ Uri of Strelisk. Finding him sad, dejected, he asked him the reason. True, I am depressed,’ the visitor confessed. ‘For weeks and weeks I have traveled through the land, knocking at every door, imploring every faithful in every hamlet, harassing the rich and reasoning with the less affluent to extract from them a few coins. I need money to marry off orphans, free prisoners, feed homeless children. I don’t know what else I can do, to whom else I can turn. And these poor people waiting; I am their only chance, their only hope. How can I help being distressed?’
“ ‘I understand you,’ said Moshe-Leib of Sassov, ‘how I understand. It often happens to me. I ache and I feel like howling with helplessness. We are not rich, you and I, we attract only the poor who come to pour out their grief. I would love to help you, my friend, I would love to do something for you, only I myself need help … If you only knew how happy I would be if I could lighten your burden … But how?’ Over and over he repeated these last words. And then he began to cry, to meditate. After what seemed an endless time, he shook himself and shouted, struck by sudden inspiration: ‘Uri, my friend, I’ve got it, I’ve found the solution, I know how I can help you, friend! I shall dance for you, my friend, I shall dance for you!’ ”
Azriel pauses, a smile on his face. “Would you like me to dance for you?” He laughs. “No, don’t take me at my word. I am too old to dance. But I can tell stories. Would you like me to tell you a story?”
And to himself: Yes, that is the best method; it has been tested and proved. I’ll transmit my experience to him and he, in turn, will be compelled to do the same. He in turn will become a messenger. And once a messenger, he has no alternative. He must stay alive until he has transmitted his message. Azriel himself would not still be alive if his father the chronicler, his friends and his teacher Moshe the Madman had not made him the repository of their tragic and secret truths. By entrusting the Book to him, his father doomed him to survival. So this is the example to follow, Azriel pondered. I shall hold him responsible for Kolvillàg. But I shall have to be careful not to go afield, not to trespass. I shall have to watch myself more than before, to be certain that in speaking of the dead, I shall not betray them.
In his anguish, Azriel closes his eyes, only to see, almost immediately, a wide-eyed adolescent who questions: Where were you? What did you bring back from your explorations? Why this quizzical look? You are here, that is all that matters; the rest is commentary. As long as you respond to the call, everything seems possible. One day you will no longer come and I shall be alone, irrevocably alone, a lonely wanderer like you, often a stranger in my own memories, where all passers-by resemble one another, as I resemble you. One day you will no longer come and it will be the end. I will no longer call.
He gropes through his recollections, divides them, chooses them; he questions familiar and strange faces and sinks deeper and deeper into the singed memory of a boy who finds himself in Kolvillàg, alone at first, terribly alone, and then surrounded by the living and the dead, and all rebuke him for having brought a stranger, an intruder.
Quickly, let us leave. Not a moment to lose. Let us slip away immediately. Without asking for forgiveness, without even explaining that we entered inadvertently. Quickly, let us surface again.
“I am cold,” says Azriel.
The town was burning but he was cold.
“I was younger than you. Sick, more than you. Alone, much more alone than you. I had just left my family, or rather, they had just left me. I had nobody to lean on. My possessions were few: a Book filled with symbols, a memory filled with images. Like you, I was adrift, floating in time …”
Azriel pauses, bitten by remorse. Be careful! You are coming too close to the forbidden zone! And your oath, are you forgetting your oath? Do you want to get yourself excommunicated after so many years? Destroy everything now? Better to have done it right away. Anyway, that is what you wanted, wasn’t it?
“Rebbe, what am I to do? Advise me, guide me. The night ahead of me is black and dense, it opens unto horror and ashes. Where do I fit in? What is my duty? To whom do I owe allegiance … Rebbe, I beseech you, don’t turn away from my plea!”
We were alone in the room. Outside, in the antechamber, thirty-six followers were awaiting their turn to enter and pour out their troubles: health, family, business. Among them were those who, yearning for fervor, complained of their excessive serenity; then there were those who told of recurring storms that caused them to lose their footing, too often for their liking. Yes, he knew how to listen, Rebbe Zusia of Kolomey. You entrusted him with your soul and he gave it back to you assuaged. To him you could reveal what you tried to conceal from yourself: your fears and regrets, the temptations repressed and the sins already committed. I alone was unable to make him lend an ear. He gazed and gazed at me and I was shaken.
But let me tell you about this Rebbe Zusia of Kolomey, who, to be sure, did not reside in Kolomey. Disciple of a Master blessed by the Seer of Lublin, he had steadfastly refused the rabbinical crown; all he wanted was to study and meditate. He used to say: “I am too weak, too poor to change mankind or even to help any community whatsoever; I am barely able to protect my own soul.” To the Elders arguing that they needed a Master, he quipped: “What about me? Don’t you think I need one too?” And he went on: “You may think that I have resolved my difficulties and disarmed my assailants. Or that I have reached the end of the tunnel, and sure of myself, am heading straight for the light of dawn. But no! Not at all! I am seeking, and seeking, and that is all I can do.” To which they replied somewhat shyly and only half seriously: “Precisely, Rebbe. We don’t even know how to seek.” In the end they crowned him against his will. “You will rule over us; such is our decision and it is irrevocable. We shall follow you even if you refuse to be followed.” — “So be it,” he mumbled, displeased. “Nobody has the right to oppose his will to that of a congregation of Israel. The community has rights over the individuals that constitute it. Only, I warn you: I am not, nor shall I be, a maker of miracles or a dispenser of indulgences. Don’t look upon me as a substitute for study or prayer or as a mediator between you and heaven. If you
are seeking someone to lighten your task of being a Jew, then look elsewhere. Easy solutions are not my way. I warn you: I shall not tell you what to do, nor shall I tell you which goals are desirable and which are not; I shall not give orders nor shall I provide remedies. All I promise is to be present. And listen.”
He could claim neither the glory of the Wizhnitzer Rebbe nor the scholarship of the Gerer Tzaddik. And yet he drew crowds. People flocked to him from the most distant of villages. For an hour, a Shabbat, a week. Some, particularly the young, stayed months, from Passover to the New Year. It is said that during the High Holy Days nearly a thousand faithful crowded into the temporary structure where he celebrated services. Yet he did not see himself as either cantor or preacher. He recited only one prayer aloud: the one that precedes the blowing of the shofar. Legend has it that whoever heard it was sure to repent in the year to follow, and that in the Tzaddik’s presence visitors came to understand their innermost motives, even recalling gestures and thoughts from earliest childhood. In his presence walls erected to shield lies and hypocrisy crumbled. To face him was to be stripped of all defense. He plunged into one’s soul as into the iciest of waters.
“Rebbe,” I said, stifling a scream, “please help me. You alone are capable of showing me the way that does not lead to the abyss.”
“What is the problem, young man?” he asked, gazing at me sternly.
Suddenly I felt incapable of formulating a coherent sentence. The words began to buzz in my mind, to tumble about in my mouth. What was I about to say? Wordless, beseeching, I stared at him; he had to guess, he had to understand my silence.
“What then is the problem, young man?” repeated Rebbe Zusia of Kolomey with increased severity. “What is it you wish to discuss with me? What sort of dilemmas? What is this procession trailing behind you and what do you expect me to do about it?”