Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (32 page)

Well, then, you ask, did the rascally state official achieve his goal? Did he ruin Shmulik’s life completely?

It would seem not.

Ever since the boy’s earliest years the shameful surname had inspired him with a great, almost impossible dream: to go away to the Holy Land, where surnames were not even needed, because there every Jew was visible to the Lord, and He would not confuse which of them was which.

Shmulik had always studied, for as long as he could remember. Jewish boys like to study, but there was no more fervent swot in the whole of Zhitomir, which, by the way, is home to twenty-five thousand Jews, many of them boys zealously seeking learning. By the age of thirteen, Shmulik had learned the Pentateuch by heart. And not merely by heart, but by “pinpoint.” A man who knows the Holy Writings this thoroughly can take a needle, stick it into any letter, and immediately tell you what words the point has pierced on the following pages.

On coming of age, Shmulik had taken up the commentaries on the Torah and learned, word for word, all 613 laws corresponding to the 613 parts of the soul: the 248 in its upper region and 365 in its lower. He had also mastered to perfection the articles of the
eidut
, in which mention is made of historical events, and the simple laws of the
mishpatim
, and even the commandments of the
hukim
, which were beyond human comprehension.

Once mature in erudition, he had plunged into the labyrinths of the Talmud. But now he no longer blindly learned things by heart, because concealed in the wily twistings and turnings of the book Zogar there were indescribable treasures. It is known that a highly learned man endowed with the gift of penetrating the hidden meaning of letters can discover in that book the keys to great mysteries and wonders; he can even become the ruler of the universe. In the combinations of letters used in the Names of the Lord, in the holy number 26, the numerical equivalent of the four-letter
“iud-hei-vav-hei”
there lies concealed the key to the hidden knowledge that has tantalized many generations of Talmudists. Some of the
yeshiva
boys tried repeating one prayer or another twenty-six times, like parrots; others struck their heads against the Wailing Wall twenty-six times, or walked twenty-six times around Mount Meron, where the great Shimon bar Iohai, author of the Zogar, was buried, but Shmulik could sense that this was all stupid nonsense—mindless repetition would not get you anywhere. His heart told him that it was all immensely more complicated and at the same time far simpler. One day at sunset—he knew for certain that it would happen at sunset—the truth itself would be revealed to him in all its beautiful simplicity, and he would be able to pronounce the unpronounceable, hear the inaudible, and see the invisible. God would appoint him to manage His world order, because in His all-embracing wisdom He would know that Shmulik Mamzer could be trusted to cause no harm to the human world.

You may be quite certain that once having become the ruler of the universe, Shmulik would arrange everything in it in the most excellent fashion possible. Nobody would ever again make war, because after all, it is always possible to reach agreement with one another. Nobody would ever again torment anybody else: if people were happy together, let them live side by side, and if they were unhappy—well, then, they could separate, there was plenty of space in the world. And all the goys would begin to observe the teachings of the Torah—at first only the compulsory ones, known as
hova
, and then also the desirable ones, the
rishut
. Soon absolutely everyone would become a Jew, and then Shmulik would be hailed as the very greatest of men, even greater than the prophets Moses and Elijah. To call things by their proper names, he would become the Messiah who is to save the world and reconcile it with the Lord.

As it happens, Shmulik had made a great discovery using his own mind, but he had not, God forbid, shared his surmise with Rabbi Shefarevich:
The Messiah would not come from the sky; the Messiah would be the one who decoded the name of the Lord and was not afraid to pronounce it aloud, who would accept responsibility for everything that happens on the earth
. And then would come the morning after which the sun would no longer glance out from behind the mountains, because there would be no reason for it to dry up the earth, since man had fulfilled his assigned task, and dust would return unto dust, and the spirit would return unto the Lord. And all thanks to Shmuel of Zhitomir, who was once known as Mamzer.

Among the pupils of the great Rabbi Shefarevich—round-shouldered and short-sighted, with constantly runny noses—he was not the only one ablaze with divine ambition that was beyond all compare with the goys’ pitiful dreams of career and wealth. But Shmulik’s flame blazed brighter than all the rest, because he was an
ilui
. Madame Perlova, who had lived all her life in Kiev and knew no Hebrew at all, used to say it in Russian: “a boy of genius.” And after all, that didn’t sound too bad either. And once she had also called him “the Mozart of the Talmud,” but when he discovered that Mozart was only a musician, Shmulik had taken offense. How was it possible to compare the noble art of the Kabala with scraping on a violin! But on the other hand, what could you expect from a woman who could not even recite the very simplest prayer in the true Jewish language?

The
ilui
from the great Rabbi Shefarevich’s
yeshiva—
that was the reputation that Shmulik had earned for himself in Jerusalem, and he had hardly been living here for any time at all, only a few days really.

Of course, none of this would have happened if not for the rabbi, the fame of whose learning and godliness had even reached as far as here, so that the
rishon le-tsion
himself, the chief rabbi of all, who had a medal from the sultan hanging around his neck and a
ksive
with seals from the Turkish pasha, had asked the wise man from Zhitomir to move to the Holy City, together with his pupils. Just how often had an Ashkenazi rabbi been accorded such a great honor?

The Jews argued a lot over whether Rabbi Shefarevich should be regarded as one
of the gaons—
the great teachers of the faith—or one of the
lamed-vovniks—
that is, those thirty-six righteous men who must always be present in the world because it is only for their sake that the Lord does not destroy our sinful earth. If there should ever be even one
lamed-vovnik
less in the world, that would be the end. Thirty-five righteous men would not be enough to ensure His tolerance.

The year before, Rabbi Shefarevich had fallen ill with the mumps, and everyone knows what a dangerous illness that is for a man who is no longer young. Shmulik had been terribly frightened: God forbid that his teacher might die, and there might be some kind of hitch with the new
lamed-vovnik—
what then? But the rabbi had been all right, he hadn’t died, only become even fiercer.

The great Shefarevich was a special man. It is well-known that God’s spark is placed in every soul from its birth, but what he had was not just a spark, not even a candle—it was a torch, a blazing campfire; standing beside it made you feel hot. And it could be dangerous; if you weren’t careful, you could get burned. Because of this the rabbi had many enemies in Zhitomir, and even in Jerusalem. Although it was only a month since they had moved here, some people were already beginning to look askance: they said he was too wrathful.

Well, now, that was true enough. Shmulik’s teacher was strict. If he glanced into the classroom and saw that someone had not washed yet and was just sitting there batting his eyelids, then there would be
az och’n vei—
cries of “oi” and “vei”—or, to put it in biblical terms, a wailing and gnashing of teeth. And so Shmulik screwed his eyes up against the sun as he put on his lower
tales
, smoothed down his long hair as best he could, and recited the prayer on awakening from sleep: “I thank Thee, living and substantial King, for Thy mercy in returning my soul to me.”

He poured water over his hands (three times for each one, as prescribed) and recited the prayer of ablution. Then he paid a visit to the privy and thanked the King of the Universe for His wisdom in creating man and providing his body with all the necessary openings and internal hollows.

After another three prayers—for the blessing of the soul, for the partaking of breakfast (may our enemies breakfast like this: a mug of hot water and half a flatbread cake), and for study—Shmulik and the other
yeshiva
pupils sat down at the table and immersed themselves in the Gemara.

The others behaved noisily, not to say rowdily: some read aloud, some nodded their heads and swayed backward and forward, some even waved their hands about, but Shmulik did not see or hear anything around him. There is no occupation in the world more absorbing than copying out combinations of letters in a notebook and figuring out haemetric calculations. Time no longer seems to exist, it reverently stands still: any moment now Shmulik would touch the Mystery, and the world would no longer be as it had been. And this could happen at absolutely any time, at any instant!

The sound that returned the future savior of mankind to base reality was a rumbling in the stomach of his neighbor, the
balabes
Mendlik.
Balabes
was the name given to young boys who lived and ate with their wives’ families until they attained the age of maturity. Mendlik was only fourteen years old, so he still had plenty of maturing to do.

Earlier, Shmulik’s neighbor on the right had been Mikhl-Byk, whose name it was now forbidden to pronounce, but after all, you can’t place a prohibition on thought. Shmulik often thought about the unfortunate Byk. Where was he now? How was he?

Someone could be just living his life, even someone as stupid and coarse as Mikhl, but still a Jew, a living soul, and then from out of nowhere destiny suddenly appeared, in the form of a
barefooted focusmacher
, a conjuror, and suddenly the Jew was no more. What a terrible fate.

There was more gurgling from Mendlik’s belly, and Shmulik’s stomach responded in sympathy. The sun was already past the high point of noon. It was time for lunch.

IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL in Erushalaim, may it stand for all eternity, each
yeshiva
pupil had been given a list of the local families by which he would be fed on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and all the other days of the week. It was a matter of the luck of the draw; one day was not like another. If the family of the day was poor or miserly, you were left hungry. If it was hospitable and compassionate, you could stuff yourself until you could eat no more.

Today it was Shmulik’s turn to go to Madame Perlova’s. That was both good and bad. Good, because the widow would feed him better than at Passover, with meat, and fish, and even cream buns (praise be to the Lord for creating such a wonder). And it was bad, because she would sit beside him, look at him with her wet cow’s eyes, and stroke his shoulder or even his cheek. This made Shmulik feel ashamed, it even made his éclair stick in his throat.

Like the other rich widows, Madame Perlova had come to Erushalaim, may it stand for all eternity, in order to die close to the cemetery on the Mount of Olives. She had already bought a plot of land for the grave, in the very finest spot. But she had health enough for another fifty years, so she needed to attend to the question of how to live them. It is well-known that as a reward for feeding her husband and running his household, in the next world a woman is granted exactly half of the blessings that he has earned. In this respect she could hardly place any great hopes in the deceased Mr. Perlov—he had been a broker on the stock exchange. Yes, he had earned what was needed to support his wife in this life, but as for the afterlife—alas. So the widow’s interest was quite understandable. Shmulik Mamzer was bound to become a great scholar, at the very least.

He wondered himself whether he ought to marry. The fluff was already beginning to sprout on his chin. Why bother to wait until he grew a mustache? Without that vile surname, which had been left behind in Zhitomir and would soon be completely forgotten, Shmulik had been transformed into a most desirable bridegroom. It was true that he didn’t have a penny to his name, but when had the Jews ever paid any attention to wealth? Learning and a good name were more valuable than money. They would be glad to welcome an
ilui
into an old Erushalaim family. Sephardics never married Ashkenazi girls, because they were spoiled and willful, but they welcomed Ashkenazi bridegrooms, who made fine, caring husbands.

Only why did he need a Sephardic family when he had Madame Perlova? She was a kind woman who kept a good house, and she had capital, which meant that Shmulik would not be distracted from the main business of his life by the concerns of earning his daily bread. Of course, she was very fat, and you couldn’t exactly call her beautiful, but wise men said that bodily beauty meant nothing, and wise men would not lie.