Legends of Our Time Read online

  He popped up almost everywhere, always unexpectedly, only to disappear a week later, a year later, without leaving any trace. He would turn up, always by chance, on the other side of a frontier, a mountain: as miracle-working rabbi, businessman, servile beadle. He had been around the world several times without money, without passport; no one will ever know how or to what end. Perhaps he had done it precisely so that no one would ever know.

  His birthplace was, now Marrakech, now Vilna, then Kishinev, Safed, Calcutta, or Florence. He produced so many proofs, so many details that he managed to be convincing about each place as the final verity. But the next day the edifice would crumble: he would describe, in passing, the enchanting atmosphere of his native town, somewhere in China or Tibet. The vastness of his exaggerations exceeded the level of falsehood: it was a philosophy.

  The outcome of his real or imaginary voyages? He talked much and well. He had mastered some thirty ancient and modern languages, including Hindi and Hungarian. His French was pure, his English perfect, and his Yiddish harmonized with the accent of whatever person he was speaking with. The Vedas and the Zohar he could recite by heart. A wandering Jew, he felt at home in every culture.

  Always dirty, hairy, he looked like a hobo turned clown, or a clown playing hobo. He wore a tiny hat, always the same, on top of his immense round bloated head; his glasses, with their thick, dirty lenses, blurred his vision. Anyone encountering him in the street without knowing him would step out of his way with distaste. To his own great satisfaction, moreover.

  For three years, in Paris, I was his disciple. At his side I learned a great deal about the dangers of language and reason, about the ecstasies of sage and madman, about the mysterious progress of a thought down through the centuries and of a hesitation through a multitude of thoughts. But nothing about the secret which consumed or protected him against a diseased humanity.

  Our first meeting was brief and stormy. It took place in a small synagogue, on the Rue Pavé, where I often went on Friday nights to take part in the services welcoming the Sabbath.

  After prayers, the faithful gathered around an old man, repulsive in appearance, who, with flamboyant gestures, began to explain the Sedra—the biblical passage—for that week. His voice sounded harsh, disagreeable. His delivery was rapid, his phrases ran into one another, he was difficult to follow, and this was intentional: it amused him to confuse his audience. We understood each word, each idea, and yet we had the impression that we were being deluded, that the old man was making fun of all who claimed to understand. But no one resisted: to let oneself be taken in became one of the mind’s pleasures—an unhealthy one.

  Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he saw me. He interrupted himself.

  “Who are you?”

  I told him my name.

  “Foreigner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Refugee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where from?”

  “Oh,” I said, “from far away. From over there.”

  “Religious?”

  I did not answer. He repeated: “Religious?”

  I still did not answer.

  He said: “Ah, I understand.”

  And he went on with his questioning without giving my embarrassment a thought.

  “Student?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’d like to study philosophy.”

  “Why?”

  I remained silent.

  But he insisted: “Why?”

  “I’m searching.”

  “What are you searching for?”

  I was going to correct him: “whom,” not “what.” But I got hold of myself and answered: “I don’t know yet.”

  He was not convinced.

  “What are you looking for?”

  I said: “For an answer.”

  His voice was cutting: “An answer to what?”

  I was going to correct him: “to whom,” not “to what.” But I looked for the simplest way out: “To my questions.”

  He let out a spiteful little laugh.

  “Ah,” he said, “you have questions, you?”

  “Yes, I do have some.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Give them to me; I’ll give them back to you.”

  I looked at him, confused. I did not understand.

  “I will,” he said, “I’ll give them back to you with all the answers.”

  “What?” I cried. “You have answers to questions? And you expect to be able to state them publicly?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “If you want proof, I can provide it on the spot.”

  I was silent a moment and said: “No, in that case I prefer to take you at your word.”

  “I don’t like that.” He was becoming irritable.

  “I can’t help that,” I said, blushing. “But if you can answer my questions, then I no longer have any.”

  The old man—how old was he, seventy? older?—stared at me for a long time; so did the faithful. Suddenly I was afraid, I felt threatened. Where could I hide?

  The old man bent his heavy head forward.

  “Ask me a question just the same,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

  “I told you: I no longer have any.”

  “Of course you do. Just one. No matter which. You’ll see, you won’t regret it. You have nothing to fear.”

  I was not quite convinced. On the contrary, I had everything to dread. The first submission would bring another in its wake. There would be no end to it, no way out.

  “Well?” said the old man, friendly now. “Just one question.”

  My obstinacy made him furrow his brow; a dark flash passed through his eyes.

  “This is pure stupidity, my boy. I offer you a short-cut and you reject it: are you sure you have the right? Who told you your coming to France had any other purpose than to meet me?”

  My heart was beating fast, I bit my lips. An inner voice put me on guard. I was at a crossroads, I had to be careful, keep my eyes open, remain quiet, avoid taking a road that might not be my own.

  “Well? You choose to be stubborn? Have you lost your tongue? your memory? Or do you think you’re strong enough to disobey me?”

  He was becoming impatient. My fear grew, I was suffocating. Like a child, I saw a messenger in every stranger: it was up to me alone to receive his promise or his curse. My teachers had taught me never to trust appearances, to suffer a thousand humiliations sooner than inflict a single one. According to the Talmud, to humiliate someone in public is to shed his blood. Refusing to play this old man’s game was to attack his honor.

  “Have you decided?” he asked, his eyes mean. “Are you finally going to open your mouth?”

  With difficulty, prudently, so as to have done with him, I managed to query him about a certain passage in the Bible. Too easy a question for his taste. He demanded another: still too easy. And another. His face tightening, he drove me on.

  “Are you making fun of me? Go ahead, throw yourself into it, go to the end, all the way to obscurity, and bring back to me whatever escapes you, whatever baffles you.”

  After my tenth or twelfth try, he declared himself more or less satisfied. He closed his eyes and went into an explication, the brilliance and rigor of which dazzled me. I was already his, I entrusted him with my will, my reason. He spoke and I could only admire the extent of his knowledge, the richness of his thought. His words wiped out distances, obstacles: there was no longer beginning or end, there was only the voice, harsh and disagreeable, of a man explaining to the creator the mysteries and inadequacies of his creation.

  When he finished I said, “That was beautiful.”

  I had been moved and I would have liked to shake his hand. And tell him: “You trouble me, I will follow you.” But his expression suddenly changed and I dared not move. His bloated face grew purple with rage. He approached me, seized me by the shoulders, shook me violently, and began to shout with contempt.

  “That’s all
you can find to say? That it was beautiful? You imbecile, I scoff at beauty. It’s nothing but façade, it’s only decoration: words die away in the night without enriching it. When will you understand that a beautiful answer is nothing? Nothing more than illusion? Man defines himself by what disturbs him and not by what reassures him. When will you understand that you are living and searching in error, because God means movement and not explanation.”

  With that he relaxed his attack and hurried out quickly, leaving behind his heavy and mysterious anger.

  Somebody burst out laughing and consoled me.

  “Don’t let it bother you, young man. He’s strange in his relations with people who admire him or flee him. You mustn’t hold it against him, that would only lead you into his trap anyway. You mustn’t take his insults to heart. He likes to provoke suffering, it’s his favorite pastime, his stimulant. He has already ridiculed people older than you, more learned too. He wouldn’t be able to survive without his daily victim.”

  And so, for the first time, I came up against his legend. I learned many stories praising his strength; he knew everything about everybody while always himself remaining in shadow. He had read every work, important or obscure, penetrated every secret, traveled through every country; he was at home everywhere and nowhere. Nobody knew where he lived, what he lived on. Who were his friends, his rivals? People called him Rebbe and did not even know whether he was observant. He recognized no law, no authority, neither that of the community nor that of the individual. Did he submit to divine will? There again, mystery. He seemed to arrive, always unexpectedly, from a distant shore, some enchanted country. The years had no hold over his body, nor over his mind: he was ageless. He remained the same, defying the imagination, provoking time itself.

  Until late in the evening, those Jews in the synagogue talked to me about him, and I listened, straining painfully, as I had listened long ago, as a child, amazed, to the stories the Hasidim used to tell with such fervor, between the prayers of Minhah and Maariv, stories of the miracles wrought by the Tzadik, the companion and servant of God.

  “Don’t let it bother you, young man,” repeated the man who was trying to console me. “It’s a privilege to be insulted by our visitor.”

  “But who is he? What does he do when he doesn’t have a victim in hand? Where does he hide and why? What must one do to meet him?”

  The Jews shrugged their shoulders. Some thought him fabulously rich, others completely impoverished. “He’s a madman who makes fun at our expense,” declared one old gray-beard. His neighbor protested: “No, no, he is a saint, one of the just, and his mission on earth is to shake us up; we all need to have someone stir us up from time to time, no?” The bearded man assented: “Indeed, you are right, we do need it, otherwise the soul would rot in its casing. But I tell you, I don’t like our visitor, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t trust me; I think he’s in the service of Satan, it’s Satan who protects him and assures him his victories. To what end, at what price? I’d like to know. I’m afraid of knowing.”

  Someone recalled the following episode. During the occupation, our itinerant orator was arrested by the Germans. When interrogated by a Gestapo officer, he declared he was Alsatian, Aryan, and, what’s more, a professor of higher mathematics in a German university. The officer guffawed:

  “You teach at the university? You? You expect me to swallow that?”

  “Certainly,” said the vagabond, without blinking.

  “Show me your papers.”

  “I lost them. In a bombing raid.”

  The officer leaned forward, then said to the accused: “You’ve fallen into the wrong hands, my little Yid. In civilian life I myself am a professor of higher mathematics.”

  The Jew was not the least bit upset.

  “What luck, my dear colleague! Happy to make your acquaintance! Naturally, I could propose that you question me. But, I have a better suggestion. I will give you a little examination. Here is a problem. If you find the solution, shoot me: I promise not to protest. But if it escapes you, you will let me go without asking any more questions.”

  The officer accepted the bargain. The “professor” soon found himself free again and then succeeded in crossing into Switzerland, where the Chief Rabbi became one of his devoted admirers. How did he manage to get across the border?

  “Nothing could be more logical,” said the suspicious old man. “It was Satan who came to his aid.”

  “Not at all,” retorted his neighbor. “Do you really imagine Satan would help a Jew save his skin? I maintain our visitor is blessed—which would explain everything. Death had no hold over David while he was chanting his Psalms; in the same way, it is powerless before our visitor so long as he disturbs our torpor. Like all of us, death stands in awe of his temper.”

  That night I could not and did not want to sleep. After leaving the synagogue I walked the streets and alleys of the sleeping city, driven on by an unacknowledged hope that I would see him rise before me, behind me, suddenly, like a criminal, like a sage in the guise of a beggar, to tell me: “Dawn is breaking, follow me.” Dawn broke, I went home alone.

  I had to find him again, no matter at what cost. It was him I had been seeking since the end of the war, since the death of my teachers, since their fire consumed itself among the burning coals, somewhere in Silesia. He alone would be in a position to take their place and show me what road to follow, and perhaps even reveal where it leads. To find him again, confront him, beg him. But where? With whose help? With what clue, with what help? I returned often to the synagogue on Rue Pavé; the faithful already knew me and understood the true purpose of my visits: it was not God who drew me there. They teased me, indulgently: “Hey there, young man, you want to be insulted some more?” “Yes,” I answered. They smiled: “Patience, young man, patience. He will return, he always returns, but it is impossible to predict when, with him it’s impossible to predict anything.”

  Yes, he was the wandering Jew. Was he still in France? Think him here, he was already elsewhere, always somewhere else, in India, in Morocco, in Katmandu, in the heat of the desert or sailing the high seas: how was one to know? With him, all certainties turned to dust.

  A few months later. Gare du Nord. I was taking the train for Taverny. I made my way there twice a week to teach a class on the prophets to a group of young Polish and Hungarian refugees, all of them survivors of the camps; in transit in France, they were living in an O.S.E. chateau while awaiting visas for Palestine.

  My nose in my notes, I was going over my lecture when someone called out to me. I gave a start: that disagreeable, harsh voice. Yes, it was he. Unshaven, dirty, in rags, wearing the same old little hat: a circus character.

  “Come here!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “There’s a seat here, next to me!”

  The passengers shot us disapproving glances. I felt embarrassed and relieved at the same time: embarrassed to be seen in the company of a creature so ugly, but relieved to have found him again at last, when I had been sure I would never see him again.

  “Where are you going?”

  I told him the purpose of my trip. He gave his irony free rein.

  “No, really? Extraordinary! I’d have expected anything but that! You, a professor, you! Now we’ve seen everything! The seeker turned guide, that’s it, isn’t it? Well, good, tell me about it. Tell me what you teach them, your pupils. Let me profit from it, too, won’t you?”

  I did not want to, but he insisted. Seized with uneasiness, I could oblige only by mumbling some incoherent sentences about the Book of Job: that tale was in high style then, every survivor of the holocaust could have written it. In my class I spoke of the origin of the dialogue between man and his fellowman. And between God and Satan. I also dealt with the importance attributed to silence as a setting. Then the idea of friendship and justice, and to what extent the one diminishes the other. And the notion of victory in prophetic thought. What is man? Ally of God or simply his toy? His triumph or his fall?


  Feigning interest, my companion stared at me with a condescending look. He was enjoying himself, that was obvious. He did not interrupt, but periodically emitted dry groans which added to my agitation: I no longer knew what I was saying, nor what I was trying to prove. Everything was muddled in my mind, I was hearing myself talk and it was someone else who was reciting a badly-learned, disjointed lesson. Everything rang false. Finally, I stopped, out of breath, on the verge of tears.

  “That’s all?” asked the hobo, implacable.

  “Yes, I think so …”

  “Ah well, poor Job,” he scoffed, “as if he hadn’t already suffered enough without you!”

  With that, he subjected me to a close interrogation which was to have been the final blow. My knowledge, acquired over the years at the cost of many sleepless nights and much renunciation, now slipped away like sand. I believed I knew the Talmud? Mistake. I thought I understood Rashi’s commentaries? Illusion. I could recite the Psalms by heart? So much the worse; that was pure presumption since I did not even grasp the first line.

  The blood was pounding in my temples, a vague pain was spreading through my body. Then I had lived for nothing, cheating, lying to myself. I had wasted my childhood, my youth; all my experience was nothing but empty boast. Like Job, I cursed the day I was born, I wanted to die, to disappear, to expunge my shame, to redeem myself. The hobo found this amusing. The more I talked, the deeper I sank into my own ignorance. I was touching madness, I was going to lose the use of my tongue, become a child again, speechless, innocent. I began to pray: “Please, God, let us reach Taverny soon, before it is too late, because I can bear it no more.” Taverny signified the promised land; there torturer and victim would say good-bye, or better farewell, my punishment would come to an end. The slowness of the suburban train exasperated me. Ordinarily the trip lasted an hour, but now it seemed to be taking eternity. Still, the hobo granted me no respite: his harsh and unpleasant voice pursued me. I thought: “The gray-bearded old man at the synagogue was right; he is Satan, he wants to destroy me; I won’t put up with him any longer, let him go away, let him leave me in peace, I won’t play his game anymore.”