Small Worlds

by Allen Hoffman

  “What?” the rebbe demanded.

  “This morning I taught Reb Gedaliah’s students the eighth chapter of the Tractate Terumah. In the dispute between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua as to what one is permitted to do in order to save either the impure wine or in the later cases, the Jewish women . . .” He paused.

  “So?” the rebbe asked impatiently.

  “Rebbe, haven’t we suffered enough? Why can’t we face the modern reality? Isn’t it better to sacrifice one so the others survive? Goyim are drowning Reb Gedaliah’s students, and they are studying the laws of a Temple that was destroyed two thousand years ago. Why, Rebbe?” Yechiel finished in a plaintive cry.

  Even the rebbe heard the pain in the boy’s outburst.

  “Yechiel, you think that Rabbi Yehoshua does not go far enough. He goes too far. It is Rabbi Eliezer who makes sense. There is no ‘modern’ reality. There is an eternal reality that has not changed since God gave us his holy Torah. We are a holy nation commanded to sanctify his holy name. Do you think we are a nation of numbers? The goyim have numbers; we have a holy spark. Without that spark, we have no meaning. We fan that spark by sanctifying his holy name.”

  “But don’t our lives have any meaning?” Yechiel asked.

  “Do not underestimate evil,” the rebbe intoned.

  Yechiel was confused by the rebbe’s answer.

  “Study, do not question!”

  “Maybe Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua are wrong,” Yechiel said quietly.

  “Heretic and sinner!” the rebbe spat at Yechiel.

  “Yes, well, I shall be leaving Krimsk,” Yechiel said by way of apology.

  The rebbe laughed a raucous, cynical laugh at Yechiel’s announcement.

  “Unfortunately for me, you will never leave Krimsk. Others might, but not you. You can walk in Warsaw, you can sing in Paris, you can dance in America, but you, Yechiel Katzman, will never succeed in leaving Krimsk.”

  Although he did not know exactly what the rebbe was saying, Yechiel feared that he was telling the truth, or at least something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  “Why?” he asked simply.

  “For them it is too small, but for you it is just right. We always have enough room for sinners and heretics. Vermin take up very little space!” he blazed, and then he looked pained, almost regretful. “Where is pharaoh?” the rebbe cried in despair. “Even Napoleon would do,” he added as an afterthought. “But this?” and he dismissed Yechiel with a flip of the wrist that suggested Yechiel’s total insignificance.

  Shaken by the rebbe’s onslaught and peremptory dismissal, Yechiel held his throbbing head and staggered to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he stuttered.

  “Get out and close the door behind you. Close it well!” the rebbe shouted.

  Yechiel left quietly and closed the door tightly behind him.

  The rebbe, breathing heavily, stared at the door as if his gaze could destroy the Torah’s enemies. He took several breaths, crawled over to the chenille cloth, and energetically yanked it away to expose holy Shayna Basya. His rebbetzin lay huddled nude, her knees drawn up, and in her arms she clutched her clothing. Under the suffocating cloth, she could not escape the heat. Her entire body dripped with glistening sweat.

  “Oh, my pure one,” he whispered, kissing her instep. This, he thought, is how the Krimsker Queen must look emerging from the mikveh covered with holy dew.

  Shayna Basya had been smiling rapturously even under the heavy cloth, for her husband had twice referred to her as his “holy” Shayna Basya.

  He pointed to the buttons on his shirt, and she began unbuttoning them at once, falling on his neck with kisses.

  He drew her to him with the ardor of messianic expectations. Each act of love now would strengthen the embryo. That is what the Talmud teaches—and the Krimsker Rebbe believed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  YECHIEL WALKED STRAIGHT OUT OF THE BEIS MIDRASH without looking at anyone. He reached the empty street and wondered where he could go. After what had happened, he could not go home. The mere thought of his family flooded him with a sense of sadness and shame. His father, mother, and little Shraga had struggled to support his studies. What was worse, they lived through him; his achievements were their achievements, his rewards were their rewards. And how did he thank them? When the rebbe offered him his daughter—which would make them the in-laws of the present Krimsker Rebbe and the family of the future rebbe!—he confessed that he was a heretic and a sinner.

  It saddened him that he loved them so and seemed capable only of hurting them. With their lack of education, he could not even explain to them why he believed—or, more properly, why he did not believe—what he did. They could only view him as the rebbe had, as a vermin—something alien, repulsive, and corruptive. They would never yell at him although he wished they would. No, they would look at him with sad, loving eyes that asked why. Why leave your family and your people? They could never understand his rejection, and he could not explain it to them.

  In spite of the rebbe’s prediction, Yechiel would have to take his chances and leave Krimsk. He had no choice. He knew that he was neither a Yudel who could live alone within a community nor a Barasch who could live alone outside of one. Yechiel loved and needed people, but he had no idea where to go. He did not even know where he could go right now. He considered going back into the beis midrash to read the dirges composed for the fast day. At least he would have a place to sit, but after what had happened in the rebbe’s study, he could not avail himself of the rebbe’s beis midrash. And after the attack on Reb Gedaliah’s students, he did not want to wander outside Krimsk. Barasch’s home was no longer a possibility; since Shraga had knocked on the door, Barasch was expecting arrest. Yechiel had no success in explaining that little Shraga was not a colonel in the tsarist police. He hadn’t been very successful in convincing anyone of anything this evening. Even though he had no idea where to go, he could not regret what had just happened. Things just couldn’t go on the way they were; that was intolerable. Conscience was always more important than comfort. At least he did have that belief in common with the Krimsker Rebbe. He smiled ruefully; Yechiel had had no idea how difficult it was for a vermin to find comfort. Apparently much harder than for a frog.

  He took a step backward and sat down on the wide step leading up to the beis midrash. Forever the talmudist, Yechiel decided that sitting on the outside step did not contravene the rebbe’s order to get out. He was certain of that. Indeed, he probably could sit on the threshold itself since that also was not “in” the beis midrash; it must, perforce, be “out” and therefore permissible to him in his status as vermin. The more he thought of himself as vermin, the greater the desire he had to scratch. And he was casually scratching his side when someone spoke to him.

  “I see that you have returned to the beis midrash,” a warm, lively voice said with a hint of humor.

  Yechiel looked up to see the enthusiastic stranger. He wore a rough twill jacket and had a faded knapsack slung over his shoulder. On his head was a small-beaked leather cap that he pushed back when he talked. Yechiel felt an affinity for him and smiled in delighted surprise at his unexpected appearance.

  “I’m still on the floor,” Yechiel said.

  “At least Barasch can’t throw you out of here,” the stranger said.

  “He doesn’t have to. The Krimsker Rebbe already has,” Yechiel answered truthfully.

  “Yes, but if you jump up now, at least you won’t bump your head,” he joked.

  “That’s already happened again, too,” Yechiel rubbed his twice-bumped head.

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “Join me on the scholar’s bench,” Yechiel said sarcastically, pointing to the step on which he sat.

  The stranger glanced up and down the street. Although he seemed reluctant to accept, he acquiesced. “I suppose a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.” He sat down and put his knapsack next to him.

  “My name
is Yechiel Katzman,” Yechiel said.

  “I’m Hershel Shwartzman, but my friends call me Grisha,” the stranger responded.

  He extended his hand. Yechiel glanced around, saw that no one was watching, and shook it.

  “One isn’t supposed to shake hands on Tisha B’Av,” he explained, embarrassed at having hesitated to take Grisha’s hand.

  “I thought you were on the way out,” Grisha said.

  Yechiel nodded and shrugged his shoulders like the oldest of hasidim. “Yes, but not everyone travels so fast, especially when he doesn’t know where to go.”

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” Grisha asked.

  “No, I’m very pleased that you came.”

  A shadow appeared where the light from the beis midrash doorway played upon the street near them. They both stopped speaking and sat silently until the shadow disappeared. When it did, they listened to the steps fade back into the beis midrash.

  “We must go somewhere. If we are noticed together, it will ruin both our reputations,” Grisha said very seriously.

  “Don’t worry about mine,” Yechiel said blithely, but with an earnestness that always seemed to be his lot.

  “If you say so, I won’t, but I’m concerned about being seen here with you.”

  He was referring to the beis midrash, and Yechiel, to his surprise, saw that he was not joking. All humor had disappeared from his voice and person. He betrayed a fearful tenseness, as if some personal monster could come leaping out of the darkness.

  “Are there so many Marxists in Krimsk that you will be seen?”

  “No, but we are a pure party. We must be disciplined and work at protecting our purity,” Grisha said dogmatically.

  Yechiel was struck by the similarity to what the rebbe had told him. It seemed that Grisha sided with Rabbi Eliezer as well.

  “Don’t you know someplace where we could talk?” Grisha asked.

  Yechiel did not, but he didn’t want to lose Grisha’s company.

  “Where were you going?” Yechiel asked him.

  “If I don’t find a shed or a porch with a dark corner, I shall walk into the countryside to look for a haystack or a carriage shed or even a wagon. In this hot weather, the nights are no problem. They’re easier than the days.”

  Yechiel realized that he had spent his entire life in Krimsk but had no idea what was in it. There must be sheds and such places where they could talk, but he didn’t remember seeing any. He never looked for those sorts of things. Yechiel had a sense of having searched for very little, if anything, outside of books. Grisha came walking out of nowhere and probably had seen more in the middle of the night in Krimsk than Yechiel ever had. He felt helpless, even foolish. How was he going to strike out on his own when he couldn’t even escape from the step of the beis midrash? No doubt the hasidim would attribute his failure to the rebbe’s prophetic curse.

  “It doesn’t have to be outside or in a partially exposed place,” Grisha said. “It might be an abandoned building or one that no one will use at night. Many times I have slept in small synagogues, but I don’t imagine there are any empty synagogues on the night of Tisha B’Av.”

  “Follow me,” Yechiel said quietly. He stood up and walked into the darkness. Grisha’s echoing steps gave Yechiel courage; he was not alone. Yechiel led him down the street and to the right toward the marketplace. He would never have thought of it had it not been for Grisha’s remark. They walked alongside the dark, open expanse of the empty market to a large handsome shadow of a building, then rounded the corner of the Angel of Death synagogue.

  Yechiel stood very still to make sure no one was nearby. Satisfied that they were alone, he turned around and leaned across the sill to push open the window. He had noticed one thing in Krimsk: Reb Zelig the sexton opened only this window daily to air out the Angel of Death. It gave, and he continued pushing with all his strength. The large window began to move with an awful caterwauling noise. With Grisha’s help, they soon had enough space to climb through. Yechiel hoisted himself onto the sill in a kneeling position, but when he went to swing his feet inside, he discovered that his knees were pinning down the skirt of his long coat and he could not move forward. He jumped back down to where he had started and began gathering the lower part of his coat above his waist.

  “Take it off,” Grisha whispered.

  Why hadn’t he thought of that? Handing his coat to Grisha, Yechiel hoisted himself onto the windowsill a second time. Now he easily swung his feet inside and explored the area under the window to make sure there was no furniture beneath. He had never been inside the Angel of Death, but he assumed that if this was the window that Reb Zelig chose to open every day, it must have unimpeded access. Feeling nothing, he eased himself carefully onto the floor.

  “Here, take these,” Grisha whispered.

  Grisha handed his pack, both their jackets, and his leather cap through the window. The cap surprised Yechiel. How could a nonreligious Jew, even a revolutionary, enter a synagogue without a hat? Then he remembered that he had not told Grisha it was a synagogue; but he suspected that it would not have made very much difference anyway. Grisha climbed inside, and Yechiel immediately handed him back his hat.

  “Should we close the window?” Grisha whispered.

  “No, I don’t think so. No one comes this way, and if they do, they would never notice it.”

  “God, it’s warm in here. We can use the air. Where are we?”

  “It’s a synagogue.”

  “Why don’t they use it?”

  Yechiel hesitated. No doubt followers of scientific socialism were not supposed to be superstitious, but Yechiel had noticed the strange, terrified expression on Grisha’s face at Barasch’s after he had been told that they were in Krimsk. Yechiel had a presentiment that telling him the story of the Angel of Death would be a grave error. Yechiel did not usually have such premonitions; indeed, he did not believe they existed. Anyway, he didn’t care about the Angel of Death. He wanted to talk about more interesting and relevant things.

  “They don’t need it; the beis midrash is big enough,” he answered.

  “Will they pray here tomorrow?”

  “They use the beis midrash. No one will come in until the day after tomorrow,” Yechiel said, confident that Reb Zelig would be at the beis midrash praying most of the day.

  “Good,” Grisha said. “By then I’ll be far away from here. Can we light a match to see where we are?”

  “We’d better not,” Yechiel said, although he really didn’t think it would make any difference. Who would believe that they saw light in the Angel of Death on Tisha B’Av?

  “Might as well get comfortable. Are there benches here?”

  Yechiel wasn’t sure.

  “Here they are. They feel like good ones, too. More comfortable than that step you were on, aren’t they?”

  Yechiel reached over and found them. “Yes,” he agreed, sitting down. The Angel of Death was surprisingly comfortable.

  “You said the rebbe threw you out?” Grisha inquired.

  “Yes, he did,” Yechiel admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Are you familiar with the Talmud? The Mishnah really?” Yechiel asked.

  “Not very. My father died when I was very young, and my religious education stopped. I picked up a few things here and there.”

  “Well, I had a problem with a Mishnah—” Yechiel paused.

  “You didn’t believe it?” Grisha suggested.

  “Something like that. I suggested that the rabbis might be wrong, or at least, their advice inappropriate for our days.”

  “What were they saying?” Grisha asked.

  “It’s somewhat complex. The most troubling situation was the one in which a group of Jewish women are walking along and a band of goyim tell them to give them one woman or they will rape them all. In that situation, both rabbis agree that you cannot give them even one soul of Israel. In other words, all the women will be raped.”

  “What do you expect with t
hat kind of class consciousness?” Grisha replied.

  “How does that work?” Yechiel asked.

  “In a fair and just classless society, all people will act fairly and justly. People’s material environment determines how they will act. If man’s environment is perfected through socialist equality, then man will be perfected. You won’t have the goyim attacking the Jews, and you won’t have the Jews responding with absurd bourgeois notions of martyrdom. The only way the Jews will ever be safe is in an egalitarian, classless society.”

  “Oh,” said Yechiel.

  “How did the rebbe react to your criticism?”

  “He said that evil should not be underestimated.”

  “Yes, he’s right. Oh, how he’s right,” Grisha declared so enthusiastically that Yechiel had to quiet him down. “He’s right. It must be torn out root and branch before it can inflict more evil. The system cannot reform itself; reform is nonsense. It must be totally destroyed and a new system built to take its place. He’s no fool, your rebbe.”

  “I don’t think that’s what the rebbe meant. I think he meant that evil is totally corrupting and must be absolutely avoided. It is an incurable contagion that is best quarantined. It is like vermin. They enter easily and inconspicuously, but they do not leave without great suffering and sorrow,” Yechiel said.

  “But if all the women get raped, isn’t that suffering and sorrow?” Grisha asked.

  “I think so, but the rebbe would answer that surrendering someone to them would be far worse because the Jews themselves would be actively committing evil.”

  Since Yechiel did not seem to believe that, Grisha did not feel compelled to argue against it.

  “Grisha, at Barasch’s you said that if we had the time, you would prove scientifically that the proletariat is in bondage to a Russian pharaoh and that it could be redeemed only through a revolution created by a strong disciplined party. I would be interested in hearing the proof.”

  “It’s very complex and involves many steps. You are a talmudist who would want to analyze every one of them. Yechiel, you should go to the sources. Read Lenin, Marx, too, of course, and there you will have it all laid out for you. You will be convinced, I promise you, and then you will join our noble revolutionary struggle.” The last, Grisha expounded with considerable fervor.