The Oath (17 page)

“You are choosing the road that leads to torture, Moshe. You want to be a martyr, and I think I can guess your motives. But it is contrary to our holy Law. You know that, Moshe. You know it better than I, better than anyone. Man sanctifies
life by celebrating it, by rejecting that which makes it poorer. Suicide is murder. Whoever kills himself, kills. You mean to sacrifice yourself for the community? You hope to save us by your death? No individual has the right to set himself up as judge in God’s place. You, Moshe, have no right to decide that your life is worth less than mine.
Vekhai bahem
, says the Torah.
Khayekha kodmin
, orders the Talmud. You shall live your life, you shall protect it. Whoever renounces his life, rejects life, rejects Him who gives life.”

Only then did the real debate begin. Passionate, stimulating. Not as before. Now they were on familiar ground. They could use quotations, precedents and decisions dating back to the Tanaim or the Gaonim. They knew which doors to open, which questions to ask, whereas before they had been groping in the dark. As though the true object of this meeting was this debate and not the other. This was the real one, the only real one.

Everyone participated. Everyone had something to say. Father had to make a considerable effort not to miss anything; he wrote fast, very fast. Someone rejected the Rebbe’s condemnation of martyrdom as too extreme. What about Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Shimon in Roman days? Yes, but … And Hutzpit the Interpreter? Yes, but … A shrill voice: Because Pappus and Julianus, in Ludd, agreed to declare themselves guilty of a crime they did not commit, they are even dearer to God than the saints and the just. A drawling voice: Yes, but … It’s the same. It’s different. And what about the men and women who sanctified the divine Name at the time of the Crusades? After all, commented Joelson, there rest in our own cemeteries scores of pious and brave Jews whom we revere as martyrs. Could all of them have broken the Law?

“The situation is not the same,” said the Rebbe, annoyed.
“Martyrdom is acceptable to safeguard the Torah of Israel, and that is what our ancestors did, may their memory be a blessing. But in this case the Torah is not at stake as far as I know, it is not in danger. Is the enemy seeking to convert us? To make us kiss the cross? The threat is to the body, not the soul, not the faith. Therefore I repeat: since the circumstances do not warrant martyrdom, I order Moshe to abandon his plan.”

A murmur of disapproval ran through the audience. The Rebbe was going too far; this was no time to impose his religious or legal authority. That time was past. They had to act, and act quickly. Since Moshe had decided to provide, no, to
be
the solution—why stop him? But a rabbinical decision is binding on the community. How can it be challenged without jeopardizing authority based on tradition? The obviously displeased councillors shrugged their shoulders, as if to say: Very well, Rebbe, have it your way but the responsibility will be yours.

It was Moshe who broke the ensuing silence. He rose and resolutely walked up to the table, stared into the yellowish flame of the lamp and ran his hand over his face as though to force it into a smile. “The time for discussions is over.
Eit laassot laadoshem heferu toratekha
. We must act, we must save the divine Law even if it places us in contradiction to the Law. No, the Rebbe is deluding himself. Whenever any Jew is threatened, the Torah itself is at stake. Without Jews there would be no Torah, at least not as living law. They are inextricably bound. To the extent that this community is in danger, so is the Torah. Therefore we must safeguard the one because the other has already been marked by the enemy.”

He stood halfway in the light, motionless, seemingly belonging to two worlds at once, dominating the one with his words and the other with the silences between them.

“I shall go and give myself up,” he continued, “and the Prefect shall have his instrument.”

Whereupon the Rebbe, unable to restrain his indignation, began to shout, punctuating each sentence by pounding his fist on the table: “I forbid you! I command you! In my capacity of spiritual leader I forbid you … otherwise I …”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t finish your warning,” countered Moshe, humble but determined. “Ordinarily I would obey, but these are not ordinary times; these are times when men like me cannot be bound to principles. Moreover, I am mad, therefore free. Free not to understand, free not to submit to any will but my own.”

He took a step forward, crossed his arms and his voice became pleading: “For the love of heaven and of the Jewish people, don’t drive me into open rebellion; I don’t wish to disobey you. Don’t give me orders I could not carry out. Don’t say anything I could not accept! I have made my decision, I shall not turn back. Fate is against us. Let me fight it in my own way. The very survival of this community is at stake.”

He looked so vulnerable, so innocent, so sad that the Rebbe felt his anger ebb. Those present looked from one adversary to the other. They seemed so different. And here they were, staring at one another, evidently concluding a strange alliance made of complicity and compassion. At this moment they were promising one another aid and allegiance; the one offering his strength, the other his lucidity. Seeing them face to face, one forgot they were of the same age and shared the same past. Also, that one could not subsist without the other. The resignation of the one and the daring of the other reflected the same call for survival.

“You understand,” said Moshe, taking a step backward
toward the door, “I have been sidetracked once. This time I shall go to the end.”

He made an awkward attempt at greeting the councillors and left, leaving behind, as a pledge, his immense and silent shadow.

The news struck like lightning. At the synagogue, the beadle constantly had to call for order. At the Yeshiva, the students lost themselves in endless analyses while their Talmudic Tractates remained open. Jew Street was buzzing; grocers and customers were arguing, sneering, exchanging words of indignation. The prevailing opinion was that it was all a farce. People called to one another, laughing:

“Tell us that Yancsi strangled Moshe and we believe you. But the opposite? Really, who is going to believe that?”

“A Jew capable of murder? No! Never!”

“Moshe? He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t! If Yancsi but blew at him, he would be flat on his back!”

The whole thing was absurd, unthinkable. But the facts were indisputable. Moshe had appeared early that morning at the Town Hall, asking to be received by the Prefect. He had promptly been sent away by the sentry: “Hurry up and get out of here, and faster than that … You have the nerve to think the Prefect has nothing better to do than chat with vermin like you?”

Unprepared for this turn of events, Moshe ignored the insult and began to argue: “It’s important, urgent … The Prefect is expecting me.”

“Listen, you, do you take me for a fool?”

“It is imperative that he see me. Immediately. Even if he is busy.”

“He’s not here,” said the sentry.

“Even if he is not here, I must see him …”

“Are you deaf?” roared the sentry. “I am telling you he’s not here!”

“Impossible,” said Moshe. “He cannot be anywhere else. Tell him … tell him it has to do with the murder … I am bringing him a vital piece of information …”

The sentry reacted like a true civil servant. He rid himself of the nuisance by directing him to another department: “The murder? Unless you’re the corpse, it concerns the police.”

Moshe had better luck at police barracks. As soon as he announced the purpose of his visit to the sentry, he was pushed into the guardroom in front of Sergeant Pavel, who, notwithstanding the early hour, was already half drunk.

“Suspicious, this Jew. Implicated in a murder. Says he has information. I thought it well …”

“You! Back to your post before I bury you!” the sergeant bellowed.

“I thought it well to come with …”

“You should have yelled, that’s all! A sentry’s place is outside, not inside!”

“The information he …”

“Information means security and security is my business and my business is not yours, understand? Get back to your post!” Then, his hands on his hips, he continued, addressing himself to Moshe: “What are you doing here? You walk into a military zone just like that? Who sent you? Why so early in the morning? You say you have information. Are you selling or buying? And for which foreign power? Hmm? In whose pay are you? And why are you undermining the security of this country, which should have cut you into pieces a long time ago, if only to render you harmless?”

A matter of habit with the sergeant: he didn’t strike right away. He first worked himself into a rage, thus preparing himself a pretext. He always prefaced his blows with speeches.

Moshe waited for him to calm down. How was he to explain that there had to be a misunderstanding somewhere? That the sergeant suspected him unjustly? That he, Moshe, was certainly no spy. Only a simple murderer! Mentally, Moshe was composing a clear straightforward statement. But the sergeant was still carrying on his monologue, punctuated with curses and accusations, persuading himself that this Jew in a caftan had come to blow up first the barracks, then all the military installations of the area, then those of the whole country. It was not Moshe he was seeing but thousands of Moshes, caricatures of Jews with hooked noses and long teeth, all ready to trample on the King’s sacred Fatherland, to devour the King’s heroic army, to assault the King himself. Overwhelmed by this outpouring of invective, which he understood as little as the military jargon, Moshe tried to interrupt and was promptly rewarded by a resounding slap.

“You dare interrupt a sergeant of the Royal Police? You, a Jew? And in the military zone at that? Can’t you see my uniform, my stripes? When I wear this uniform I represent my commander, who represents the military governor, who represents the general, who represents His Majesty the King. You dare, you nobody, to interrupt His Majesty the King?”

Moshe certainly had no thought of lacking respect for the August Sovereign. And so there were no further interruptions. The sergeant was able to bring his tirade to a climax, a tirade in which Moshe and the King presently confronted one another in a historic and religious struggle of life and death, honor and sacrilege, truth and deception. The King had but one enemy: Moshe. And Moshe had but one concern: to seize the throne.

Having had his say, the sergeant suddenly calmed down.
“Your turn, Jew. If you have something to say, say it fast and say it well.”

Moshe breathed. At last. His statement was waiting, ready to go. “Well, it has to do with the murder … I must see the Prefect … With regard to the murder.”

“What murder?” asked the sergeant, returning from the battlefield strewn with Jewish and royal corpses.

“But … Yancsi’s murder.”

Pavel was beginning to emerge from his drunken state. “Aha! You have information?”

“Yes.”

“What are you waiting for? Spit it out! Well? You come, you play the clown, you waste my time—and you shut up! Speak, I tell you!”

“I know the murderer,” said Moshe very calmly. “Yessir, Commander, I know him. I must add that I am the only one who knows him.”

The sergeant stood there with his chest puffed out. He bristled. “Come on! You know who he is! You! A no-good Jew, a mangy dog, you succeeded where the Royal Police failed! Yancsi’s assassin, you know who he is, is that right? We look for him, we carry on, mobilize all our forces to find a clue, and you, with your devil’s goatee, your warlock’s eyes, you have identified, recognized and nailed the culprit, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Moshe without affectation. “That’s almost it.”

The sergeant decided that the time had come to consider the matter carefully. He began to pace the office, his chin buried in his right hand. Was it possible that a Jew would know things the investigators did not? He circled the room several times without ever taking his eyes off Moshe, as though he wanted to study him from every angle to decide whether to take him seriously or send him away after a good thrashing.

“I warn you,” he said. “If you are about to inform on a Christian in order to deceive us, divert our vigilance to protect the real culprit, you will not leave this place alive. I know your tricks. Your treacherous swindles, your double-dealing—I know all about them; I was not born yesterday. So be careful what you say, Jew, or else …” He stamped his right foot, crushing an invisible insect under his boot.

“The murderer is not Christian,” said Moshe.

The sergeant froze, wondering whether he had not drunk too much, after all. This Jew, a gift from heaven—here he was denouncing one of his own. His confession could have no other meaning.
The murderer is not Christian!
That’s good. That’s wonderful. That smells of treason, of show trial. The murderer is Jewish, says a Jew. Better and better. Bravo, Pavel, Sergeant Pavel. You have unraveled a complex, obscure affair. Bravo, Lieutenant Pavel. Bravo, General. We are proud of you, my son, says His Majesty the King surrounded by his court. You have served justice, avenged Christianity. You have unmasked our hereditary enemies, punished the guilty—bravo, my dear Count. Now tell us how you did it. It must not have been easy. Jews have a reputation for helping each other. Tribal solidarity. Common front, shoulder to shoulder. Still, here we are; here is a Jew who states in the most natural way in the world that Yancsi’s assassin is Jewish. Go and figure it out. No doubt an exception. His motive? His purpose?

“Come, Jew,” said the sergeant. “Let’s talk a little—you and I.”

Moshe, his tallith and tephillin under his arm, let himself be pushed into the barracks courtyard and from there into the gymnasium. A faint smile played around his lips. As far as he was concerned, the matter was closed, or almost. He had played his part, done his duty. He had said everything. Another three
words … three words and it would all be over.
I did it
. And the catastrophe would be avoided, averted. The power of words.
I did it
. One brief sentence, and the destiny of a Jewish community somewhere between the Dniepr and the Carpathian Mountains would be changed.