The Source

by James A. Michener

  “No,” the tormented giant pleaded.

  “With any one of them you could build an honest family …”

  “No!” the big man repeated, leaving his chair for the last time. “Today I shall marry Tirza.” And before the little rabbi could argue further, Yohanan had left the place of law, rushing into the larger, freer area of the town, where he ran through the streets until he came to the house where the deserted woman Tirza lived, and he swept her into the air, shouting, “We are married.” From the door of the house he cried into the street, “Three men of Israel, come to hear me!” And he collected a crowd before whom he held up a band of gold which he had bought from a Greek merchant, and in a proud voice announced, “Behold, the widow Tirza is consecrated unto me with this ring, according to the law of Moses and Israel.” And they were married; but Rabbi Asher the Groats Maker, watching from the edge of the crowd, knew that they were not married.

  As the rabbi returned home from the improvised street wedding, he grieved over the obstinacy of the big stonecutter and was about to enter his study when he was gripped by an irrational desire to leave the passions of the town and walk in the quieter countryside, so in a mood of perplexity he wandered toward the sloping hill that led from Makor down to the Damascus road, and he arrived there just as the procession of Queen Helena, the emperor’s mother, departed in grandeur for Ptolemais, and the little Jew stood aside as the horses, the donkeys, the palanquins, the soldiers and the bearded priests marched westward to the seaport, where their ship lay waiting. When they were gone Rabbi Asher started to return home, having forgotten in the excitement of their departure his intention to walk among the trees, but he had taken only a few steps when he was gripped by the shoulders, as it were, and turned back to his initial purpose.

  He left the ragged town and wandered among the gnarled olive trees; his attention was arrested by one so ancient that its interior was rotted away, leaving an empty shell through which one could see; but somehow the remaining fragments held contact with the roots, and the old tree was still vital, sending forth branches that bore good fruit; and as he studied this patriarch of the grove Asher thought that it well summarized the state of the Jewish people: an old society much of whose interior had rotted away, but whose fragments still held vital connection with the roots of God, and it was through these roots of law that Jews could ascertain the will of God and produce good fruit. He was distressed that the stonecutter had decided to ignore that law, for Asher was certain that disaster of some kind must follow.

  His attention was distracted from these matters by a gaudy bee eater flashing through the olive branches, above whose gray-green tips he could see a stork drifting idly on upward currents as if on his way to speak with God in heaven. As the rabbi stood thus, contemplating the mystery, he became aware of a noise at his feet, and he looked down to see a hoopoe bird rustling about in search of worms, and he watched as the industrious digger came upon a colony of ants. The groats maker bent down to study these minute creatures, saying to himself: Whether man looks to the soaring storks or to the tiny ants, what he sees is God. And as he knelt there close to the olive press, vacant now, for the fruit was not yet ripe, his closeness to God brought forth what could be described only as a vision: in the clearing reserved for the press he saw floating in the air a scroll of Torah, and around it—also suspended in air—a golden fence shimmering in sunlight; outside the fence were hundreds of Jews, young and old, male and female, reaching out their hands to encompass or perhaps damage the Torah, but the incandescent fence prevented them from doing either. And while he watched, a woman who could only have been Queen Helena of Constantinople, whom he had seen a few minutes before, knelt and caused a new church to rise from the earth, and about her head shone a radiance which filled the orchard; she vanished and her church, too, but the Torah remained, still protected by its golden fence. With blinding light those two dreamlike realities hung in the air, imprinting themselves upon Asher ha-Garsi’s brain; then slowly even the Torah vanished and he was left alone.

  To interpret this vision he did not require wisdom. He sat on the stones of the olive press and stared at the gnarled trees with that insight which comes to a man only once or twice in his lifetime, allowing him to see ahead into the structure of the years. His first impression was of the radiance that had surrounded Queen Helena, and the power of Byzantium whereby she had drawn from the earth of the Holy Land a new church, and he foresaw that the Galilee would never again be the same. A new force, represented by Helena and her son, had entered the world, and Rabbi Asher knew that it would never be turned back. The position of the Jew in relation to this new religion would remain undetermined for some centuries, perhaps forever, but a dominant power had arrived and to ignore it would be folly. If Queen Helena, kneeling in the public square of Makor, said there was to be a basilica on that spot, Rabbi Asher was willing to believe that one would rise, for in his vision the crown of this queen had been neither copper nor brass; it was pure, radiant gold, and he knew that gold carried with it the power to command.

  But his more persistent vision was that of the Torah protected by its golden fence, and he recognized this as an imperative to him personally. In wondering what he must do he recalled certain events that had taken place not far from this spot when, two and a half centuries before, General Vespasian had finally crushed Makor, destroying its walls and killing or enslaving all Jews inside. In those fearful days the greatest Jew that Makor was to produce had escaped through the water tunnel at midnight and had gone on to rally the Jews after the traitor Josephus had aided the Romans in their destruction of Jerusalem. Rab Naaman of Makor, the old man was called, a white-bearded rabbi who had lived to be a hundred and three. In his ancient years, when he weighed less than ninety pounds and could scarcely be heard through his ashen beard, he had discovered a student much like himself, a peasant who till the age of forty could neither read nor write but who had developed into one of the leading scholars of Jewish history—the legalist Akiba—and these two self-made men conspired to save Judaism; for they assembled the law whereby Jews could live now that the external focus of their religion, the temple in Jerusalem, was no more. Once all Jews had lived either in Galilee or the south, but now only a small percentage did so, for the Romans had driven the majority to Spain, to Egypt, to Babylonia, to Arabia and to countries not yet named. How scattered they were, how powerless, yet always bound to Israel by the work that Rab Naaman and Akiba had performed.

  In the stillness of the olive grove, where the original patriarch Zadok had once talked with God direct, Rabbi Asher listened to the voices of Naaman and Akiba as they were remembered in the Galilee.

  “Rab Naaman of Makor said: Build a fence around the Torah, that it may be protected from thoughtless infraction.”

  “Rabbi Akiba said: That simple man who gives delight to his fellow creatures gives delight also to God.”

  “Rab Naaman of Makor said: To live within the law of Moses is to live within the arms of God.”

  “Rabbi Akiba said: They came to me crying that since the Romans have destroyed the land, Israel is poor, but I said that poverty is as becoming to Israel as a red harness on the neck of a white horse.”

  “Rab Naaman of Makor said: I complained, ‘There are two men and only one gives to the poor.’ God said, ‘You are wrong. There is only one man, because he who will not give to the poor is an animal.’ ”

  “Rabbi Akiba said: Jews are born to hope, and in desolation they must hope even more strongly. For it is written that the temple shall be destroyed and then rebuilt. How could we possibly rebuild it unless the Romans had first destroyed Jerusalem?”

  “Rab Naaman of Makor said: Like a twisted olive tree in its five-hundredth year, giving then its finest fruit, is man. How can he give forth wisdom until he has been crushed and turned in the hand of God?”

  “Rabbi Akiba said: Israel must not be like the pagans, thanking their wooden gods when good happens and cursing them when evil comes. When good co
mes, the Jews thank God, and when evil comes, they thank Him too.”

  “Rab Naaman of Makor said: There is the law, and before that there is the law.”

  “But Rabbi Akiba said: He who glories merely in his knowledge of the law is like the carcass of a dead animal lying in the road. To be sure, the rotting beast attracts the attention of all, but whoever passes by holds his hand to his nose, for it stinks.”

  For some time Rabbi Asher recalled the homilies of the dead sages, and in the afternoon he rose inspired and returned to town happily like a bridegroom, for he concluded that he understood God’s wishes: in the vision Queen Helena had been shown building a Christian church, and obviously God approved, for she had appeared in radiant light. To Rabbi Asher this meant that he, too, must erect a holy building, and he marched to the area south of that which Queen Helena had staked out for her Christians, and there he indicated where a small synagogue should be built. He then assembled his Jews and said, “For years we’ve been worshiping in my house, and it is no longer proper for us to do so. We shall build a synagogue like those in Kefar Nahum and Biri.” His suggestion met with approval until one cautious man asked, “And how shall we pay for it?”

  Here Rabbi Asher was perplexed, for the Jews of Makor were an impoverished lot. Of the thousand people then living in the area—the smallest population it had known for centuries—more than eight hundred were Jews, but they controlled none of the major industries. “How shall we pay for it?” the man asked again, and there was silence.

  Then, from the rear, a big hulking man rose to his feet, the stonecutter Yohanan, and he said through his jutting teeth, “Rabbi’s right. We ought to have a synagogue. You feed me and my wife, I’ll build one better than Kefar Nahum’s.”

  The Jews were aware that only a few hours before this big man with beetling eyebrows and hairy hands had defied the rabbi, and they expected God’s Man to reject his offer, but to their surprise Rabbi Asher announced, “From Ptolemais to Tverya, Yohanan is the best stonecutter, and I will give his family their groats.” In a few moments he extracted other promises which would permit the synagogue to be started, and thus began that curious but fruitful partnership between the groats maker and the stonecutter which was to make Makor beautiful again.

  Prior to this the synagogues of Galilee had usually been drab affairs in the Jewish tradition of a bleak exterior and a warm interior, but now the hulking, almost brutal, stonecutter displayed a knack for carving the white limestone his donkeys hauled in from the quarries, and before long the walls of the synagogue began to show stone birds and turtles and fish, so that during the second year of his work the Jews of Makor saw that Yohanan, using the poetry of stone, was building a masterpiece. It seemed that the uglier his outward life became, the more delicately he used his chisel, so that if he had not yet found a way to live within Judaism he at least knew how to create a home in which Judaism could prosper.

  For his outward life remained ugly. After the synagogue was well begun Tirza gave birth to a son, which disturbed her, for she had to face the fact that since the boy was a bastard, he could never be a proper Jew; and she began to imagine that the women of Makor condemned her as she passed. One day she ran screaming to her husband, “Rabbi Asher follows me with accusing eyes wherever I go!” She became obsessed with the idea that he was damning her for having broken the law and began to whine complainingly to her common-law husband, “Yohanan, take me to Egypt or Antioch.” When he asked what good that would do, she could give no coherent explanation but offered the irrational suggestion that there they might find her first husband. The stonecutter tried to reason with her, but nothing he said consoled her, so in perplexity he went to the rabbi and said stupidly, “Tell me what to do.”

  The anguish of Yohanan’s plea impelled God’s Man to take over and he said, “I’m sure that God holds Tirza to be your wife, even though illegally. I, too, must accept responsibility for her, and if she thinks that I have personally offended her, I must assure her otherwise.” And the little man left his study to apologize to Tirza; but when he reached her house she was gone. Rabbi Asher trailed her to Ptolemais, but she had already taken ship for Alexandria, and when he sent an appeal to the rabbis of that city they replied that she had wandered off to Spain.

  Now Rabbi Asher proved himself a true Man of God, for he summoned Yohanan and said, “Even though your bastard son can never be a complete Jew, let us at least do for him what we can,” and he arranged for the boy’s circumcision, during which the awkward stonecutter stood holding his son as if the child were an apparition from another world. “Let his name be Menahem the Comforter,” Rabbi Asher said as he completed the covenant between the infant and God, and when it became apparent that Yohanan would never learn to care for the boy, Rabbi Asher arranged for different women of the town to look after the child so that Menahem, a handsome, square-jawed creature with large black eyes and bright intelligence, might grow as other boys did.

  His father, chin drooping on his chest as if he were a confused animal, lounged about the town after his work was done, talking roughly out of the side of his mouth and serving as a focal point for the irresponsible younger men of Makor. “This town is nothing,” he grumbled. “If you want to see the world travel inland from Antioch. Edessa! They have wine in Edessa I can still taste. Persia! I was a fool ever to leave Persia. Girls from sixteen nations gather there and they love a man who earns a little money.” He was a bad influence but was allowed to remain because he showed such skill with the chisel.

  One evening when Rabbi Asher came to inspect the day’s work he had the sensation that his synagogue was growing from the earth like a stone flower, and he was content that in building this lovely place he was accomplishing God’s wish as delivered in the vision. Then he saw Yohanan working alone among the rocks, chipping casually at a chunk of raw limestone, and as Rabbi Asher watched how skillfully the stonecutter brought beautiful design out of the chaos of the rock he said, “Can you understand now, Yohanan, how the hammer and chisel of the law bring form to the chaos of life?” The big man looked up and for a brief moment seemed to catch a glimmer of what the rabbi was attempting to explain, but the spark died. At that spot, during a period of ten thousand years, ninety-nine per cent of all sparks struck by either flint or mind had flamed momentarily and died; but now Rabbi Asher saw what his stonecutter was making: a linked series of plain crosses whose ends extended at right angles, forming a kind of heavy, squarish wheel, and as soon as the rabbi saw this motif he visualized its effectiveness as a frieze for the inner walls of the synagogue, for the inherent movement of the wheel teased the eye forward from one point to the next.

  “Perhaps we could use a line of them? Around the wall?” Asher ventured to suggest.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” the stonecutter growled.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw it in Persia. A running wheel.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Swastika.” And in this manner the notable design, common throughout Asia, became virtually the symbol of the Galilean synagogue, for all visiting rabbis who saw the effective frieze wanted swastikas for their buildings, too.

  So the synagogue progressed and Rabbi Asher became smug; he even visited the quarries to pick out superior stones, but one day as he returned along the Damascus road he felt the world suddenly grow quiet, as if all birds had fled and he alone were present. A choking filled his throat and his knees were pulled, as if by giant fingers, to the earth, and as he knelt in the dust he witnessed the same burning light that had accompanied his first vision, and once more it illuminated the Torah and the golden fence that protected it. This time there was not one church but many, with towers and battlements, and the synagogue was in ruins. All the work that Yohanan had completed, under Rabbi Asher’s urging, had apparently accomplished nothing. The churches and the ruins faded until there remained only the Torah and the fence, noble and unchanged, so blinding in its power that Rabbi Asher threw himself prone in the
roadway, a frail-bodied Jew with a long black beard to whom God was speaking, and he now had to acknowledge that on the former occasion he had not understood.

  “Almighty God, what did I do wrong?” he pleaded, knocking his head in the dust. The only answer was the shimmering vision of the Torah and the fence; but from his prostrate position the groats maker saw something that he had overlooked the first time: the fence guarding the Torah was incomplete. God’s divine law was not fully protected, and now the intention of the vision was made manifest. Rabbi Asher was being summoned to dedicate the rest of his life not to the building of an earthly synagogue but to the completion of the divine law.

  “O God!” the humble little man whispered. “Am I worthy to go to Tverya?” And as soon as he pronounced that name the golden fence completed itself and he bowed his head to accept the heavenly commission. “I shall place my feet upon the road to Tverya,” he said.

  In the middle years of the fourth century there was in the Roman city of Tiberias, called Tverya by the Jews, a lively community of thirteen synagogues, a large library and an assembly of elderly rabbis who met in continuous session to discuss the Torah and its later commentaries, seeking thus to uncover the laws which would govern all subsequent Judaism. For hours and even months they debated each phrase until its meaning was made clear, and it was to this body of men that Rabbi Asher directed himself in the spring of 329. He had no need to hurry, for the assembly had been in session, off and on, for a hundred years and would continue for another century and a half, if not in Tverya then in Babylonia across the desert.

  On his white mule Rabbi Asher rode eastward over the beautiful hills of Galilee and looked out upon the broad plains across which Egyptians and Assyrians had battled. He rode into the cliff-perched town of Sephet, which General Josephus had fortified against the Romans of Vespasian, and it was from that high point that he caught his first sight of Tverya, its white marble buildings scintillant against the blue waters of the lake. “If men can find truth anywhere,” he said to his mule, “they ought to find it down there.”