by Elie Wiesel
Over the years, János would examine many portraits of his Savior painted or drawn by a variety of artists in many periods of history. He became familiar with these many portrayals and was recognized as an expert. A glance was enough for him to identify the artist, and the circumstances under which he had worked. People came from afar to ask the parish priest in the remote province of Székesváros to explicate or authenticate the work of a master—or a forger’s copy. He became the enemy of deception, and the defender of Christ’s honor and love. For the widow Báranyi’s adored son had chosen the priesthood as his vocation. She had tried to dissuade him at first; he was her only son, and she would rather have seen him father a large family, and, most of all, be happier than she had been. But he knew how to make his case: “Did you not tell me time and again when I was a child that I owed my miraculous recovery to Him? Then must I not consecrate my life to Him?” The poor woman was not able to debate him; she could only nod and swallow her tears. “Yes, my son, you’re right, of course you’re right. You learned in the seminary how to put words together, but still . . .” “But what, Mama?” “What’s to become of us if you have no children? Someday I’ll die, and then someday you’ll die, and there’ll be no one left of our poor family. That’s why I’m weeping.” In response, he drew from the pocket of his cassock his first portrait of Jesus, the one she had given him to kiss when he was a child and dying; he was never without it. “Be not afraid, Mama. He will always be with us.” “Yes, of course, of course, my son. Our good Lord Jesus will be here after we’re gone. He is life. . . .” “He is life everlasting,” János intoned. He was blissfully content, but his mother was torn between her good fortune at seeing her son happy and the thought that she had lost the son she adored to the beloved Son of God.
But now, in the horror-filled night that lay like a pall over the city, the Archbishop could not understand why the Christ of his dream did not resemble any of the portraits he had been looking at since childhood. And yet, the Christ of his dream had a familiar face. That made him tremble, as if he had just committed a sin for which no forgiveness could be imagined.
Hananèl, the young Kabbalah scholar known as the “Blessed Madman,” is seated at his table, a small dusty volume open before him. He is rereading the commentary in the Midrash on the section in the Book of Job that deals with the individual’s responsibility to remember: “Shortly before a being is to leave his earthly existence, the Lord appears to him and says, ‘Record all you have accomplished.’ The man does as he is told and sets his seal to what he has written.” The young scholar scratches his bushy black beard and puzzles over the passage: Why does the Lord have to go to the trouble of personally reminding every individual to prepare his final accounting? Why not send an angel to do it? Suddenly, he glances up to see the “beadle,” his friend and faithful aide. Hananèl gives him a mildly reproachful look: Why is the beadle disturbing him at this late hour? But as usual Hananèl quickly dismisses the thought. In the time they have been together—five years, or more—the bond of affection and understanding that joins them in the search for truth has made them almost equals. So when Hananèl speaks, his manner is playful. “You can’t sleep, Mendel? What’s bothering you? Not your sins, I hope. As far as I know, you don’t have many of them. I’ve learned to read your intentions and evaluate your deeds, and everything in you is pure. And yet instead of sleeping, you come here and interrupt my studying—well, maybe that’s your sin. . . .”
He sees that something is troubling his friend. Usually, “Big Mendel”—as he is called, as if there were another by that name in his circle—maintains his outward composure. Self-assured in his words and his actions, he always finds the way to be respectful but frank in his dealings. He never lets himself be humiliated or diminished, even by the Kabbalist scholar whose voice silences the most fluent of demons. Only Big Mendel may speak freely to Hananèl, may tell him what his rich and powerful visitors would rather he not know. But right now, he seems distraught, somehow deprived of the power of speech. All he does in answer to the questions of the Blessed Madman, whom he insists, despite the other’s protests, on addressing as “Rebbe,” is shrug, as if to say, The Rebbe won’t believe me. . . . What I have to tell him may seem ridiculous, but it is serious. At last, he stammers, “Hmm, Rebbe, in the waiting room, yes, down at the end of the hall—well, it’s almost out-of-doors—there’s a priest waiting. . . .”
The Blessed Madman makes no attempt to hide his surprise. “Did I hear you right, Mendel? A priest, you did say a priest? Outside? And he’s waiting? What’s he waiting for? The Messiah maybe? No, his Messiah already came, and the world’s no different for it. . . .”
“He wants to see the Rebbe,” Mendel says, avoiding the scholar’s eyes. “He says he has a message for the Rebbe—an important message.”
The Rebbe pulls out a handkerchief and sets it on the book he has been studying, to keep his place. “Mendel,” he says, “if a priest comes to see a Jew, that doesn’t bode well. Yet if the Jew has to go see the priest, that’s far worse.”
Mendel is knotting his fingers. “What must I say to him, Rebbe?”
“Ask him to come in.” He sighs and adds, “May the Creator of all things—blessed be He and blessed be His name—may He have mercy on us.”
Young Hananèl suddenly feels old, as if he is weighted down by all the years lived by others, by his precursors. He finds it difficult to stand. Leaning on the beadle’s arm, he manages to get to his feet, then sits back down immediately. Why show even the slightest sign of weakness to a visitor who travels by night and doubtless wishes him no good? In his mind’s eye he glimpses scenes long buried in the sands of time. In Paris, during the reign of Louis IX, the queen mother, Blanche de Castille, presided over a debate between the famous Rabbi Yehiel, representing the Jewish faith, and Nicolas Donin, the infamous renegade—may his name be erased forever—now become spokesman for the Christian faith. In Barcelona, Rabbi Moses ben Nahman, known by the acronym Ramban, confronted Pablo Christiani in the presence of the king and queen. The Jewish scholar won the debate but had to flee. And in the cathedral at Tortosa, Rabbi Joseph Albo and twenty erudite Jews faced Geronimo de Santa Fe in a disputation, on the one side, knowledge, on the other, slander. And what does all this have to do with the Blessed Madman? Is it now his turn to defend his people in public debate? Is he worthy, is he capable of it? In his mind he summons his ancestors to lend him their strength and their virtue. With their support, he will be able to hold his own against his adversaries, above all to preserve his dignity: the honor of a Jew serving the God of Israel. He smiles faintly. “Show the priest in, Mendel. Who knows? Perhaps he needs our help. In the world of our Lord, anything is possible. Miracles can happen even today.”
Mendel leaves, and Hananèl remains absorbed by his impure thoughts. He has difficulty controlling the trembling in his left arm. Though the Blessed Madman has no idea of the reason for the priest’s visit, he has been expecting it, or, rather, he has been expecting something from the outside world. He senses that some great evil is brewing for the Jewish communities of Hungary. Is this what the priest has come to tell him?
Mendel is back, but he is by himself. “Rebbe, I will show him in, but if he takes the Rebbe away, I go with you. Is that clear? I promised your worthy parents— may their saintliness protect us!—that I would watch over you. Does the Rebbe remember that?”
“I remember,” the young scholar replies. Yes, he remembers the event to which Mendel is referring. His heart is beating faster. He has learned that man must not look too far, or too high.
“In that case, I’ll—” Mendel starts to say.
“May the Lord above protect us,” says the young Master, interrupting.
Once again, he senses that the moments he is about to live through are linked to the mystical knowledge he has acquired: the names of the angels and the powers they will confer on whoever knows to invoke them according to the manner told to Adam by the angel Raziel and transmitted by
whispered word of mouth by the very few chosen ones from generation to generation. How to disarm the evil intentions of any enemy of Israel. How to act on events in such a way as to change their course. . . . And also, thanks to the backing of the old Kabbalist Rabbi Kalonimus, his guide and revered Master, he knows how to bring about the ascension of the soul to the heavenly tribunal, where the destiny of humanity is decided.
Yes, he remembers.
He even remembers what he would rather forget: the unhappy event that gave him his nickname. Before that, he was just Hananèl.
The only disciple of old Rabbi Kalonimus, he was as attached to him as he was to his father, if not more so. Hananèl had not hesitated a moment when the Master of the mysteries had suggested that the two of them, with the Lord’s help, could precipitate the ultimate events and thus hasten the Day of Deliverance. “I am willing,” he said. But the old Kabbalist had warned him: “You realize there are dangers, don’t you?” “Yes, Rabbi, I do.” “And you’re not afraid?” “Yes, I am afraid, but you taught me to overcome fear.” Rabbi Kalonimus gazed at him for a long moment, then said, “Our forefathers are fortunate to have begotten you.” And he added, “Receive their blessing as well as mine. Like Rabbi Akiva, you will enter in peace into the Garden of Knowledge, and, like him, leave in peace.”
There was nothing else to do, Hananèl reflected. The children of Israel had been too long in exile; they could bear no more. The ordeal was too much. The enemy was too powerful, his designs too cruel. And the prophet Elijah was too far away. The descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob could no longer hold out.
Thus the Master and his young disciple entered on a perilous ascetic journey known for its traps and obstacles. Isolated from the world, even from their families, they lived for three times three weeks in a shack at the edge of the forest overlooking the village. They followed a program of study, of intense meditation, of prolonged fasting, of prescribed prayers, of litanies recited without moving the lips, all this while standing, in a state of concentration that would leave them dizzy. Ritual baths morning and night, chanting at midnight, carefully preparing themselves to penetrate walls, to set on fire their minds and souls and time itself. They dealt with unnameable sacrifices and ordeals performed according to rules set down in the esoteric and difficult texts of the Kabbalah. Sometimes the old Rabbi would shake himself and urge his disciple on: “Faster, my son, we must run faster; we must climb higher. Every minute counts. The danger is taking shape; the Angel of Death and Destruction is approaching. The blood of Jews will flow; it is flowing already. Only the Messiah can stop it; only He can save our people!” But Satan, the cursed devil, was on the alert. He never sleeps, and he was plotting his victory. The old Master thought that by being hasty, he was serving God, when, in fact, he was opposing His will. He was wrong. The universe of the Kabbalah has its own rhythm, its own method. Haste is dangerous: A word spoken too soon, a name invoked too late, these can jeopardize the entire endeavor by pushing humanity to the side of Evil and its destructive power. And that is what happened. The last stage in the ritual took place at dawn in the forest. It consisted of calling out the name of the angel Metatron seventy-one times, each time louder than the last, to the point of rapture, then the ineffable Name twenty-one times, then twenty-six times more, then reciting seven times a prayer known only to the High Priest. Well, the Master and his disciple were ready. They were wearing their prayer shawls as they began the ceremony, and then a torrential rain started to fall from dark, heavy clouds. They continued despite the rain. Now thunder and lightning took their turn striking at the earth. Still they persisted, in spite of the lightning, in spite of the thunder. Then during a pause in the storm, a huge wild dog appeared out of nowhere. It was black as the night, the biggest dog they had ever seen. It was foaming with rage and its baying was louder, more deafening, than the thunder itself. Jaws open, it was about to hurl itself on the two men and tear them to pieces. “Go on!” the old Master cried out. “That beast was sent by Satan to frighten us, to weaken our resolve. We must continue; it’s our only chance.” But the disciple was afraid, and he lost his concentration. In a moment, the dog was upon them. The old Master was knocked down. So was Hananèl, but he survived his wounds, although his Master did not. The Jewish community of the village mourned the old Master. His funeral procession stretched over streets and alleys. The old women cried their lamentation; young students wept unashamedly. Schools closed so their students could attend the funeral. Some said, “It was foolish to violate what is forbidden.” And others replied, “It was foolish, but it was also holy.” From then on, Hananèl was known as the Blessed Madman.
But Hananèl felt guilty. Only he knew it, but the failure of their ritual was his fault. Satan’s dog had first attacked the old Master, while Hananèl was confronting another enemy, himself. At the very last minute, when the most secret portals of heaven were about to swing open, the young Kabbalist let himself be distracted. Because of the dog? Not at all: The dog had nothing to do with it. The dog had appeared only because Hananèl let himself be distracted by an impure vision: It was a woman he had seen one Friday morning in the market street when he was returning from the ritual bath in preparation for the Sabbath. It was a beautiful summer’s day. The woman, who surely was not Jewish, so immodest in his eyes was her dress, had looked at him, and he had seen a smile in her gaze. But was she just a woman? Probably not. She was Lilith, spouse of the demon king Ashmedai. That night, she had so troubled his rest that he did not dare close his eyes. And she came back night after night. She would appear unexpectedly, and always she was laughing. She laughed as she danced. She laughed as she sang, as she climbed walls, and as she pirouetted. She laughed as she came to the side of his bed and bent over him so he could see her glowing eyes. Hananèl was beside himself with fear. Suppose she touched him with her hand, with her lips? The more he tried to drive her from his thoughts, the more she imposed her ungodly and provocative presence on him. Only by weeks of pitilessly mortifying his flesh— long fasts, self-laceration, and plunging into the cold river—was he able to calm his spirit and drive the vision of her from his mind. Then, at the supreme moment when, at the side of his Kabbalist Master, he was going to force the hand of the Lord and so bring salvation and safety to his people—at that moment, the woman appeared once more, voluptuous and laughing, before his tightly closed eyes. It was then that the raging dog had leapt at them and attacked his Master. And so the Messiah remained in chains behind the iron gate of his celestial prison. And it was because of Hananèl’s weakness that the children of Israel remained in exile and now were in the shadow of death.
Yes, Hananèl did indeed owe reparation to his people.
Hananèl has not given up his study of the Kabbalah. Does he, then, know the perilous art of penetrating the dreams of others? The art is mentioned in The Gaze of the Abyss, a work as old as the Sefer Yetzira, the Book of Creation. He who masters that art has the power to remake the dreams of others as he wishes; he can make bitter the dreams of the irreverent and happy those of the just. The Blessed Madman does not know it, but sensing the coming calamity as Passover is approaching, he invades the Archbishop’s dream to enlist him as an ally against the enemy’s evil intentions toward the Jewish community.
But hasn’t the decree spelling out those intentions already been sealed?
When Mendel returns, he is out of breath. He is leading a young priest, a frail-looking person with a thin face, hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses. The man’s furtive glance suggests he is nowhere at ease. He keeps his hands in the sleeves of his cassock and tries to overcome his nervousness. He bows respectfully, and when he speaks, it sounds as if he is speaking reluctantly. He starts out haltingly and keeps interrupting himself by coughing.
“The Honorable Rabbi will please . . . will please excuse us . . . excuse us for coming . . . coming and disturbing him in the middle of the night . . . but . . . but please understand, sir. . . . It’s a matter . . . it’s an urgent matter. . . .�
� He looks down and then casts a sidelong glance at Mendel before stammering: “And to tell the truth, sir, it’s a private matter. . . . The Rabbi will please understand. . . .”
