The Oath (15 page)

Pessach the Tailor was incredulous. He did not voice it, but he wanted some proof—powers, powers, words that are easily said …

“All right,” said Moshe. “I’ll give you proof.”

“But … how did you know …”

The tailor already regretted having spoken, having suspected. He scratched his head, pulled at his beard, wiped his lips. I wanted proof, I have it. Let’s not discuss it further. And yet, this is not
really
proof. Moshe is not stupid, far from it, he must have guessed, anybody would have guessed …

“I will tell you what you thought about this morning during
prayer.” And he told him. “You wondered why Zanvel the Milkman has not yet paid you for the caftan he ordered for his youngest daughter’s wedding.”

At that, the tailor felt faint.

“And if that is not enough for you, I will remind you of the dream you had last night.” And he did. “You were traveling in a luxurious coach drawn by four horses. You crossed an unfamiliar village. It was empty and you were frightened.”

“Yes, yes,” stammered the tailor. “I had forgotten …”

“And if you are still not convinced, I shall reveal to you all that you have seen and done since the day you were born …”

“No, no,” sighed Pessach, “say no more!”

Unfortunately, Moshe forgot to caution him against divulging his secret. Before the evening service had come to a close, the whole town had been informed. The news traveled from gathering to gathering, from circle to circle, from court to court; people commented, evaluated, embellished. Moshe had been a respected scholar, now he was a saint. He was not yet performing miracles, but that would come. He was already a seer; he saw the invisible, foraged the depths of the soul, delved into the very roots of consciousness, guessed and unveiled unformulated thoughts and intentions: a true Tzaddik!

There were those who suggested crowning him Rebbe. But the Hasidim protested. Rightly so. For that would have meant a break with their own Masters. Luckily for all, the idea was quickly abandoned, for Moshe would certainly have ridiculed it.

He was already the object of too many tokens of respect and affection. He was the pride of the community. People rose when he approached, interpreted every one of his gestures, anticipated his every wish. Even the Elders treated him as their superior. On Rosh Hashanah, he was assigned the choice benediction:
Maftir
. On Simhat Torah eve, he was given the best place in the
procession, next to the Rebbe and the president. And why not? Kolvillàg did not have many celebrities. From the surrounding villages, people came to admire him; some simply stared at him in wonder as though he had three eyes and two mouths. With him as a center of attraction, perhaps Kolvillàg would at long last know prosperity.

The fact is that his influence was salutary. Evidently awed by his gifts, people became better, or at least made an effort. The professional preachers castigated themselves before they judged others. The merchants lied less, the grocers adjusted their scales. The butchers, the millers no longer cheated—or at least, cheated less. The beggars’ lot improved; no sooner did they extend their palms than copper or silver coins were dropped in them. People decided it was better to be careful than risk public humiliation. The synagogues had never been so well attended, the officiating rabbis and cantors so respected. Satan must have been bursting with jealousy and spite: a whole town rejecting discord and sin. Never before had there been such a thing. Of course, such an accumulation of virtues is often marred by a flaw, always the same, that undermines and cancels them. When people are virtuous day after day, they tend to slide into self-righteousness and pride.

There were those in Kolvillàg who wallowed in vanity, expecting compliments and congratulations. In public, of course. Why not? Since Moshe had uncovered evil, he should recognize good as well. And just as people feared his reprimands, they now anticipated praise.

But Moshe did nothing of the kind. He refused to play the game. He exhibited the same indifference as before, remained unaffected by the change in morals. In vain did people wait for him to notice them, to smile at them. He continued not to see them.

And so the vexed townspeople vented their frustrations on the tailor.

“What a joker, your son. He made a fool of you, and you of us!”

And: “A breach of trust! We cover you with gold and you deceive us! Both of you are ingrates! Hypocrites!”

And also: “Like father, like son! Shameless liars both!”

The poor bewildered tailor was shattered. He realized his blunder, but how could he erase it from people’s memory? He literally fell ill. At first he equivocated, hoping that things might work out. When this hope failed to materialize, he poured out his heart to Moshe. “I have become the laughingstock of the town. I don’t dare go to services or even out on the street. People point at me, spit in my face. I don’t know what hole to crawl into, where to hide my shame. I don’t sleep any more, I don’t eat any more. I wish I could die …”

Moshe listened, surprised. “What can they want of you? What do they have against you?”

The tailor, forced to confess, began to sob. “It’s my fault, I know … I talked too much. I shouldn’t have. Forgive me …”

Moshe forgave him everything. But that was not the end of it. The tailor was convinced that his adopted son could reverse the trend. It was so simple: all he had to do was to repeat in public the performance given in private. A demonstration for strangers. Once, just once. A few words. And the people would know that the tailor and his son were not liars.

Pessach lamented so much and so long that once again Moshe gave in to pity. He promised to save his father from derision. Yes, he would demonstrate his powers. The following Saturday. Before the reading of the Torah. Now was he satisfied? Yes, Pessach the Tailor was satisfied.

He rushed to the marketplace, from there to the ritual baths, on to the Yeshiva, announcing everywhere that the hour of truth was at hand: he would be vindicated. The news created a sensation. The town was excited.
He
would speak at the synagogue.
He
would perform in public. What would he say? Would he keep his word? Would he rise to the occasion? The rest of that week he was the topic of conversation in every family. Opinions varied, but few were favorable. The consensus: it would be a disaster.

Moshe, my friend, I shall always remember your speech. I have read and reread it. I often do. My farsighted father recorded it in the Book. Let us open it, shall we?

This is how my father concluded his entry in the Book.

Strange, but everyone heeded Moshe’s request. It was as though he had ceased to exist. People pretended disinterest, and if, perchance, someone forgot and mentioned his name, people reacted by lifting a finger to their mouth. Why? Did they really believe in his adventure and its chances of success? By acceding to his wishes, were they offering him a chance or simply a ransom in exchange for his knowing silence? Did they refrain from speaking so that he too would not speak? The fact was that both sides scrupulously respected the tacit pact.

But it was only a temporary truce, eventually broken by the community, for whom Moshe had become embarrassing, cumbersome. His presence created doubts and suspicions, made people feel ill-at-ease, their freedom diminished, threatened. They no longer dared drink, sing, laugh or let themselves go. They felt watched, imprisoned. Clearly this could not go on indefinitely. They had to act, take strong measures. No community could live in a constant state of alert and continue to function.

Nocturnal meetings were held in a neighboring village, on the other side of the mountain, in the hope of eluding the dangerous person’s clairvoyance. Several dignitaries participated. These secret conferences had but one purpose, though a most arduous one to achieve: to solve the case of Moshe. The slightest false move could provoke the opposite effect. Mystics are so unpredictable. Let Moshe find out about the conspiracy and its aim, and he was capable of shouting whatever he knew from the rooftops. And since he knew everything, what was required now was patience, tact, know-how, caution—above all, caution. Ideally, one ought to have deprived this madman of his powers surreptitiously. Anyway, his messianic hallucinations had never been taken seriously, at least not as seriously as his soothsaying.
What difference did it make whether redemption came a little sooner or a little later—well, of course they were in a hurry, but they knew how to wait, they were used to it. On condition, however, not to have to live side by side with a raging madman who disturbed everybody by being different. How was he to be disarmed?

They talked and talked, and at last they thought they had found a way. Since Moshe felt such a need to isolate himself, well, he should be prevented from doing so. By imposing a presence on him, he would be forced to live with constraint, if not deception. It was as simple as the blessing for bread and wine. Since he displayed such a yearning for solitude, all they had to do was take it away. In other words, he had to settle down, take a wife, start a family. Then he would learn the problems of being husband and father, and everybody would sigh with relief.

A stroke of genius, undoubtedly. Everyone agreed. One detail remained. To convince the principal involved. Clearly not an easy task. It was a well-known fact that for years the most prominent families of the region, and even of the country, had been eager to welcome him as a son-in-law. He had refused to listen to all such talk. He was offered a sky of gold, a bride as beautiful and pure as Sarah the Matriarch—to no avail. One father offered to found a special Yeshiva for him to direct—to no avail. Impossible to tempt him, to entice him. Someone invoked the first commandment of the Torah, the one that orders man to perpetuate the species. Others are taking care of it, had been his reply, I have time. Was there any way to make him relent? Perhaps by exercising pressure on Pessach the Tailor, as in the past? No, the tailor, wary and unhappy, would not cooperate, not any more. And what about a delegation of rabbis? Wasted effort. Moshe was not impressed by delegations.
In the end it was Reuven, the cynic of the group, the
bon vivant
with the fleshy, puckered lips, who volunteered: “I have an idea: pity. I’ll get him with pity. Let me handle it.”