A Journey to the End of the Millennium

by A. B. Yehoshua

  Seventy days and upward had passed since the ancient guardship had set sail from Tangier to ride the wild ocean waves so bravely toward a distant town named Paris, yet amid all the hardships that had visited the expedition, by sea and by land, Ben Attar had not known a single moment that could compare for bitterness and gloom with this terrible moment when he stood so alone, without rabbi or fellow worshippers, without business partner or nephew, without servant or sea captain, without horses or congregation, without even a house of prayer. Placed under a ban in the heart of an alien land, with his cargo-laden ship far away, pent up in the harbor of Paris. And all this a few hours before the start of the Day of Atonement, behind a little church built of grayish timbers, staring brokenheartedly at the wife of his youth wrestling with a fire like a servant while his second wife lay in pain in the house of an apostate physician. Although he wished with all his being that he could blame himself for what was befalling them all, because of his obstinate urge to demonstrate to the world the depth of his love not only for his two wives but for his nephew, he felt that he did not have the right, whether in defeat or in victory, to detract from the force of the destiny that had guided him, for good or for ill, since the day of his birth.

  Yes, despite his desire, the North African merchant was not so proud as to take all the blame and responsibility upon himself alone, as though he had become the only true master of his deeds. Moreover, he knew only too well that if he fell to his knees before his first wife and beat his breast and confessed his guilt, she would be very confused and sad, not knowing what to do with the guilt or its owner. But if he spoke repeatedly of blind fate, which sometimes smites a man and sometimes caresses him, she would nod agreement and know how to comfort him. Without complaint or anger or regret, she would remind him of how beautiful the light of this holy eve was in their own azure city, and how radiantly white the raiment of their two sons was as they went, at the conclusion of the meal, to the synagogue of the old uncle, Ben Ghiyyat. And if that selfsame fate willed it, it was very possible that in a few more days they would board the ship in the port of that small dark town and sail back home to their own dear city, and wash away in the waters of the ocean whatever ban or interdict had been pronounced against them by the Jews of the Black Forest, whose self-assurance was as great as their numbers were small.

  With these words, which his first wife might have spoken if he had mastered his pride so far as to ask her for words of comfort, he soothed the dread that had caused his legs to tremble since he had left the Rhineland, and with a heart filled with love he approached the large, barefoot woman as she crouched over her cooking pot, took hold of her ample shoulders, and drew her gently away from the fire, which for a moment seemed to be trying to follow her. He produced from the sack a single pure white dove, bit through the thread that bound it to the others, and holding it by its two red legs, he waved it in a circular motion above the disheveled hair of his first wife, who closed her eyes gratefully. This is thy substitute, this is thy exchange, this is thy expiation, this dove shall go to its death and thou shalt enter into a good long life and into peace. And just as his great uncle used to take a sharp butcher’s knife and slaughter the lamb of atonement in the presence of the atoned members of his household, so Ben Attar severed the head of the dove and handed its bleeding body to his first wife, who waited for the fluttering of the little wings to cease before plucking it and preparing it for the meal preceding the fast, to be joined in due course by the doves that would atone for the remaining members of the little family.

  Ben Attar now concealed a dove in the folds of his robes, and added a second dove to it, for the sick woman, who would require a double atonement. There in the physician’s dark room, Ben Attar found his second wife where he had left her, sunk in a deep, peaceful sleep, as though the yellow potion that the apostate physician had administered to her not long before was doing its work. But he hesitated to draw forth the doves from the folds of his robe, for at her bedside he found not only the physician but also a black-clad priest, who had come in response to the news of the arrival of the Jews at the house of his disciple the apostate, to warn the new Christian against backsliding or relapsing. The physician, Karl-Otto the First, as he called himself, had to prove to his former catechist that he had no secret attraction to his previous faith but was merely displaying the simple charity of a physician toward a young woman who was suffering, and that even if she belonged to a company of Jews, these were different Jews, who were under the protection of distant Ishmaelites and therefore had no intention of settling in Verdun or anywhere else, but were planning to leave Europe and journey far, far away.

  But no man of the Church, and certainly not this one, who stood so dignified and stern, was able or authorized to believe in the existence of another category of Jews, even if they did come from a distant, dark continent. Since on principle the priest considered all Jews alike, he had to be on his guard in case his protégé, who had voluntarily abandoned a sect of blind, error-ridden God-killers in favor of a faith of salvation and love, was deceived into supposing that any Jew might be saved, even if he possessed the sad, dark nobility of this North African who had now entered the room. Ben Attar was examining the light fading in the window, and realized that he had only a little time to awaken his second wife gently yet firmly, sit her up in bed, and revolve two white doves first around her head and then around his own, like some savage idol-worshipper, and to declaim the ancient formula: This is our substitute, this is our exchange, this is our expiation, this dove shall go to its death and we shall enter into a good long life and into peace. On no account could he flinch at the physician’s embarrassed countenance, or at the faint smile of contempt on the face of the priest; he had to complete the ritual by slicing off the heads of the two curiously blinking little birds and drop them, oozing blood, onto the black earth floor at the foot of the bed, confident that they possessed as much healing power as the sparkling array of multicolored flasks lined up under the crucifix.

  The young woman sat flushed and confused, her golden nose-ring twinkling like a tiny star in the half-darkness. She was still wondering whether sharing an expiatory dove with her husband was a sign of desperation or of great hope. Meanwhile she obediently took the skin full of water that her husband placed in her hands, closed her eyes, and swallowed slowly, nodding agreement with a faint smile when he whispered to her in Arabic about the meal that the first wife was cooking outside over a fire, which was intended not only to satisfy their hunger and delight their souls but particularly to restore to all of them, and especially to her, such a beloved woman, the strength that had left them since ban and interdict and insult had been cast in Worms, ostensibly upon the twice-wed husband alone but in fact upon them all.

  Ben Attar did not linger at his second wife’s bedside, even though his heart yearned to remain by her side and watch over her recovery, but went out to give the two slaughtered doves to his first wife so that she could add them to the stew. Outside the clouds broke and soft sunlight played around him, and suddenly tears welled in his eyes, as though out of the sorrow and despair a new ray of hope had burst, not only at the memory of the faint smile that had flitted across his second wife’s flushed countenance, or at the sight of the meal that his first wife was preparing in readiness for the fast, but also at seeing the two horses and the mule returning from pasture, emerging slowly from behind the gray wooden church. His heart went out to his two servants for returning his property, as though he had really feared that they might vanish with it. A strange idea flashed through his mind of atoning for them too, so as to fortify them on the Day of Judgment that was fast approaching, in case the powers above mistook them for Jews. He told them to approach and bow their heads before him, and out of the large sack he took two more doves, and holding them by the legs he circled them three times above the egg-shaped black skull of the young idolater and three times above the grubby blue turban of the mariner-wagoner. So they would not suspect him of black magic, he als
o circled the doves above his own head, and he provided a shortened translation of the formula into rich Arabic before deftly removing the birds’ heads and throwing them to the jackal, who devoured with gusto whatever was put before him.

  Surprisingly, although he was alone and abandoned, his mind was calm, and the love that welled up within him for all who stood around him and belonged to him comforted and strengthened him for a new and unique experience, which he had never had before in his forty-four years—to be his own prayer leader on this awesome day. Although it was still early and three whole hours remained before the sun would sink behind the treetops, he began to feast, so that he would be filled with food and his soul would be free from hunger pangs and composed for prayer, the better to plead for his second wife’s recovery. Seated beside the fire, he dipped his bread in the steaming stew that his first wife served him and patiently chewed one helping after another. A light slumber descended upon him, and through his fluttering eyelids he saw the priest leaving the physician’s house, followed by the physician himself, clutching a leather bag. A sated tiredness took possession of him and the smoke of the fire befuddled his wits, so he lay down on the ground and stretched out his legs, drowsily but gratefully watching as his first wife spooned some of the steaming stew onto a platter and broke off some delicate morsels of pigeon flesh to add to it, to take to the second wife, who might perhaps need to be helped to eat.

  But he did not doze for long. Soon the whinnying of horses interrupted his dreams, and the delightful prattle of the rabbi’s son awoke him from his sleep. Opening his eyes, he found himself surrounded by strangers who looked like Jews. Farther away stood the large wagon, with its pole hanging limply, as Abd el-Shafi and the black slave led the horses to the meadow behind the church. Before he could rise to his feet, Rabbi Elbaz fell into his arms, smiling proudly. Ben Attar’s heart rejoiced, not only because his company was reunited and Jews had been found who were prepared to join it as it stood trapped before the Creator on the Day of Judgment, but more particularly because now he could finally dispel the terrible suspicion that the rabbi too was seeking to reject him.

  It seemed as though his luck had turned again and was smiling on the tenacious traveler. The Jews of Metz, whom the news of the ban had not yet reached, had been ready to come, with the satisfaction of fulfilling a command as their only reward, to make up a quorum of ten for a Jewish wayfarer whose sister-in-law, his wife’s sister, had fallen sick. So Rabbi Elbaz had chosen again, as in Rouen, to attach the two women to each other by a more usual and acceptable relationship, in order not to arouse unnecessary thoughts. Only one slight cloud darkened the joy. On the way, one of the Jews had had second thoughts and had turned back to Metz, leaving seven men instead of eight. If no other Jews could be found in Verdun, how would they make up the quorum?

  Since the sun in the sky could not wait for another Jew to be born in Verdun and reach the age of legal majority—for from India to Abyssinia and from Babylon to Spain, the Jews of the entire world were standing and waiting to inaugurate the solemn fast—and while the seven Jews from Metz were hastening to atone for themselves with the doves left in the sack and decapitating and plucking them to add them to the stewpot steaming in the smoke of the fire, it was clear to the shrewd Andalusian rabbi by what device he might produce another Jew, although only a temporary one, for the purposes of the prayer. As usual without disclosing anything of his plan to Ben Attar, who had gone into the physician’s house to hurry his first wife, who for some reason was lingering with the second wife, he separated himself from the group and went behind the gray church to the pasture where the horses were grazing, to tell the wise Abd el-Shafi that if the prayers of supplication for the recovery of the sick woman were to be accepted in heaven on the holy day, there was no alternative but to transform the black African into a Jew for the space of a single day.

  While Ben Attar joined his first wife and the apostate physician’s wife, who were both trying, one with words and the other with pleading looks, to persuade the ill woman to taste at least a thimbleful of the reddish stew, in the green meadow Abd el-Shafi and the rabbi from Seville were stripping the young slave of his robe and immersing the smoothness of his black nakedness in a little pool of water that the River Meuse had managed to send this far. Since Abu Lutfi had farsightedly circumcised the black youth before taking him on board, so the sailors would not attempt to do it themselves, all that remained for Rabbi Elbaz to do was to turn him into a Jew by immersing him twice, once to wash away his idolatrous delusions and once to purge him for his reception by the chosen people. At once the other Jews were called to immerse themselves and to confess to one another sins both genuine and feigned, and if possible to flagellate themselves a little, before saying the afternoon prayers and gathering around the fire to eat their last supper—eight born Jews and one proselyte, waiting for the leader of the expedition to make up the number ten.

  But the leader of the expedition was not yet able to leave his second wife. After sending the two other women out of the dimly lit room, he tried, using the soft language of love, not only to feed her some tender morsels of pigeon with his own hands but to repeat to her that the only effect of despair and guilt was to poison the world. A new hope was brewing in the North African’s mind that everything that had befallen them would fly away like dust, and the ban and interdict, having failed to overtake them on their rapid flight westward, would turn tail despondently and sink forever into the soggy mire that surrounded the prayer house in Worms. The second wife listened attentively to his words and yielded to his entreaties to swallow some of the bean stew, including some pieces of the flesh of her tender expiation, encouraged by her husband, who set her an example by eating some with her. Despite an occasional tremor in the muscles of her back, Ben Attar did not relent until between them they had licked the platter clean.

  When Ben Attar emerged into the evening twilight, completing by his presence the congregation of ten males required for public prayer, there was no reason for further delay. Indeed, the first wife had resourcefully located in the luggage a prayer shawl for the new black Jew, who was seized with excitement and dread on realizing that he had been attached to the faith of the Jews at their most sacred and awesome hour. Although Abd el-Shafi assured him that his affiliation was temporary and short-lived, the slave’s heart still quaked within him as the strange Jews closed in all around him and turned to face the east. It was evident from the first moment that two different prayer rites would have to be combined somehow in the course of the holy day—that of the Jews of the Christian kingdoms, who were faithful to the abbreviated but intense rite of Rav Amram Gaon, in which the service for the Day of Atonement began with the words “O God and God of our fathers, let our prayer come before thee and do not reject our supplication, for we are arrogant and stiff-necked,” and that of the Jews of the Muslim caliphate, who were accustomed to the more expansive and detailed wording of the older rite compiled by Rav Saadia Gaon, which brooded over the opening of the Atonement liturgy in these words: “Thou knowest the mysteries of the universe and the innermost secrets of all living beings. Thou searchest the chambers of the belly and seest the innards and the heart. Nothing is hidden from thee, nor is aught concealed from thine eyes …”

  Therefore the two rites were attentively and respectfully blended together, and even the melodies adapted themselves to each other, and all was done cautiously, quietly, and properly, so as not to attract undue attention from the Verdun folk, who were gathering to pray in the gray church of Notre Dame, and also not to disturb the devotions of the two Ishmaelite sailors, who had been moved by the religious fervor of those around them to prostrate themselves on the ground in testimony to others and to themselves too that they also had a prophet, who was all the younger and fresher for having come more recently. In the face of such pluri-religious piety, the apostate physician, who had returned from his visits and his bloodletting, did not hasten to church but sat down in the dark on the doorstep of his hous
e, hugging his two small sons and staring unseeingly at the outlines of the Jews which filled the little wood nearby.

  Does our worship make him feel regret or hatred? wondered Rabbi Elbaz, who had been sent by Ben Attar at the end of the evening service to the second wife, to bolster her spirits with a special prayer, and who now stumbled over the physician as he sat in the doorway of his house, flanked by his two sons, as though to block the entrance against the Jews, who had turned his home into their own domain. But when the physician saw that the rabbi bowed his head humbly and withdrew, he felt a pang of remorse in case he had offended the small man of God, and he hastened to straighten himself and dismiss the sons, and he invited the rabbi into the inner chamber, possibly so they could resume the conversation they had embarked on during the previous visit, which had been peremptorily cut short by a look from the blue-eyed woman. The inner chamber was very somber, being lit by only a single small candle fixed to a crucifix. The physician’s wife was sitting at the bedside of the second wife, who was lying peacefully with her head inclined backward, as though an invisible hand were drawing it like a bowstring.

  At the sight of the rabbi a spark of life flared in the sad amber-colored eyes. She sat up a little in bed, and in hoarse Arabic she implored Elbaz to ask the physician to extinguish the candle, for even its faint light pained her eyes. Although he was surprised at her request, he translated it into his quaint Latin for the benefit of the physician, who, unperturbed, nodded his agreement, as though confirming to himself his diagnosis of the illness. Picking up the candlestick in the form of a crucifix, he handed it to his wife to put in a seemly place in the other chamber. Now that the room was in darkness, the moonlight shone more brightly through the single small window, and the second wife at once turned toward it in wonder, as though not understanding how she had failed to notice it before and wondering how she could diminish it, if not extinguish it altogether. She turned her flushed face toward the rabbi from Seville with a kind of smile in her bloodshot eyes, as though surprised that she could ask him to put out the moon for her sake. He responded with a wide, open smile, perhaps the first smile since they had met on the old guardship, and the sweet smell of his late wife’s sickbed assailed his nostrils, so that a hard knot of tears constricted his throat. Suddenly he could stand it no more, and in a whisper he turned to the physician and asked in the ancient Hebrew tongue, Will she live?