“Jacob, your questions are the wrong questions. Obviously I’m not being clear enough. What I want to do is challenge your whole attitude toward authority . It is not a question of whether I deny it, or some rabbi or other scholar claims it. Let us not look upward to some grand authority but instead look to the words of our holy book, which tell us that our true happiness and blessedness consist solely in the enjoyment of what is good. The Bible does not tell us to take pride in the fact that we Jews alone are blessed or that we have more enjoyment because others are ignorant of true happiness.”
Jacob gave no sign he was persuaded, so Bento tried another tactic. “Let me give you an example from our own experience today. Earlier, when we were in the shop, I learned that Franco knows no Hebrew. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me this: should I therefore rejoice that I know more Hebrew than he? Does his ignorance of Hebrew make me more learned than I was an hour ago? Joy of our superiority over others is not blessed. It is childish or malicious. Is that not true?”
Jacob conveyed skepticism by hunching his shoulders, but Bento felt energized. Burdened by his years of necessary silence, he now relished the opportunity to express aloud many of the arguments he had been constructing. He addressed Jacob. “Surely you must agree that blessedness resides in love. It is the paramount, the core message of the entire Scriptures—and of the Christian Testament as well. We must make a distinction between what the Bible says and what the religious professionals say that it says. Too often rabbis and priests promote their own self-interest by biased readings, readings that claim that only they hold the key to truth.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bento saw Jacob and Franco exchanging astonished glances; he nonetheless persisted. “Here, look, at this section in Kings 3:12.” Spinoza opened the Bible to a place he had marked with a red thread. “Listen to the words God offers Solomon: ‘No one shall be as wise as you in time to come.’ Think now, both of you, for a moment about that comment by God to the world’s wisest man. Surely this is evidence that the words of the Torah can not be taken literally. They must be understood in the context of the times—”
“Context?” interrupted Franco.
“I mean the language and the historical events of the day. We cannot understand the Bible from the language of today: we must read it with knowledge of the language conventions of the time it was written and compiled, and that is about two thousand years ago.”
“What?” exclaimed Jacob. “Moses wrote the Torah, the first five books, far more than two thousand years ago!”
“That’s a big topic. I’ll come back to that in a couple of minutes. For now, let me continue with Solomon. The point I want to make is that God’s comment to Solomon is simply an expression used to convey great, surpassing wisdom and is meant to increase Solomon’s happiness. Can you possibly believe God would expect Solomon, the wisest of all men, to rejoice that others would always be less intelligent than He? Surely God, in his wisdom, would have wished that everyone be gifted with the same faculties.”
Jacob protested. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You pick out a few words or sentences, but you ignore the clear fact that we are chosen by God. The Holy Book says this again and again.”
“Here, look at Job,” said Bento, entirely undeterred. He flipped the pages to Job 28 and read, “‘All men should avoid evil and do good.’ In such passages,” Bento continued, “it is plain that God had in mind the entire human race. And then keep in mind too that Job was a Gentile, yet, of all men, he was most acceptable to God. Here are these lines—read for yourself.”
Jacob refused to look. “The Bible may have some of those words. But there are thousands of opposite words. We Jews are different, and you know it. Franco has just escaped the Inquisition. Tell me, Bento, when have the Jews held Inquisitions? Others slaughter Jews. Have we ever slaughtered others?”
Bento calmly turned the pages, this time to Joshua 10:37 and read: “‘And they took Eglon, and smote it with the edge of the sword, and the king thereof, and all the cities thereof, and all the souls that were therein; he left none remaining. He destroyed it utterly.’ Or Joshua 11:11 about the city of Hazor,” Bento continued, “‘and the Hebrews smote all the souls that were therein with the edge of the sword, utterly destroying them: there was not any left to breathe: and He burnt Hazor with fire.’
“Or here again, Samuel 18:6–7, ‘When David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine the women came out of all the cities of Israel, singing and dancing, to meet King Saul, with tambourines, with joy, and with instruments of music . . . The women sang one to another as they played, Saul has slain his thousands, David his ten thousands.’
“Sadly there is much evidence in the Torah that when the Israelites had power, they were as cruel and as pitiless as any other nation. They were not morally superior, more righteous, or more intelligent than other ancient nations. They were superior only in that they had a well-ordered society and a superior government that allowed them to persist for a very long time. But that ancient Hebrew nation has long ceased to exist, and ever since they have been on a par with their fellow peoples. I see nothing in the Torah that suggests that Jews are superior to other peoples. God is equally gracious to all.”
With a look of disbelief on his face Jacob said, “You are saying there is nothing that distinguishes Jews from Gentiles?”
“Exactly, but it is not I saying this, but the Holy Bible.”
“How can you be called ‘Baruch’ and speak thusly? Are you actually denying that God chose the Jews, favored them, helped the Jews, expected much from them?”
“Again, Jacob, reflect upon what you say. Once again I remind you: human beings choose, favor, help, value, expect. But God? Does God have these human attributes? Remember what I said about the fallacy of imagining God to be in our image. Remember what I said about triangles and a triangular God.”
“We were made in His image,” said Jacob. “Turn to Genesis. Let me show you those words—”
Bento recited from memory, “‘Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.’”
“Exactly, Baruch, those are the words,” said Jacob. “Would that your piety were as great as your memory. If those are God’s words, then who are you to question that we are made in His image?”
“Jacob, use your God-given reason. We cannot take such words literally. They are metaphors. Do you truly believe that we mortals, some of us deaf or crooked or constipated or wretched, are made in God’s image? Think of those like my mother who died in their twenties, those born blind or deformed or demented with huge cavernous water heads, those with scrofula, those whose lungs fail them and who spit blood, those who are avaricious or murderous—are they, too, in God’s image? You think God has a mentality like ours and wishes to be flattered and grows jealous and vindictive if we disobey His rules? Could such flawed, mutilated modes of thought be present in a perfect being? This is merely the manner of talking of those who wrote the Bible.”
“Of those who wrote the Bible? You speak disparagingly of Moses and Joshua and the Prophets and Judges? You deny the Bible is the word of God?” Jacob’s voice grew louder with each sentence, and Franco, who was intent on every word Bento uttered, put his hand on his arm to still him.
“I disparage no one,” Bento said. “That conclusion comes from your mind. But I do say that the words and ideas of the Bible come from the human mind, from the men who wrote these passages and imagined—no, I should better say wished—that they resembled God, that they were made in God’s image.”
“So you do deny that God speaks through the voices of the Prophets?”
“It’s obvious that any words in the Bible referred to as ‘God’s word
s’ originate only in the imagination of the various prophets.”
“Imagination! You say ‘imagination’?” Jacob placed his hand before his mouth open with horror, while Franco tried to suppress a smile.
Bento knew that each utterance from his lips shocked Jacob, yet he could not still himself. He felt exhilarated to burst his shackles of silence and express aloud all the ideas he had pondered in secret or shared with the rabbi only in heavily veiled form. Van den Enden’s warning of “caute, caute” came to mind, but for once he ignored reason and plunged ahead.
“Yes, it’s obviously imagination, Jacob, and don’t be so shocked: we know this from the very words of the Torah.” Out of the corner of his eye Bento noted Franco’s grin. Bento continued, “Here, Jacob, read this with me in Deuteronomy 34:10: ‘And there arose not a prophet since in Israel like unto Moses whom the Lord knew face to face.’ Now, Jacob, consider what that means. You know, of course, that the Torah tells us not even Moses saw the Lord’s face, right?”
Jacob nodded. “Yes, the Torah says so.”
“So, Jacob, we’ve eliminated vision, and it must mean that Moses heard God’s real voice, and that no prophet following Moses heard His real voice.”
Jacob had no reply.
“Explain to me,” said Franco, who had been listening carefully to Bento’s every word. “If none of the other prophets heard the voice of God, then what is the source of prophecies?”
Welcoming Franco’s participation, Bento answered readily: “I believe that the prophets were men endowed with unusually vivid imaginations, but not necessarily highly developed reasoning power.”
“Then, Bento,” said Franco, “you believe that miraculous prophecies are nothing more than the imagined notions of prophets?”
“Exactly.”
Franco continued, “It is as though there is nothing supernatural. You make it appear that everything is explainable.”
“That is precisely what I believe. Everything, and I mean everything, has a natural cause.”
“To me,” said Jacob, who had been glaring at Bento as he spoke about the prophets, “there are things known only to God, things caused only by God’s will.”
“I believe that the more we can know, the fewer will be the things known only to God. In other words, the greater our ignorance, the more we attribute to God.”
“How can you dare to—”
“Jacob,” Bento interrupted. “Let us review why we three are meeting. You came to me because Franco was in a spiritual crisis and needed help. I did not seek you out—in fact I advised you to see the rabbi instead. You said that you had been told the rabbi would only make Franco feel worse. Remember?”
“Yes, that is true,” said Jacob.
“Then what end is served for you and me to enter into such dispute? Instead there is only one real question.” Bento turned to Franco. “Tell me, am I being of help to you? Has anything I’ve said been of aid?”
“Everything you’ve said has provided comfort,” said Franco. “You help my sanity. I was losing my bearings, and your clear thought, the way you take nothing on the basis of authority, is—is like nothing I have ever heard. I hear Jacob’s anger, and I apologize for him, but for me—yes, you have helped me.”
“In that case,” said Jacob suddenly rising to his feet, “we have gotten what we came for, and our business here is finished.” Franco appeared shocked and remained seated, but Jacob grabbed his elbow and guided him toward the door.
“Thank you, Bento,” said Franco, as he stood in the doorway. “Please, tell me, are you available for further meetings?”
“I am always available for a reasoned discussion—just come by the shop. But,” Bento turned toward Jacob, “I am not available for a disputation that excludes reason.”
Once out of sight of Bento’s house, Jacob smiled broadly, put his arm around Franco, and grasped his shoulder, “We’ve got all we need now. We worked well together. You played your part well—almost too well, if you ask me—but I’m not even going to discuss that, because we have now finished what we had to do. Look at what we have. The Jews are not chosen by God; they differ in no way from other peoples. God has no feelings about us. The prophets merely imagine things. The Holy Scriptures are not holy but entirely the work of humans. God’s word and God’s will are nonexistent. Genesis and the rest of the Torah are fables or metaphors. The rabbis, even the greatest of them, have no special knowledge but instead act in their self-interest.”
Franco shook his head. “We don’t have all we need, not yet. I want to see him again.”
“I’ve just recited all his abominations: his words are pure heresy. This is what Uncle Duarte requested of us, and we have done as he wished. The evidence is overwhelming: Bento Spinoza is not a Jew; he is an anti-Jew.”
“No,” repeated Franco, “we do not have enough. I need to hear more. I’m not testifying until I have more.”
“We have more than enough. Your family is in danger. We made a bargain with Uncle Duarte—and no one wiggles out of a bargain with him. That is exactly what this fool Spinoza tried to do—to swindle him by bypassing the Jewish court. It was only through Uncle’s contacts, Uncle’s bribes, and Uncle’s ship that you are not still cowering in a cave in Portugal. And in only two weeks, his ship goes back for your mother and sister and my sister. Do you want them to be murdered like our fathers? If you don’t go with me to the synagogue and testify to the governing committee, then you’ll be the one lighting their pyres.”
“I’m not a fool, and I’m not going to be ordered around like a sheep,” said Franco. “We have time, and I need more information before I testify to the synagogue committee. Another day makes no difference, and you know it. And what’s more, Uncle is obligated to take care of his family even if we do nothing.”
“Uncle does what Uncle wants. I know him better than you. He follows no rules but his own, and he is not generous by nature. I don’t ever want to visit your Spinoza again. He slanders our whole people.”
“That man has more intelligence than the whole congregation put together. And if you don’t want to go, I’ll speak to him alone.”
“No, if you go, I go. I won’t let you go alone. The man is too persuasive. I feel unsettled myself. If you go alone, the next thing I’ll see is a cherem for you as well as for him.” Noting Franco’s puzzled look, Jacob added, “Cherem is excommunication—another Hebrew word you’d better learn.”
CHAPTER TEN
REVAL, ESTONIA—NOVEMBER 1918
Guten Tag,” the stranger said, extending his hand, “I’m Friedrich Pfister. Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“Rosenberg, Alfred Rosenberg. Grew up here. Just returned from Moscow. Got my degree from the Polytechnic just last week.”
“Rosenberg? Ah, yes, yes—that’s it. You’re Eugen’s baby brother. I see his eyes in you. May I join you?”
“Of course.”
Friedrich set his stein of ale on the table and sat down facing Alfred. “Your brother and I were the closest of friends, and we still stay in touch. I saw you often at your home—even gave you piggyback rides. You’re what—six, seven years younger than Eugen?”
“Six. You look familiar, but I can’t quite remember you. I don’t know why, but I have little memory of my early life—it is all blotted out. You know, I was only nine or ten when Eugen left home to study in Brussels. I’ve hardly seen him since. You say you’re in touch with him now?”
“Yes, only two weeks ago we had dinner in Zurich.”
“Zurich? He’s left Brussels?”
“About six months ago. He had a relapse of consumption and came to Switzerland for a rest cure. I’ve been studying in Zurich and visited him there in the sanitarium. He’ll be discharged in a couple of weeks and then move to Berlin for an advanced banking course. I happen to be moving to Berlin for study in a few weeks, so we’ll be meeting often there. You know none of this?”
“No, we’ve gone our separate ways. We were never close and now have
pretty much lost touch.”
“Yes, Eugen mentioned that—wistfully, I thought. I know your mother died when you were an infant—that was hard for both of you—and I recall your father also died young, of consumption?”
“Yes, he was only forty-four. That was when I was eleven. Tell me, Herr Pfister—”
“Friedrich, please. A brother of a friend is also a friend. So we are now Friedrich and Alfred?”
A nod from Alfred.
“And Alfred, a minute ago you were going to ask? . . .”
“I wonder if Eugen ever mentioned me?”
“Not at our last meeting. We hadn’t met for about three years and had a lot of catching up to do. But he has spoken of you many times in the past.”
Alfred hesitated and then blurted out, “Could you tell me all he said about me?”
“All? I’ll try, but first permit me to make an observation: on the one hand you tell me, matter-of-factly, that you and your brother have never been close and you seem to have made no efforts to contact one another. Yet today you seem eager—I would even say hungry—for news. A bit of a paradox. That makes me wonder if you’re on a type of search for yourself and your past?”
Alfred’s head jerked back for a moment; he was startled by the perceptiveness of the question. “Yes, that’s true. I’m amazed you saw that. These days are . . . well, I don’t know how to say it . . . chaotic. I saw roiling crowds in Moscow reveling in anarchy. Now it’s sweeping across eastern Europe, across all of Europe. Oceans of displaced people. And I’m unsettled along with them, perhaps more lost than others . . . cut off from everything.”
“And so you seek an anchor in the past—you yearn for the unchanging past. I can understand that. Let me dredge my memory for Eugen’s comments about you. Give me a minute, let me concentrate, and I’ll jostle the images and let them surface.”
Friedrich closed his eyes, then shortly opened them. “There’s an obstacle—my own memories of you seem to get in the way. First let me convey them, and then I’ll be able to retrieve Eugen’s comments. All right?”