Judah the Pious (2 page)

The ancient representative from Vilna shambled into position. “Eliezer,” he intoned in a whining, nasal voice, “you call yourself a rabbi, yet we know nothing about your credentials. Could you possibly say a word or two about the source and nature of your training?”

“Everything I know,” replied Eliezer pleasantly, “I have learned from life and from God. And as yet I have found no reason to criticize my school or my teacher.”

A low murmur arose among the committee members, and the Vilna rabbi, unsure whether his question had been satisfactorily answered, knit his thin brows and smiled lamely until a famous scholar came forward to relieve him of his duties as inquisitor.

“I am certain we would all find it illuminating,” began the learned man coyly, “if you would consent to cite for us Maimonides’s well-known commentary on the fifth chapter of Genesis.” The scholar pursed his lips together, and, after a weighty pause, continued. “Knowing, as I do, that the most brilliant minds are liable to their minuscule moments of forgetfulness, I will even go so far as to refresh your memory.” And then, even the other scholars were frankly surprised to hear their colleague launch into a lengthy, tiresome recitation of the Genealogy and Age of the Patriarchs.

Throughout this performance, Rabbi Eliezer picked at a dirty cuticle, while the delegates basked in the hope that they might soon catch the old man red-handed in an attempt to conceal his ignorance. But they were quickly disappointed, for, when the speech was over, Eliezer only smiled. “I have never read Maimonides’s commentaries,” he said, speaking rapidly so as to thwart the scholar’s efforts to answer his own question. “But, whenever I have had a specific problem to solve or a decision to make, I have always been able to think of an applicable portion of the Scriptures.”

The scholar sneered, emitting a sharp, dry cackle, like the sound of rustling paper. Then, certain that Eliezer was faltering, a great lawyer rushed forward to help hammer the defendant into the ground; he pelted the old man with a barrage of questions concerning the flowers of rhetoric, while, all the time, the rabbi insisted politely that he knew only the art of plain speaking.

The lawyer moved his hand as if he were plucking fruit out of the air, in a gesture meant to imply that he had proved his case. “Well,” he concluded, “if you have no hope of persuading the king, then perhaps you can at least work a miracle or two to win him over. Have you performed any miracles, Eliezer? Do you think you could do one on command?”

“In the words of the great Judah the Pious,” smiled Eliezer, “‘There are thousands of miracles in the air above my head, but I have no desire to reach up and grasp them.’”

Perhaps it was at this point that the tide began to turn in Eliezer’s favor; for, the committee reasoned, anyone who mentioned such a lovingly-remembered sage as Judah the Pious could not be all bad.

From then on, the delegates found themselves coming to feel that the Rabbi Eliezer might just as well satisfy his desire to address the King of Poland. His visit would probably bring no benefits, and do no harm; besides, no one else had volunteered to go. These conclusions also spared them the embarrassment of having to prohibit Eliezer from making the trip; so, quite content, they bid him a cold good-by and good luck, and departed.

Had their investigation chanced to uncover one grain of truth, the distinguished delegates would never have felt so comfortable and secure.

Instead, they might have trembled at the thought of the rabbi’s coming visit, but, on the other hand, would have been slightly more optimistic about his chances of success. For there were certain matters which the poor residents of Rimanov did not wish to discuss with such important men, certain subjects which, indeed, they rarely broached among themselves. Had these people been a bit less timid, a bit more articulate, they might have told the investigators this:

The Rabbi Eliezer was known to have a powerful, pervasive, and, some said, decidedly sinister influence over the thoughts and actions of young men.

Upon his arrival in Rimanov, the rabbi had initially attempted to support himself by giving lessons to boys whose parents could not afford to pay the fees of better-known teachers, but who still wished their sons to have some knowledge of their history, a love for the holy word, and the rudiments of a religious education. The Rabbi Eliezer asked only a penny per lesson; he was aged, obviously experienced and venerable. No one thought to demand the references of a Godsend.

Eliezer’s hut grew steadily more crowded with eager pupils, who seemed to take so much delight in learning that their parents found it easy to overlook the first signs of danger. Mothers noticed that their boys were skipping meals, avoiding their former playmates, and spending their spare time staring out the window; the women clucked their tongues mournfully, and thrilled with secret pride to think that their darlings were simply studying too hard. Fathers searched their memories for basic facts on which to quiz their sons, met with blank stares, and decided that education had probably changed since their day. And the small children who pestered their elder brothers into revealing what they had learned in class were suddenly troubled by recurring nightmares; yet, when they rushed to their parents with grisly tales of demons, trolls and witches, they were merely scolded for letting their imaginations run wild.

Eventually, however, incidents of inexplicable behavior among the rabbi’s students became so frequent that they could no longer be ignored. A respectable widow discovered that her son had written a poem containing terms and sentiments so indecent that the blush stayed on her wrinkled cheeks for two days. A moody youth contracted pneumonia by running out naked on a moonlit night to hurl himself into a snowbank. Three boys attempted to break their mothers’ hearts by embarking on unwholesome diets of fruit and nuts, while four others infuriated their fathers by wearing dirty clothes and causing the neighbors to think that their families could not afford to dress them properly.

Reluctant to admit that education might have damaged their sons, the parents of Eliezer’s pupils hesitated to discuss their suspicions with each other; thus, many private, repetitious family scenes had to be staged until they felt satisfied with their understanding of the old man’s crimes.

At least, the parents sighed with relief, he had not physically or spiritually corrupted their children, nor led them into any sins which might cause their souls to roast in Gehenna. But he had done the next worst thing; he had filled their impressionable young minds with dangerous fancies and unrealistic longings. The citizens of Rimanov had prayed that Eliezer might make scholars of their sons, but he had turned them into dreamers.

One by one, the bewildered students were withdrawn from school, but it was already too late. Eventually, it became apparent that all of the old man’s former pupils were somehow marked for life, set apart from their more predictable and easily contented neighbors. They drifted aimlessly from job to job, remained melancholy and dissatisfied for no reason. At weddings, they seemed to forget the wives they had lived with since their youths, and danced all night with graceful young women. Some had left town, and, every few years, sent back letters with mysterious foreign postmarks. A few even drank.

All this would certainly have helped the worthy delegates understand why the obscure rabbi might have felt any incentive or obligation to represent his people before the King of Poland. But of course such facts never appeared in the committee’s official report.

These memories, however, had not been forgotten by the rabbi. And so, when he saw for himself the age and appearance of the small boy on the massive throne, a vision of the Rimanov school crept back into his heart, and gave him the courage to begin his interview with such a boisterous laugh.

K
ING CASIMIR OF POLAND
had been dozing fitfully on his throne when the Rabbi Eliezer first entered the royal audience hall. Shaken gently awake, the king peered at his visitor through a nearsighted haze, and wondered whether his advisors were trying to amuse him with another exotic ostrich brought back from the wilds of Africa. But, when the black-plumed bird threw back its head and laughed like a man, the young sovereign began to recall that this was the long-awaited day on which he was to meet the Jewish holy man.

Squirming with excitement, the boy craned his neck forward until it chafed against the jewel-encrusted collar of his robe; then, disappointed, he straightened back into the ramrod-stiff posture of a proper king.

Despite what Casimir had been taught as a child, no diabolical horns sprouted from beneath the Jew’s matted hair, nor were his yellow teeth stained bright red with the blood of innocent babies. Although he had known it would be this way, he still felt cheated. For, had Eliezer truly appeared a demon, a wild-eyed pagan with bones and boars’ teeth woven into his beard, the king might then have been able to discuss certain matters which he had never mentioned to any of his courtiers—certain secrets so shameful that they could only be revealed to a man who was already damned.

No doubt, the good people of Poland would have been amused to learn the thoroughly mundane nature of the sins which so tormented their king. For Casimir, however, these problems were deadly serious. Unlike ordinary boys, who could share their growing pains with each other, the friendless young king could only conclude that his particular misery had never been experienced by anyone else.

Day after day, he brooded on his failings, cursed himself for his listlessness, his apathy, his sense of isolation, detachment, and general irritation. He daydreamed incessantly, inventing vivid fantasies concerning certain court ladies; then, he would censor himself, and walk around for hours with downcast, guilty eyes.

But the last of Casimir’s troubles was the one which caused him the most anxiety, for it seemed the most perilous: he had begun to feel hopelessly estranged from the warm, protective arms of the mother church. All his life, he had been a true believer. But lately, his faith in the great Miracle of the Birth, the Passion, and the Resurrection had come to seem worthless, illogical, and silly; and he could not help thinking that God had not prevented him from losing his parents, nor from being locked into a position from which he could never escape. For these reasons, he felt his religion slipping steadily and irreversibly away.

What could be easier, he had thought in the days before the Rabbi Eliezer’s visit, than to confess the loss of faith to a man who never had any to lose? And, once the major sins burst out, the smaller ones would be carried along, perhaps even ignored, like ripples in a swelling flood.

But Eliezer’s thoroughly unexceptional ugliness had dampened the boy’s hopes. There was nothing fantastic or exotic in the old man’s appearance, nothing to suggest a reckless amorality; no scent of brimstone followed him through the hall. Now, all that Casimir felt was a mild revulsion for Eliezer’s sunken cheeks and flabby skin.

Forcing down his distaste, King Casimir of Poland motioned for the stranger to draw near; but the old man’s progress towards the throne was cut short by the same impatient nobleman who had just finished rebuking him for his inattention.

“How can you be so impudent?” cried the red-faced courtier, throwing his taut, massive body directly in the rabbi’s path. “Or have you never heard that it befits swine like yourself to kneel in the presence of the sovereign?”

“I’m too tired to kneel,” explained Eliezer. “And besides, I fear that hours of your precious time might be wasted in getting me back on my feet.”

“A very funny old man,” hissed the noble. “Tongues have been cut out for much less wit.”

“Then do so,” said the rabbi amiably. “I am eighty-nine years old, and that, as I see it, rather narrows your options. On the one hand, you can execute me immediately. On the other, should you feel inclined towards great kindness, you can keep me here in the castle, stuffing my thin belly with your finest wines and sweetmeats, and it would still be unlikely for me to last much longer. Now, while you are deciding to kill me and so shorten my life by a few months, I hope you will at least allow me to pass my last hours chatting pleasantly with your lord.”

Waving aside the stammering nobleman, Eliezer shuffled forward until he stood within inches of the throne. Bending down, he winked merrily at the king and shrugged his bony shoulders.

“King Casimir,” he whispered, “you can see for yourself that at this rate we will soon get nowhere. Meaning no disrespect, I wonder: have you ever tried to study the beautiful king bee when the hive was crawling with bothersome, useless drones? A waste of effort, I assure you. And as long as your worthy advisors continue to prattle about protocol, ceremony, bowing and scraping, my visit will come to nothing. Send these men away, if only for a while. Should you later have any cause for regret, I swear that I will pay with a pint of my blood for every hour they are gone.”

The king’s clear blue eyes glimmered, then suddenly began to shine as he glanced into a nearby mirror and saw the nobleman stamping his foot in fury. Never before had Casimir seen his courtiers openly defied; no one had ever urged him to oppose their authority; it had never been suggested that he take a single action which had not been approved by centuries of court practice. The novelty of it thrilled him, and at the same time, calmed him by shutting his ears to the noise of his advisors buzzing about his head, mumbling about the dangers to his dignity, his prestige, even his physical safety. Sitting in the center of their swarm, the King of Poland was, for the first time, attempting to govern himself.

By making Casimir aware of his dependence on the courtiers, the rabbi’s request had strengthened his desire to thwart them. But, each time he considered dismissing them from the hall, he remembered that, since his parents’ death, these cold men had been his only family. And he knew that the old rabbi would eventually abandon him to the icy, reproachful glares which might remain on their faces for months. Thus, he wavered back and forth between rebellion and submission until his reason was exhausted, and inclined towards the easier course.