The Spinoza Problem (11 page)

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.”

 

 

 

O
nce 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.”

G
uten 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?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” mumbled Alfred. But it wasn’t entirely fine. On the contrary, this entire conversation was most odd: every word that came out
of Friedrich’s mouth was strange and unexpected. Even so, he trusted this man who had known him as a child. Friedrich had the aroma of “home.”

Closing his eyes again, Friedrich commenced to speak in a faraway voice: “Pillow fight—I tried but you wouldn’t play . . . I couldn’t get you to play. Serious—so, so serious. Order, order . . . toys, books, toy soldiers, everything very orderly . . . you loved those toy soldiers . . . deadly serious little boy . . . I carried you piggyback sometimes . . . I think you liked it . . . but you always jumped off quickly . . . was fun not all right? . . . house felt cold . . . motherless . . . father removed, depressed . . . you and Eugen never spoke . . . where were your friends? . . . never saw friends at your house . . . you were fearful . . . running to your room, closing your door, always running to your books . . .”

Friedrich stopped, opened his eyes, took a hearty gulp of ale, and turned his eyes to Alfred. “That’s all that comes out of my memory bank about you—perhaps other memories will surface later. Is this what you wanted, Alfred? I want to be sure. I want to give the brother of my closest friend what he wants and needs.”

Alfred nodded and then quickly turned his head, self-conscious about his amazement: never had he heard such talk before. Though Friedrich’s words were German, his language was an alien tongue.

“Then I’ll continue and retrieve Eugen’s comments about you.” Friedrich once again closed his eyes and a minute later spoke again in the same strange, faraway tone, “Eugen, speak to me of Alfred.” Friedrich then slipped into yet another voice, a voice perhaps meant to be Eugen’s voice.

“Ah . . . my shy fearful brother, a wonderful artist—he got all the family talent—I loved his sketches of Reval—the port and all the ships at anchor, the Teutonic castle with its soaring tower—they were accomplished drawings even for an adult, and he was only ten. My little brother—always reading—poor Alfred—a loner . . . so fearful of other children . . . not popular—the boys mocked him and called him ‘the philosopher’—not much love for him—our mother dead, our father dying, our aunts good-hearted but always busy with their own families—I should have done more for him, but he was hard to reach . . . and I was living on mere scraps myself.”

Friedrich opened his eyes, blinked once or twice and then, resuming his natural voice, said, “That’s what I remember. Oh, yes there was one other thing, Alfred, which I have mixed feelings about saying: Eugen blamed you for your mother’s death.”

“Blamed me? Me? I was only a couple of weeks old.”

“When someone dies, we often look for something, someone, to blame.”

“You can’t be serious. Are you? I mean Eugen really said that? It makes no sense.”

“We often believe things that make no sense. Of course you didn’t kill her, but I imagine Eugen harbors the thought that if his mother had never gotten pregnant with you, then she’d be alive now. But, Alfred, I’m guessing. I can’t recall his exact words, but I do know he had a resentment toward you that he himself labeled irrational.”

Alfred, now ashen, remained silent for several minutes. Friedrich stared at him, sipped some ale, and said gently, “I fear I may have said too much. But when a friend asks, I try to give all I can.”

“And that is a good thing. Thoroughness, honesty—good, noble German virtues. I commend you, Friedrich. And so much rings true. I have to admit that I have sometimes wondered why Eugen did not do more for me. And that taunt—‘Little philosopher’—how often did I hear that from the other boys! I think it influenced me greatly, and I plotted my revenge on all of them by becoming a philosopher after all.”

“At the Polytechnic? How is that possible?”

“Not exactly a certified philosopher—my degree is in engineering and architecture, but my true home was philosophy, and even at the Polytechnic I found some learned professors who guided my private readings. More than anything I have come to worship German clarity of thought. It is my only religion. Yet right now, at this very moment, I’m floundering in a muddled state of mind. In fact, I’m almost dizzy. Perhaps I just need time to assimilate all you’ve said.”