by Marek Halter
Sarai stepped back, frowning with incomprehension, a question on her lips. Abram took her face in his hands, in a gesture identical to the one he had made that very first time, on the riverbank in Ur, the night they met. This time, he placed his lips on hers. A long kiss, full of spirit, power, and desire. A kiss of pure happiness.
When at last they separated, Sarai laughed. “Who? Who called you? What are you talking about?”
“Him!” Abram said, lifting his hand and pointing to the horizon, the mountains and valleys, the earth and the sky.
“Him?” Sarai insisted, uncomprehending.
“Him, the One God! My God!”
Sarai wanted to ask him so much, to understand. Who exactly had spoken to him? What did this god look like? What was his name? But Abram’s hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He, Abram, the strongest man in Terah’s tribe, was shaking! Sarai squeezed his hands in hers.
“He said: ‘Go! Go, leave this country . . .’ We’re going to leave, Sarai. Tomorrow.”
“Leave? For where? Abram . . .”
“No, not now! No questions now. Come, I must speak to my father. I must speak to everyone.”
He took her hand and pulled her toward the path that led back to the river and Terah’s workshop.
Sarai realized that she couldn’t tell Abram the truth now. Not today. And not tomorrow. There was no point. And they had all been wrong—Terah, Tsilla, Sililli, and she herself. Abram’s angry, bitter mood lately had had nothing to do with her flat stomach.
ABRAM took up position outside the workshop. From the way he looked, everyone could tell he had something important to say. An assistant went to fetch Terah, who was making his evening offerings to his ancestors. Other men and women appeared with him, coming down to the banks of the river. Even the children stopped playing and came close.
Lot, his brow still turbaned, came to Sarai, who was standing back, and took her hand. He looked up at her, and she read in his eyes the same anxiety she could see on everyone’s face. They were all thinking that Abram had decided to confront his father and take over the leadership of the tribe. That was why they were so surprised when he started speaking.
“Father, today God Most High called to me. I was here, with all of you, preparing the kiln, when I heard a cry in the air. But with all the noise of breaking wood, I couldn’t hear. I climbed up to the plateau and walked. Suddenly I heard: ‘Abram!’ My name was being called. It was in the air all around me, spoken by a powerful voice I didn’t know. ‘Abram!’ My name again. I said: ‘Here I am! I’m Abram.’ There was no reply. So I walked. I went down into the valley that leads to Harran in the north, and suddenly the voice was everywhere. In the air, the clouds, the grass, the trees, even in the depths of the earth. On the skin of my face. It was calling my name: ‘Abram!’ I knew who was speaking. ‘Here I am!’ I cried again. ‘I’m Abram!’ The voice asked: ‘Do you know who I am?’ I replied: ‘I think so.’ He said: ‘Abram. Leave this land, leave your father’s house, and walk to the land I will reveal to you. I will make of you a great nation, I will make your name great. I will bless those who bless you, and those who insult you, I will curse. Through you, all the families of the earth will be blessed.’ Those were His words, Father. I’ve come back to tell you what He said, because I want you to know why I’m leaving.”
When Abram stopped speaking, there was a heavy silence. After the initial surprise, anxiety returned to everyone’s face. So the son wanted to leave the father and deny his ancestors? They all waited for Terah’s reaction. He seemed tired, but anger glinted in his eyes. He passed his hand through his thick beard.
“You say, ‘Those were his words.’ Whose words, my son?”
“The One God, who created heaven and earth, the God of Abram.”
“What’s his name?” Terah asked.
Abram could not hold back a laugh, a genuinely amused laugh, without pride. He shook his head. “He didn’t tell me His name, Father.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t need a name to speak to me or for me to recognize Him. He has nothing in common with these gods with their ridiculous faces that we make and sell to the Lords of one city or the merchants of another.”
A murmur of disapproval ran through the crowd. Terah raised his hand. “So this god of yours has no face?”
“No face,” Abram replied, “and no body.”
“How can you see him, then?”
“I can’t see Him. No human being or animal on this earth can see Him. He doesn’t shine, he doesn’t wear a toga or a diadem. He has no claws, no wings. He doesn’t have the head of a lion or a bull. He possesses neither the flesh of a man nor the forms of a woman. He has no body. He can’t be seen.”
“How do you know all that if you can’t see him?”
“He spoke to me.”
“How can he speak to you if he has no face or mouth?”
“Because He doesn’t need a face to speak. Because He is who He is.”
There was a burst of mocking laughter behind Terah. Lot huddled closer to Sarai. The women no longer hesitated to draw near and listen.
Terah also laughed. “So this is what’s happened,” he said, raising his voice. “My son Abram saw his god today, but his god has no flesh, no body! He’s invisible.”
“That is how the One God is,” Abram retorted, ignoring the mockery. “He is the source of all that lives, all that dies, and all that is eternal.”
An old man stepped forward to stand beside Terah. “Either it was all a dream, or else a demon was having his sport with you.”
“Demons don’t exist,” Abram replied patiently. “There is good and evil, justice and injustice. It is we who make good and evil. It is you and I who are just or unjust.”
This time, angry protests broke out in the crowd, everyone shouting at the same time.
“A god you can’t see doesn’t exist!”
“A god who doesn’t shine is powerless!”
“What’s the use of your god if he can’t prevent evil or injustice?”
“And if he doesn’t give us rain or protect us from thunder?”
“Who makes the barley grow?”
“Who makes us die? Who makes us ill?”
“Without Nintu, how would women give birth?”
“You’re talking nonsense, Abram. You’re insulting your ancestors.”
“You’re insulting our gods, too!”
“They can hear you and I can hear them. Already they’re getting angrier, I can feel it.”
“They’re going to punish us for your words.”
“May they forgive us! May they forgive us for being here listening to you!”
“You’re putting your father’s whole tribe at risk, Abram.”
“Terah, ask your son to purify himself!”
“Condemn your son, Terah, or misfortune will fall on us all . . .”
“Listen to me!” Abram cried, holding out his arms.
Sarai thought at first that he, too, had lost his temper. But then she saw his lips and eyes, and she knew he was still calm and self-assured. He stepped forward and, more than his cry, it was his calm and the expression on his face that caused them to stop talking.
“Do you want proof that the One God exists? That He spoke to me and called me by my name? I am that proof, I, Abram, whom He called today. Tomorrow at dawn, as he asked of me, I will set off with my wife Sarai, my brother Haran’s son Lot, my herd, and my servants. I will go westward, toward the country He will reveal to me.”
For a moment there was silence, as if everyone was trying to fathom the mystery of these words. Then, from here and there in the crowd, came bursts of derisive laughter.
“That’s a fine proof!” a woman exclaimed. “The man who isn’t even a father is going away. Much good may it do him!”
Sarai saw Abram purse his lips. Lot’s hand in hers felt hot and shivery. Abram took a few steps forward, and the crowd drew back, as if afraid to be too close to him.
&nbs
p; “All right,” he muttered. “I’m going to give you more proof.”
To everyone’s astonishment, he ran into Terah’s workshop and came out again carrying two big statues, perfect in every detail of form, color, and dress. Sarai knew immediately what he was going to do. She felt a shudder down her spine, and her mouth went dry. To a general cry of horror, Abram threw the statues into the air. They fell at Terah’s feet. There was a dry sound, like the crack of a whip or the noise of rain on hard soil. The idols lay on the ground, no more than shattered fragments now.
“Are your gods mighty?” Abram cried. “Then let them kill me, here and now! Let them strike me with lightning! Let the sky fall on me and crush me! I’ve just broken the faces and bodies of those you call Inanna and Ea!”
Sarai, like the others, was unable to hold back a groan.
“You worship them,” Abram went on, pointing to the sky. “You bow to them morning and night. There’s nothing you do that they don’t see. The figures my father makes are their flesh, their body, their sublime presence.”
The crowd’s lamentations grew in intensity. It was as if an enemy army had cut a swath through them.
“I’ve just broken what is sacred to you,” Abram’s voice rang out above the cries. “I should be punished! Let Inanna and Ea strike me down!”
He began to turn in a circle, his arm still held high, his face raised to heaven. Clasping Lot’s thin body to her, Sarai heard herself murmuring, “Abram! Abram!”
But Abram was still whirling. “Where are they,” he asked, “those you fear so much? I can’t see them. I can’t hear them. All I see is broken pottery. All I see is dust. All I see is the clay I took from the river with my own hands!”
He bent and picked up the head of the god Ea, whose nose was broken, and threw it against a stone, where it smashed.
“Why doesn’t Ea extinguish the sun? Why doesn’t he open the earth beneath my feet? I break his face and nothing happens . . .”
Men had fallen to their knees, holding their hands over their bowed heads, screaming as if their stomachs had been cut open. Others stared wide-eyed and recited prayers without pausing to catch their breath. Women wept and ran away, pulling their children by the arm, tearing their tunics on the undergrowth. Some stood openmouthed, searching the sky. Terah’s old body was shaking like a branch in a storm. Lot was staring at Sarai, but she could not take her eyes off Abram. He was horribly calm. He turned and smiled at her, so tenderly, so serenely, that it melted her heart.
And nothing happened.
A strange silence returned.
In the warm sky of twilight the birds still flew. Small, high clouds still hung in the air. The river still flowed.
Abram strode to the kiln and seized a long wooden log. “Perhaps it isn’t enough? Perhaps I must destroy all these statues, leave not a single one standing, before your almighty gods manifest themselves?”
He was already walking toward the entrance of the workshop, his arm raised.
“Abram!” Terah cried.
Abram turned.
“Don’t destroy my work, my son.”
Abram put down his stick. Father and son confronted each other, face-to-face. For the first time in many moons, they again seemed of one flesh.
Old Terah bent down and picked up a shard of pottery: the mouth, the nose, and one eye of Inanna. He rubbed his fingers over the terra-cotta lips, then pressed the shard to his chest.
“Perhaps the gods will punish you tomorrow, or in a few moons,” he said, in a low, unsteady voice that obliged everyone to be silent. “Perhaps soon, perhaps never. Who can know what they decide?”
Abram smiled and threw the log on the ground. Terah walked right up to him, as if he wanted to touch him.
“Your god says, ‘Go.’ He says, ‘Leave, you owe nothing to your father, Terah the potter.’ He tells you that henceforth you must place in him the trust a son usually grants his father. Well, if that is what you also want, go. Obey your god. Take your share of the animals and get away from our tents. All will be well. But as for me, I no longer have a son named Abram.”
THERE was so much to do, and the night seemed short. The chests had to be made ready, the tents taken down, the herds, mules, and wagons gathered by torchlight. With the servants who were leaving with Abram and Sarai bustling about, the whole camp seethed with activity. There was a constant movement of lamps and dark figures. From time to time there came the weeping of children, or the braying of animals disturbed in their sleep.
Just before dawn, Sarai moved away from the loaded wagons and sat down on a stone, rubbing the small of her back to relax herself. The crescent moon lay between little clouds and, here and there, the stars glittered, as cool as spring water.
Sarai smiled: The sky had not collapsed, fire had not ravaged everything, water had not engulfed the world, as everyone had feared after Abram had broken the holy idols.
Someone’s hands touched her shoulders, and she immediately recognized their weight and pressure. She leaned back until she was resting her back and shoulders on Abram’s stomach.
“You didn’t hear Him as I heard Him?” he asked, softly.
“No. Your god didn’t speak to me.”
“But you were on the plateau. You could have heard him, too.”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
“Are you only coming with me because it’s your duty as a wife?”
“I’m going with you because you are Abram and I am Sarai.”
“Yet not long ago you were still the Sacred Handmaid of Ishtar.”
“Ishtar should have struck me down for abandoning her. It’s been many moons since I last placed offerings on her altar. Inanna hasn’t struck me down, any more than Ea has killed you.”
Abram laughed, startling Sarai. He stroked her cheek. “Do you believe that He who spoke to me exists?”
“I don’t know. But I trust you. I, too, know that the day will come when you lead a great people.”
Abram fell silent as if pondering her words. Sarai was suddenly afraid that he would ask “How could I create a great people with your barren womb?” But he bent and kissed her on the temple.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want any other wife than Sarai, the girl from Ur.”
BY the time the sky turned white, they were exhausted but ready to depart. Sililli was in a tetchy mood, complaining that it would bring them bad luck if they left without chanting and without saying farewell to those who were staying behind. This was the way you left when you had committed a sin or a crime. Even Terah had not come to bid farewell to his son. According to Tsilla and the other old women, such a thing was unheard of, and sure to bring misfortune!
Irritated by her words, Sarai told her that she was under no obligation to follow her. “I’ll understand if you want to stay.”
“Oh, yes!” Sililli retorted, offended. “And what would you do without me and my wisdom, my poor girl? You who always does the opposite of what you ought to! Who would you tell the things you can’t confide in anyone else? Of course I have to go with you. Even though they say there’s only barbarians and desert where your husband is taking us, and that it’s the end of the land of men and beyond it there’s only sea.”
Sarai could not help laughing.
“There’s one advantage in being as old as I am,” Sililli went on. “I’ll die before I see these horrors. But you can tell your husband this: I’m not walking. I’ll sit in a wagon.”
“In a wagon,” Sarai said. “All right.”
By the time Abram was ready to give the order for departure, Lot was nowhere to be seen. They were about to go and look for him when he came running.
“Abram! Sarai!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come and see, come and see.”
He took them by the hand and dragged them through the camp, which seemed very quiet, as if everyone had finally decided to sleep. But when they came to the path overlooking Terah’s workshop, they discovered a long column of wagons.
The slopes of the hills on either side of the road were white with the herds gathered there. A hundred faces, perhaps two hundred, turned toward Abram. Men, women, children; young and old. More than a quarter of Terah’s tribe.
They were all waiting patiently for him.
A man by the name of Arpakashad came forward. He was the same height as Abram but a little older, and known for his skills as a shepherd.
“Abram,” he said, “we’ve been thinking about your words during the night. We’ve seen that neither Ea, nor Inanna, nor any of the gods we feared until today have punished you. We trust you. If you agree, we shall follow you.”
Abram was moved. “My father says his gods may punish me later. Don’t you fear them?”
Arpakashad smiled. “We’re always fearing one thing or another. It would be good to stop being afraid.”
“So you believe the God who spoke to me exists?” Abram insisted.
“We trust you,” Arpakashad repeated.
Abram glanced at Sarai. Her eyes shone with pride.
“Then come with Sarai and Abram. And you will be the beginning of the nation the One God promised me.”
Abram’s Words
At first they walked every day, from dawn to dusk. They left the mountains of Harran and followed the Euphrates southward, as if they were returning to the kingdom of Akkad and Sumer.
And so they walked, for three or four moons. The lambs, the women, and the children took turns in the wagons. They learned to make larger goatskins, longer tunics, and sandals with thicker soles to protect them from the heat of the day and the fierce cold of the night. Whenever they came in sight of a town or another tribe’s camp, people would come to meet them. They became known as the “men from across the river”—the Hebrews.
Nobody complained about these long, tiring days. Nobody asked Abram why he was taking this route rather than another. Only Sarai saw the disquiet that sometimes seized her husband in the early hours, before they resumed their march.
