“You’ll be all alone? I imagine the stigma of excommunication will keep others at a distance?”
“On the contrary, it will be easier to live among Gentiles as an excommunicated Jew. Perhaps especially as a permanently excommunicated Jew, rather than a renegade Jew who just wants Gentile company.”
“So that’s another reason why you welcomed a
cherem
?”
“Yes, I admit that and something more: I plan eventually to write, and it may be that there is a better chance the world at large will read the work of an excommunicated Jew than a member of the Jewish community.”
“You know for sure?”
“Sheer speculation, but I’ve already developed relationships with several like-minded colleagues who urge me to write down my thoughts.”
“These are Christians?”
“Yes, but a different kind of Christian from the fanatic Iberian Catholics you have met. They don’t believe in the miracle of resurrection or drink the
blood of Jesus during Mass or burn alive those who think otherwise. These are liberal-minded Christians who call themselves Collegiants and think for themselves without preachers or churches.”
“Then you’re planning to convert to be one of them?”
“Never. I plan to live a religious life without the interference of any religion. I believe that all religions—Catholicism, Protestantism, Islam, as well as Judaism—simply block our view of the core religious truths. I hope for a world someday without religions, a world with a universal religion in which all individuals use their reason to experience and to venerate God.”
“Does that mean you wish for the end of Judaism?”
“For the end of
all
traditions that interfere with one’s right to think for oneself.”
Franco fell silent for a few moments. “Bento, you’re so extreme it’s frightening. It takes my breath away to imagine that, after surviving thousands of years, our tradition should perish.”
“We should cherish things because they are true, not because they are old. Old religions trap us by insisting that if we forsake the tradition, we dishonor all past worshippers. And should one of our ancestors have been martyred, then we are trapped even more because we feel honor-bound to perpetuate the martyrs’ beliefs, even though we know them to be fraught with error and superstition. Did you not intimate that you felt something of that as a result of your father’s martyrdom?”
“Yes—that I’d render his life meaningless if I negated the very thing he died for.”
“But would it not also be meaningless to dedicate your one and only life to a false and superstitious system—a system that chooses only one people and excludes all other beings?”
“Bento Spinoza, you stretch my mind too far. Any farther and it will shatter. I have never dared to think upon such things. I cannot imagine living without belonging to my community, my own group. How is it so easy for you?”
“Easy? It is not easy, but it is easier if one’s dear ones are dead. My permanent excommunication gives me the task now of refashioning my entire identity and learning to live without being Jewish or Christian, or any other religion. Perhaps I shall be the first man of such a sort.”
“Be careful! It’s possible that your permanent excommunication will not be so permanent. In the eyes of others you may not have the luxury of being a non-Jew. Baruch, what do you know about the
limpiezas de sangre
?”
“The Iberian blood laws? Not very much, except that Spain implemented them to prevent converted Jews from gaining too much power.”
“They began, my father told me, with Torquemada, the grand Inquisitor, who persuaded Queen Isabella two hundred years ago that the Jewish stain remained in the blood despite conversion to Christianity. Since Torquemada, himself, had Jewish ancestry four generations before, he drew the line of the Blood Laws three generations back. Thus recent conversos, or even those two or three generations old, remain under deep suspicion and are blocked from many careers—in the church, military, many guilds, and civil service.”
“Patently false beliefs such as ‘three but not four generations’ obviously are invented to convenience the inventor. Like the poor of the earth, false beliefs will always be with us, and their persistence is out of my control. I strive now to care only about those things over which I do have control.”
“Such as?”
“I think I have true control only over one thing: the progress of my understanding.”
“Bento, I have the strongest desire to say something to you that I know is impossible.”
“But not impossible to say?”
“I know it is impossible, but I want to come with you! You think great thoughts, and I know you will think greater ones. I want to follow you, be your student, your servant, share in what you shall do, be a copier of your manuscripts, make your life easier.”
Bento paused for a moment. He smiled, then shook his head.
“I find what you say pleasing, even enticing. Let me answer you from both the inside and from the outside.”
“First the inside. Though I desire and insist upon a solitary life to pursue my meditations, I can sense another part of me longing for intimacy. Sometimes I can slip into an inexpressibly intense longing for the old feelings of being cradled and held by a loving family and that part of me—that craving part—welcomes your wish and makes me want to embrace you and answer, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Simultaneously another part of me, my stronger and higher part, clamors for freedom. I ache that the past is gone and will never return.
I ache to think that all those who once cradled me are dead, and I also hate this ache that shackles me and holds me back. I cannot affect past events, but I have resolved to avoid future intense attachments. I shall never again wrap myself in my childish desire to be cradled. You understand?”
“Yes, far too well.”
“That’s the inside. Now let me answer from the outside. I assume your word ‘impossible’ referred to the impossibility of abandoning your family. If I were in your situation, I, too, would find it impossible. It is difficult enough for me to abandon my younger brother. My sister has her own family, and I worry less about her. But, Franco, it’s not just your family that prevents you joining me. There are other obstacles. Only a few minutes ago, you told me you cannot imagine life without a community. Yet my way is one of solitude and craves no community other than absolute absorption into God. I will never marry. Even should I desire marriage, it would not be possible. As a solitary oddity I may be able to live without a religious affiliation, but it is doubtful that even Holland, the most tolerant country in the world, would allow a couple to live in that fashion and raise children without religious membership. And my solitary life means no aunts or uncles or cousins, no family holiday celebrations, no Passover meals, no Rosh Hashanah. Only solitude.”
“I understand, Bento. I understand I am more gregarious and perhaps more needy. I marvel at your extraordinary self-sufficiency. You don’t seem to want or need anyone.”
“I’ve been told that so many times that I begin to believe it myself. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of others—at this moment, Franco, I cherish our conversation. But you’re right, a social life is not essential for me. Or at least not as essential as it seems for others. I remember how undone my sister and brother would be when they weren’t invited to some event with their friends. That kind of thing has never affected me in the least.”
“Yes,” Franco nodded, “it is true: I could not live in your fashion. It is indeed alien to me. But, Bento, consider my other choice. Here I am a man who shares so many of your doubts and your wishes to live without superstition, and yet I am fated to sit in synagogue praying to a God who does not hear me, following foolish ritual, living as a hypocrite, embracing a meaningless life. Is that what is left to me? Is that what life is all about? Won’t I be forced into a solitary life even in the midst of a crowd?”
“No, Franco, it is not so bleak. I’ve been observing this community for a long time, and there will be a way for you to live here. Conversos from Portugal and Spain pour into Amsterdam every day, and many, it is true, fervently long to return to their ancestral Jewish roots. Since none have had a Jewish education, they must start learning Hebrew and Jewish law as though they were children, and Rabbi Mortera works day and night to bring them back home to Judaism. Many will emulate him and become more religious than the rabbi, but, trust me, there will be others like you who, because of their forced Christian conversion, are disenthralled with all religion and will join the Jewish community with no religious fervor. You will find them if you look, Franco.”
“But still the pretense, the hypocrisy—”
“Let me tell you something of the ideas of Epicurus, a wise, ancient Greek thinker. He believed, as any rational person must, that there is no world to come and that we should spend our only life as peacefully and joyfully as possible. What is the purpose of life? His answer was that we should seek
ataraxia
, which might be translated as ‘tranquility,’ or as ‘freedom from emotional distress.’ He suggested that a wise man’s needs are few and easily satisfied, whereas people with implacable cravings for power or wealth, perhaps like your uncle, never attain
ataraxia
because cravings breed. The more you have, the more they have you. When you think of fashioning a life here, think of attaining
ataraxia
. Embed yourself in the part of the community that creates the least stress for you. Marry someone with sentiments similar to yours—you’ll find many conversos who, like you, will cling to Judaism only for the comfort of belonging to a community. And if the rest of the community, a few times a year, goes through the ritual of prayer, then pray with them knowing that you do so
only
for the sake of
ataraxia
, for the sake of avoiding the turmoil and distress of nonparticipation.”
“Do you speak down to me, Bento? Is it that
I
should settle for
ataraxia
while
you
reach for something higher? Or will you seek
ataraxia
as well?”
“A difficult question. I think—” Suddenly the church bells pealed. Bento stopped for a moment to listen and to glance at his packed bag and then continued. “Alas, the time for reflection is short. I must leave very soon, before the streets become too crowded. But quickly—I haven’t pointedly chosen
ataraxia
as my goal but instead point myself toward the goal of perfecting
my reason. Perhaps, however, the goal is the same, though the method is different. Reason is leading me to the extraordinary conclusion that everything in the world is one substance, which is Nature or, if you wish, God, and that everything, with no exception, can be understood through the illumination of natural law. As I gain more clarity about the nature of reality, I, on occasion, knowing I am but a ripple on the surface of God, experience a state of joyousness or blessedness. Maybe that is my variant of
ataraxia
. Perhaps Epicurus is right to advise us to aim for tranquility. But each person, according to his external circumstances and his natural bent of mind and inner mental characteristics, must pursue it in his own particular manner.”
The bells pealed again.
“Before we part, Franco. I have a last request of you.”
“Tell me. I am greatly in your debt.”
“My request is simply for silence. I have said things to you today that are but half-born thoughts. I have much thinking ahead of me. Promise me that all we have said today is our secret. Secret from the parnassim, from Jacob, from anyone, forever.”
“You have my promise to carry your secrets to the grave. My father, blessed be he, taught me much about the sanctity of silence.”
“Now we must say good-bye to one another, Franco.”
“Wait one more moment, Bento Spinoza, for I too have a final request. You have just said that we may have similar aims in life and similar doubts but each of us must take a different path. Thus, in a fashion, we will live alternate lives heading toward the same goal. Perhaps, had fate and time just slightly rotated and altered our external circumstances and temperament, you could have lived my life, and I could have lived yours. Here’s my request: I want to know about your life from time to time, even if it is only every year or two or three. And I want you to know my life as it unfolds. Thus we may each see
what could have been
—the other life we could have led. Will you promise to remain in contact with me? I don’t yet know the mechanism whereby this may happen. But will you let me know of your life?”
“I want this no less than you, Franco. My mind is clear about the necessity of leaving my home, but my heart wavers more than I expected, and I welcome your intriguing offer to view my alternative life. I know two people who will always know my whereabouts, Franciscus van den Enden and a friend, Simon de Vries, who lives on the Singel. I will find a way to
communicate with you through them by letter or through personal meetings. Now you must go. Be careful not to be seen.”
Franco opened the door, peered about him, and strode off. Bento took a last glance around his home, moved his note to Gabriel to a chair near the entrance so that it would be more easily visible, and, bag in hand, opened the door and stepped out into a new life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BERLIN—1922
W
ell . . . ,” Alfred hesitated. “There
is one thing
that I would regret not discussing with you, but . . . hmm . . . I’m having trouble bringing it up. I’ve been unable to speak of it all evening.”
Friedrich waited patiently. Words from his supervisor, Karl Abraham, flashed into his mind: “In an impasse, forget the content and focus instead on the resistance. You’ll find that you’ll learn even more about your patient.” With that in mind, Friedrich began. “I think I can help, Alfred. Here’s my suggestion. For the time being, just forget about
what
you were going to tell me, and, instead, let’s explore all the
obstacles
to speaking it.”