Judah the Pious (3 page)

“I am afraid that I cannot in good conscience accede to your demand,” said the king, frowning, raising his voice to drown out the courtiers’ approving murmurs. “I would prefer to be surrounded by men whom I trust, whose wisdom and experience have often kept me from reaching rash conclusions.”

Rabbi Eliezer nodded. “Suit yourself, King Casimir,” he smiled slyly. “But I feel I must warn you about the dangers of relying too heavily on the judgment of others; submission is a difficult habit to break. Who knows? You may soon begin to see the value of certain bits of wisdom which you have for some time been resisting. Perhaps you will finally agree to marry one of the frightful princesses of the realm—the rich, young duchess of the wens and boils, or the heiress whose hyena-laugh will certainly shatter all the mirrors in your palace. Then, if I may venture to predict, you will find that your courtiers are indeed so wise and experienced that none of them will ever volunteer to take your place in the bed of such a woman.”

Gasping with surprise and indignation, the nobles closed into a tight knot around the king, as if to shield him from the rabbi’s disturbing words; several broke from the group and began to move threateningly towards the old man. Then, a slow smile lit King Casimir’s face. Calmly, with great dignity, he asked his courtiers if they would mind waiting in the antechamber until he rang for their return.

As the nobles reluctantly withdrew, King Casimir could not bring himself to look at the rabbi, but stared bashfully at the ground. When the last iron-tipped boot heel had clicked against the ebony doorstep, Eliezer and the king simultaneously uttered deep, involuntary sighs of relief; catching each other at it, both pretended not to notice.

“Well,” began Casimir at last, “I must say, that was a good trick, alluding to the duchess and such. But really, you must tell me how you did it. Surely, you are not going to pass yourself off as a great clairvoyant, capable of reading the secrets of the past and future at one glance. Admit it: it was just a matter of resourcefulness, a few pennies slipped into the apron pocket of a knowledgeable palace chambermaid.”

“If I had money to waste on gossip,” laughed Eliezer, “I would have eaten breakfast this morning.”

“In other words,” the king insisted, “you are saying that you knew it all beforehand, thanks to a few weeks of careful research into court affairs and the state of the noble families of Poland.”

“Nonsense,” answered the old man. “My secret is an empty head, purposely kept blank, so that the slightest tremor of an eyelid which passes before it can inscribe a story there, more accurate and complicated than anything I could have read.”

Casimir raised his pale eyebrows and leaned forward, as if he were watching the old man work an elaborate shell game. “In that case,” he said deliberately, “I suppose your mind must be equally empty of reasons why your people should be allowed to persist in their barbaric custom.”

Turning his head slightly, Eliezer threw the king a sarcastic glance. “If there is one thing I admire,” he said, “it is a young man who can beat me so effortlessly in a battle of wits. But, I must admit, you have come much closer to the truth than you realize. Although that subject is exactly what I have come to discuss, I really do not know of any arguments which I can count upon to convince you.

“Yet, be that as it may, one thing is certain: I have stood on my feet much longer than is usually considered possible for an eighty-nine-year-old gentleman. Were there another chair in the room, I would never dare ask you to relinquish your throne. But, under the circumstances, I see no alternative. Besides, should you grow tired, your young body is still limber enough to lower itself down to the carpeted steps at my feet.”

For the second time that day, Casimir found himself without a single precedent; certainly, no one had ever made such an unseemly demand of the King of Poland. His logic told him that the request was reasonable, for he could see the old man’s skinny frame beginning to tremble. Still, it made him shudder to imagine the filthy, moth-eaten black robe pressed up against the embroidered cushions. And what a frightful scandal would ensue, should his advisors find him in such an undignified position, curled up like a disciple at the rabbi’s yellow, calloused feet! Despite himself, Casimir looked furtively towards the door of the antechamber. It was this glance which irked him into standing up and offering the rabbi his seat.

“Thank you,” nodded Eliezer, lifting his hem and weaving a bit unsteadily as he mounted the steps. “You have a strong, young body. A boy of your age could probably stand for hours without growing weary.”

Casimir, who had been just about to sit down on the steps, remained on his feet. He had never thought of himself as strong before; compared to his enormous, sinewy courtiers, he had always appeared as plump and powerless as a milk-fattened capon. He turned his head so that the old man would not see the flush of pride on his cheeks; by the time he looked back, Eliezer had settled himself in the imposing throne, as comfortably and naturally as if it were a simple bench offered him by a courteous ox-cart driver.

“Well,” said Eliezer, after a short silence, “I suppose I might best begin by asking you the simplest question I can imagine: what, do you think, is in our minds when we throw those lumps of dirt on the huge mounds which the gravediggers have already heaped high enough?”

“That
is
a simple question,” nodded the king, recalling the careful briefing he had received from his advisors. “You are hoping that the arc in which the soil travels as it flies towards the grave may form a bridge for your dead to pass over when they return to earth. Thus, they can revisit the scene of their lives, and, out of sheer malice, frighten blameless Polish people into joining them in the other world.”

“Nonsense,” shouted Eliezer, so loud that the muscles around Casimir’s heart tightened for fear that the entire court would come running in. “Is this really the way bright young men reason these days? Do you honestly believe that we would disturb the sweet rest of someone we loved just to irritate a few men we do not even know?”

Still unsettled by the violence of the old man’s response, the boy was beginning to feel empty-headed and stupid. “I am not sure,” he stammered after a while. “If not for that reason, then why?”

“I will tell you why,” said Eliezer, more gently. “But you must listen carefully, for I dislike repeating myself.

“Among our people, it is generally believed that a dead man’s spirit accompanies his body to the cemetery, where it lingers like an uncomfortable party guest, seeking the proper moment to make an exit and a seemly manner of saying good-by. And it is not until the soul of the departed sees his loved ones turn their backs and cast dirt on his grave that he feels assured that life will go on without him, that he can depart in peace and begin to take his rest. So you see, King Casimir, our motives are actually just the opposite of what your nobles have been telling you. Really, does it not seem more logical to a young man of your intelligence that we should wish our dead to sleep quietly throughout eternity?”

“Nothing is logical,” snapped Casimir quickly, to cover his uneasiness over the obvious good sense of the old man’s argument. “The only certain thing is that my advisors are telling me one story, and you another.”

“And which do
you
believe?” asked the rabbi.

Unaccustomed to being challenged in this way, King Casimir shrank from the old man’s question. “My courtiers have done some painstaking research,” he answered, “and, as a rule, tend to know what is best for the country. As for me, it is quite a different matter entirely; I hardly believe in spirits and such. Besides,” he added hastily, “you yourself know that, given the public sentiment, a horrible slaughter would probably take place if the people caught you persisting in your custom.”

“There will be no massacre if you prohibit it,” shrugged Eliezer carelessly. “But why do you not believe in spirits?”

The king, who had been hoping that his remark had gone unnoticed, was taken by surprise. “Because,” he began, then stopped, amazed at the tight, strangulated sound of his own voice. “Because I have never seen them.”

“And you do not believe in anything you have never seen?”

“No,” answered Casimir, feeling the word catch in his throat.

Rabbi Eliezer’s face registered no emotion. “You must know that can often be a dangerous course,” he said. “For when we refuse to believe in the possibility of impossible things, we can neither love all the unlikely beings which wish to do us good, nor be on guard against those which would harm us; we become like defenseless children, who do not understand what things should be feared, nor where they can call for help.”

The boy, who knew by now that Eliezer had guessed almost everything, could hardly answer. “This skepticism is not a course I would have chosen for myself,” he replied at last, bowing his head.

“And you would change it if you could?”

“Yes,” nodded the king.

“I see,” said Eliezer of Rimanov, “I see,” and said nothing else for several minutes.

Taking advantage of the lull in the conversation, King Casimir attempted to restore matters to the straight, orderly path from which they had begun to veer. “At any rate,” he began, keeping himself calm with the massive, almost-physical effort he had practiced as a small boy troubled by nightmares, “I do not see what my cynical turn of mind has to do with the burial customs of the Jews of Poland.”

“Everything and nothing,” answered Eliezer, smiling radiantly. “Everything and nothing. For it suddenly occurs to me that now, with things as they are, it would do neither of us any good if I remained here for an hour, improvising arguments for the innocence of our rites and the generosity of our motives. But, on the other hand, perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement, a bargain, if you will. Suppose I were to convince you once and for all of the fallacies in a system which does not allow for the unseen and the improbable? Would you then consider permitting my people to retain their custom—as a reward for me, or as the price of a lesson, to put it more delicately?”

“I will make you that bargain,” replied Casimir readily, “with, of course, the understanding that I am very difficult to convince, and that I have never been able to maintain much interest or concentration in my lessons.”

“In that case,” smiled the old man, “it will not be a lesson, but, rather, an entertaining story—a story which, in fact, my father told us to help pass the hours before his death. But I must warn you, it is a rather long narrative, and perhaps you would be more comfortable here at my feet.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, King Casimir of Poland sat down on the carpeted steps, and the Rabbi Eliezer began his tale.

“L
IKE ALL GOOD STORIES
,” said the rabbi, “mine begins slightly before the beginning. For everything we know about a man’s life means nothing unless we understand the circumstances surrounding his birth. By this, you must not take me to mean the position of the stars, nor any such thing; I would not wish to offend Your Majesty right off by flying straight into a skyful of superstition. No, we are talking science here, and what I am trying to say is this: I have often seen cases in which a man’s whole life has been influenced by the thoughts and dreams in his parents’ minds at the moment of his conception.”

“So I have heard,” snapped the king sharply, having no desire at that moment to picture either his own conception or that of his unborn children. “But everyone knows it has never been proved.”

“Then this story will prove it,” replied Eliezer, equally brusquely.

“You will not prove anything unless you begin,” growled Casimir.

“I am truly sorry,” apologized the old man. “I had no idea your opinions ran so strongly on this matter. Now be patient, and I will try to find a more straightforward prologue for my story.” After a short pause, the Rabbi Eliezer cleared his throat and began again.

“In my father’s village, three hundred miles from the city of Cracow, lived a brilliant scholar by the name of Simon Polikov. To those who knew him, the fact that he was a scholar seemed even more obvious than the fact that he was a man. For, if your best court artist were to combine all the traits and features traditionally attributed to the diligent student, this improbable caricature might well be an accurate portrait of Simon Polikov. He was short, skinny, and gangly, with a slack, toneless body. His thin face had turned a pasty blue-white shade, the color of dim lamplight in the late afternoon; his myopic eyes were the dead brown of plants which have died from lack of sunshine. He was absent-minded, forgetful, timid, withdrawn; he squinted, and scratched his head perpetually with a tense, irritated motion.

In fact, everything about Simon Polikov was spare and pinched, except for his heart, which was large and extraordinarily generous.

As a youth, the promising student had been hounded by all the Jewish families with marriageable daughters; but not a single girl could be found whose love for God and wisdom could reconcile her to the prospect of sharing a double bed with Simon Polikov. Sensing this, Simon decided that his bachelor’s habits were already too well established to change, and, as gracefully as possible, hastened to remove himself from the marriage market.

Then, in his fifty-fifth year, he awoke one night with a searing pain in his chest and knew that none of his precious textbooks would be able to say the memorial prayers necessary to insure his soul’s speedy entrance into heaven.

The next morning, his new-found determination to take a wife was reinforced by the realization that he already had one.

For almost five years, Simon’s meager home had been conscientiously tended by an attractive middle-aged spinster named Hannah Bromsky, who, though not a charwoman either by necessity or inclination, did the scholar’s cooking, cleaning, and washing as an act of charitable piety. To Simon, the fact that she had lived only a short time in the village seemed far less important than the fact that she had spent that time practicing for the job of being his wife. After due consideration, Hannah somewhat reluctantly admitted the seemliness of Simon’s proposal, and opened her well-rounded arms to him.