by Amos Oz
Only rarely did the other two crucified men cry out. Periodically, one of them uttered a low growling sound that seemed to come from deep in his gut. From time to time, they both groaned in agony through clenched teeth. Every half hour or so, the other one, on the left, gave a deep, sustained bellow, like that of a slaughtered animal. A black cloud of eager flies closed in on the three crucified men, clinging to their skin and feasting on the blood that oozed from the nail wounds.
Masses of black birds of prey huddled expectantly on the branches of the nearby trees, some large, some small, some with hooked beaks or bald necks or ruffled feathers. At odd moments, one of them let out a shrill guttural shriek. Now and then, a fierce squabble broke out and they pecked each other’s flesh and clusters of torn-out feathers flew about in the close, hot air.
In the noonday hours the sun poured down on the earth, on the crucified men, and on the watching crowds, like molten lead. The sky was low and dusty, a dirty color somewhere between brown and gray. The place was packed with people, standing shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. The chatter was constant, and sometimes voices were raised to shout to someone farther off. Some pitied the crucified men, some pitied only one or two of them while others gloated. The kin and friends of the dying men were gathered in small groups, leaning on each other, holding each other, embracing, sobbing, still hoping for a miracle. Here and there, vendors circulated among the crowd carrying metal trays and crying their wares: cakes, drinks, dried figs, dates, fruit juices. The curious pushed themselves eagerly to the front, the better to witness the death pangs of the crucified, to hear their screams, sighs, and groans, to see from close up the contorted faces and the eyes that seemed to be popping out of their sockets, the bleeding wounds, the blood-soaked rags. Some compared the three victims at the top of their voices. Others, however, elbowed their way to the back, because they had seen enough and wanted to hurry home to prepare for the impending festival. Many spectators had brought provisions with them and were eating and drinking. Those who had managed to push their way to the front were sitting comfortably on the ground, the hems of their garments gathered in, their legs folded, some leaning on their neighbors’ shoulders, chatting, joking, nibbling their food, or betting loudly among themselves which of the three would be the first to give up the ghost. And there were four or five of the loud-voiced people in the crowd who did not stop mocking and teasing the figure in the middle, asking where his father was, why he didn’t come to help him, and, more to the point, why he didn’t save himself as he had saved so many other sufferers. Why did he not arise at last and descend from the cross?
The crowd had begun to disperse, disappointed or tired. Groups of watchers were slipping away, no longer expecting a pardon or a miracle or some surprising turn in the drama of the death throes of the three crucified men. Men and women were turning their backs on the row of crosses, descending slowly from the hill and beginning to wend their way home. The hour was getting late: the Sabbath and the festival would start at nightfall. The blazing heat was extinguishing curiosity and excitement. Everyone, the men dying on the three crosses, the onlookers, the Roman soldiers in their glinting brass helmets and body armor, and the Chief Priests’ representatives, all were soaked in sticky sweat mixed with a cloud of dust raised by the feet of the crowd. This ash-colored dust filled the scorching air, made it hard to breathe, and turned the whole scene gray. Two short, stocky priests stood a few paces away from the mass of the crowd; now and again, one of them leaned over and whispered something to the other, who responded with lazy nods. One of them occasionally broke wind.
And standing directly at the foot of the central cross were four or five forlorn, veiled women supporting one another, shoulder leaning against shoulder, their arms hanging limply at their sides. From time to time, one of them raised an arm to put it around the shoulders of an older woman, stroked her cheek, and wiped her brow. The older woman stood rooted to the spot, as if struck dumb, never removing her gaze from the cross, her eyes dry. Only occasionally her hand strayed unconsciously and touched those places on her own body where the nails had been hammered into the crucified man. The younger woman wept ceaselessly, her weeping calm and even. She wept with open eyes, with a straight face, as if her face were unaware that her eyes were weeping. Her lips were slightly parted and her fingers clasped. Her wide eyes never left the crucified man. As if the last of his life depended on her gaze alone. As if his soul would depart were she to turn away for an instant.
The tall man standing there, a little apart from the crowd, suddenly felt himself being drawn toward those women, as if his feet carried him to them of their own accord. But he stopped and remained where he was on the edge of the crowd, leaning on the broken wooden beam of an old cross left over from an earlier crucifixion. The miracle, the man believed beyond all doubt, would take place now. At any moment. Now, right now, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy kingdom that is not of this world.
Throughout those burning hours, while his blood oozed from his wounds and drained away, the man on the middle cross cried out for his mother. He may indeed have seen her with his fading eyes standing bereft at his feet in the group of veiled and mourning women, her eyes seeking his. Or perhaps his eyes were already closed and he was looking only inward, no longer able to see her, or the other women, or the crowd. Not once in the course of those six long hours did the crucified man call on his father. Again and again, he cried out, Mother, Mother. Only at the ninth hour, just as his soul was departing, he bethought himself and suddenly called to his father. But even in this last cry he did not call him Father, but murmured, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Judas knew that with these words both their lives were ended.
The other two who were crucified, on the right and the left of the dead man, continued to suffer on their crosses in the scorching sun for another hour or more. The nail wounds were swarming with a cloud of fat green flies. The man on the right cursed terribly and white foam bubbled and seethed around his dying lips. The man on the left let out another low, forlorn bellow of distress, fell silent, then bellowed again. Only the man in the middle had attained his just repose. His eyes were closed, his tortured head sunk on his chest, his thin body slack and feeble like that of a young boy.
The tall man did not wait for the three corpses to be lowered from the crosses and carried away. As soon as the soul of the last victim departed with a curse, he turned and left, went around the city wall, impervious to tiredness, heat, hunger, or thirst, empty of thoughts or longings, empty of all that he had been during all the days of his life. As he walked his feet felt light, as though a heavy burden had been lifted at last from his shoulders. A mangy, pale brown cur with bowed legs and pus oozing from a wound in its flank attached itself to him on the way and ran around him pleadingly. The man took a slice of cheese out of his satchel, bent down, and set it before the dog, which devoured it lustily, barked hoarsely twice, and ran on after the man. His feet led him to an old tavern on the road to his town, Kerioth. At the entrance to the tavern, the man stooped once more toward the dog. He patted its head twice and whispered, Run along now, dog, don’t believe. The dog turned and went off with its head lowered and its tail between its legs, but a few moments later it was back again, entering the tavern almost on its belly and crawling under the man’s table. There it lay without making a sound, carefully resting its head on its benefactor’s dusty sandal.
I murdered him. He did not want to go to Jerusalem and I dragged him there. For weeks I tried to persuade him. He was beset with doubts and fears. Again and again he asked me and then asked the other disciples, Am I truly the man? The hesitations never left him. Again and again he sought a sign from above. Again and again he felt a searing need for one more sign. Just one last sign. And I, who was older than he, and calmer and more experienced in the ways of the world, I, on whose lips he would fix his eyes in his moments of doubt, I said to him repeatedly: You are the man. And you know you are the man. And we all know that you are the
man. I told him morning and evening, and the next morning and the next evening, that it had to be Jerusalem, and only Jerusalem, and that we had to go to Jerusalem. I deliberately played down the worth of the miracles he worked in the countryside, the rumors of which became confused with rumors concerning all kinds of wonderworkers, of whom there were many wandering the villages of Galilee, healing the sick with a touch of their hand. These rumors echoed for a few weeks among the hills and then died away.
But he refused to go to Jerusalem. Next year, he would say, maybe next year. I almost had to drag him there by force for the Passover. Again and again he said to me that Jerusalem would turn him to mockery and derision, that Jerusalem “killeth the prophets,” that death awaited him there. He trembled with fear at the thought of his death, he feared death like any human being, though in his heart of hearts he knew well . . . He knew what awaited him. And even so, he refused to accept what he had always known, and he prayed daily that he might be allowed to remain forever a mere Galilean healer traveling from village to village, awakening hearts by his gospel and his wonders.
I murdered him. I dragged him to Jerusalem against his will. True, he was the teacher and I was one of his disciples, but even so, he obeyed me. As those who hesitate and doubt are always attracted by the strong-mindedness of those who are convinced and have no doubts. He often obeyed me, though I always had some subtle, calculated way of making him feel that the decision had come from him, not from me. The others, his disciples, his followers, who hung on his every word, also did my bidding: I knew how to make them, too, feel that my opinion was merely a humble echo of their own. They entrusted the common purse to me, because I was the oldest, the most experienced in the ways of this world, the most skilled bargainer, the most firm-minded, and because they recognized that shrewd strangers would never manage to cheat me or catch me out. Wherever we encountered representatives of the authorities, it was I who did the talking. They were villagers from the shores of the Sea of Galilee, whereas I had come from Jerusalem. They were paupers, visionaries, and dreamers, whereas I had left behind houses, fields and vineyards, and an honored position among the priests of Kerioth. I represented Jerusalem that had come down to rebuke them and expose their deceptions, to denounce them as a bunch of rogues and charlatans, but lo and behold, like Balaam in the scriptures, I had ended up blessing them and joining them, wearing their ragged clothes and sharing their frugal fare, walking barefoot with bleeding feet like them, and believing just like them, and even more than they did, that the Savior had been revealed, and that this solitary, introspective youth, this shy, humble youth who heard voices, who hewed wonderful parables out of his pure soul, and from whom there flowed like clear spring water simple teachings that won every heart, teachings of love and compassion, of self-denial, joy, and faith, that this slim youth was indeed the only begotten Son of God, who had come to us at last to save the world, and here he was, now walking in our midst like one of us. But he was not one of us and never would be.
He always feared Jerusalem and recoiled from it—from the Temple, the Chief Priests, the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the sages, and the wealthy and powerful. It was the fear of a countryman, the dread of a shy young man, a gnawing apprehension lest they expose him there, lest he become an object of mockery and derision, lest the severe gaze of the sages and the mighty ones strip him naked. Had Jerusalem not already witnessed dozens upon dozens of country folk like him? It would eye him for a brief moment with a bored smile on its lips, then shrug its shoulders and turn its back.
And when we arrived in Jerusalem, I made the crucifixion happen for him almost single-handedly. I did not slack. I was stubborn and determined, imbued with a burning faith that we were standing on the very threshold of the Last Days. It occurred to no one in Jerusalem to crucify him. No one saw any reason to crucify him. On what account? Peasants intoxicated with God, bearing gospels and working wonders in the marketplace, poured into the city almost daily from the remoter regions of the land. In the eyes of the Chief Priests this lad from Galilee was merely another feeble-minded preacher dressed in rags. Whereas for the Romans he was simply a demented beggar, sick with God like all the Jews. Four times I went to the Chamber of Hewn Stone and stood before the High Priest and the Chief Priests and talked and talked until I managed to convince them that this prophet was different from all the others, that the whole of Galilee was under his spell, that I had seen him with my own eyes raising the dead and walking on the water and driving out demons and turning water into wine and stones into loaves and fishes. I also went to the Romans, to the commanders of the army and the police, to the advisers of the prefect. I spoke fluently and eloquently to them, and eventually I managed to plant in their minds the suspicion that this delicate man was actually the cause of the unrest, the source of inspiration of those who were about to rise up against Roman rule. At last I made them decide, without too much enthusiasm, to accept my advice. Not because they were really persuaded that the young man I was talking about was more dangerous than the rest, but only from indifference: what is one crucifixion more or less? I hammered every nail into his flesh. I shed every drop of blood that fell from his holy body. He knew from the outset the limits of his power, and I did not. I believed in him much more than he believed in himself. I pushed him to promise a new heaven and a new earth, a kingdom that is not of this world. To promise redemption. To promise eternal life. While all he wanted was to continue to walk the land, healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and sowing seeds of love and compassion in men’s hearts. Nothing more.
I loved him with all my soul and I believed in him with perfect faith. It was not just the love of an elder brother for his better younger brother, not just the love of an older, more experienced man for a delicate youth, not just the love of a disciple for his greater but younger teacher, not even the love of a perfect believer for the worker of miracles and wonders. No. I loved him like God. I loved him much more than I loved God. In fact, since my youth I have not loved God at all. I recoiled from him: a jealous and vengeful god, visiting the iniquities of the fathers on the sons, a cruel, angry, bitter, vindictive, petty, blood-shedding god. Whereas the Son seemed to me loving, compassionate, forgiving, but also, when he wished, witty, sharp, warmhearted, and even funny. He usurped the place of God in my heart. He became my God. I believed that death could not touch him. I believed that this very day the greatest miracle of all would occur in Jerusalem. The final and ultimate miracle, after which there would be no more death in the world. After which there would be no need for any more miracles. The miracle after which the Kingdom of Heaven would come and love alone would rule the world.
I left, beneath the table for the dog to eat, the plate of meat that the pregnant, pockmarked serving girl had placed before me. I left the wine on the table. I rose and brought out from my pocket our common purse and thrust it with a gesture that was almost coarse into the girl’s bosom without exchanging a word with her. As I walked out of the place, I saw that the sun had begun its descent. The harsh light was softening as though beset with doubts. The nearest hills looked empty and the road continued empty and dusty to the farthest horizon. His agonized, faint voice, the voice of an injured child abandoned to suffer and die in a field, Mother, Mother, did not cease to ring out in my ears either when I sat in the tavern or when I left to pursue my journey. I longed for his kind smile and for his habit of relaxing in the shade of a sycamore or a vine and talking to us as though he himself were surprised by the words that came out of his mouth.
The road was lined on either side by olive groves and vineyards and by fig and pomegranate trees. On the horizon a light mist was floating above the distant mountains. The orchards were cool and shady. In one orchard I spied a rock-hewn wellhead with a wooden roof above it. I was suddenly filled with a great love of that well. I hoped that it would never cease to give its water to all who thirst. I left the road for a moment, approached the well, drank pure water from the bucket, then removed a length of rope from the pulle
y and wound it around my forearm before continuing on my way.
Beyond the orchards and vineyards, on the gentle slopes, lay green fields of wheat and barley as far as the eye could see. They seemed vast and deserted. So much so that they made me feel a little better. The piercing cry that had been echoing in my ears all day faded. At that moment I received a simple illumination, and I knew in my heart that all this—the mountains, the water, the trees, the breeze, the earth, the evening twilight—would continue for generation upon generation without any change. The words in our mouths come and go, but all this would not change or fade but would last forever. And if ever any change did come, it would be slight. I murdered him. I put him on the cross. I hammered the nails into his flesh. I shed his blood. A few days ago, on our way to Jerusalem, as we walked down one of these hills, he suddenly felt hungry. He stopped in front of a fig tree, one of those which are covered in leaves long before the fruit ripens. And we stopped with him. He felt with both hands among the leaves, looking for a fig to eat, and when he did not find any, he stood there and cursed the fig tree. Instantly all the leaves on that tree withered and dropped. Only the trunk and branches remained, bare and dead.
