Joseph Roth - Tarabas

One of the monks had rid this Jew and that one of an aching tooth; another had applied the leech to others, or lanced an abscess. But only while they still endured their pains could the Jews feel close to their Samaritans; fear of the torment of sickness could banish for an hour or two the other, and far greater, fear — that which was born and bred in the blood. Yet in the days of health their gratitude to the godly brethren survived, and dwelt in them side by side with mistrust. As the brethren, unlike the lay healers, accepted no money for their services, one turned to them gladly, but when one was well again one asked oneself what reason these incomprehensible men could have for treating Jews for nothing. Now, it may be that the pious brethren knew, or at least divined, these sage reflections; at all events they combined with the commandment to waken their neighbours’ charity by means of pious exhortation to almsgiving, also the good purpose of hiding their strange selflessness a little from the shrewd Jews, and this was shrewd on their part.

In the Jewish houses the almsgiving was a rapid, almost hasty, ceremony. Money, clothes, and food were brought to the monks outside the door, in order that they might not cross the threshold. Their billowing, coarse brown frocks, the ample roundness of their well-fed bodies, their ruddy, shining faces, their unvarying gentleness, their complete indifference to cold and heat, rain, snow, and sun — these things all seemed unnatural to the Jews, inclined as they were to worry endlessly and always, yes, positively to wallow in their cares. Each morning they began by fearing what the day would bring; long before the winter came, they shivered in the frost to come, and in the summer they wasted away to skeletons; for ever agitated because they never did, and never could, feel that this land was home to them, they had long since lost what they once knew of calm, and lived their lives buffeted and tossed hither and thither between hate and love, anger and servility, protest, uprising, and pogrom.

For years they had been used to seeing the brethren from the monastery of Lobra appear in the little town at fixed seasons of the year. Now, however, when one of them arrived at quite another season, they began to dread the approach of some new disaster. What could be his errand? Whither was he bound? They stood in trembling suspense outside their shops, ready to plunge into hiding at a moment’s notice. Meantime the comfortable figure of the gentle monk Eustachius moved deliberately and unsuspectingly past all the fears on either side of him, down the miry middle of the street, lifting the skirts of his robe a little, and striding serenely in his thick high-boots with their double soles. Here and there an over-zealous peasant woman sprang down from the wooden sidewalk to kiss his hand. He was used to such things. With automatic dignity he put out his strong brown hand, let it be kissed, and wiped it on his robe. The anxious glances of the Jewish shop-keepers followed him. The watchers saw how he stopped at Nissen’s, read the sign above the door, and mounted the high sidewalk with one huge step. He vanished into the shop.

The dealer Nissen rose, startled and apprehensive, from the stool on which he sat. Brother Eustachius smiled gently, produced out of the depths of his robe an ivory box, and offered the Jew a pinch of snuff. The Jew reached into the box, sneezed heartily, and asked: “Reverend Father, what do you want of me?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said the monk, “but my errand is a very sad one. We have a sick man in our monastery; it will be all over with him very soon. The foolish Shemariah lives with you, I know. That was a good work of yours, to take him in. Yes, I wish such good hearts as yours could be found in all Christians.”

Somewhat calmed, but still mistrustful, Nissen answered with a general observation: “God commands us to be merciful.”

“But God is seldom obeyed by men,” replied Eustachius. “You took a burden on you of your own free will. It must be very difficult to get on with that Shemariah. Do you think that I could talk to him?”

“Reverend Father — it is impossible!” said the dealer Nissen. And his eyes considered the robe, the rosary, the crucifix. The monk followed the look and understood.

“Very well,” he said. “Will you go with me to him then? It is like this, you see. That sick man of ours says that he would like to die, but cannot. He says that he did this Shemariah great harm and wrong, and Shemariah must first forgive him. Do you know what the trouble was? Or what he means? It is possible,” continued Eustachius — for he had decided to make a concession to that common sense which rules the minds of Jews, “there is of course a possibility that he is only imagining it, for he is in a high fever, and he may be raving in delirium. But one must do what one can, so that he may die in peace. You understand?”

“Very well,” said Nissen. “I will go with you.”

And the dealer Nissen, not without trepidation, conducted the monk up the narrow ladder to Shemariah’s attic room. When they had reached the door, he said: “I had better go in first, Reverend Father.” He entered, but left the door open.

Shemariah glanced up from the great book which he seemed to pore over eternally. Behind his host and friend, Nissen, he became aware of the terrifying, fat, and alien figure of the brown-frocked monk. He shut the book sharply, got up, and went over to the wall, pressing close against it for protection. As he stood, with his emaciated head framed in the round sky-light, which was the only window in the room, he reminded the gentle Brother Eustachius of a saint or one of the apostles. Shemariah’s two thin hands, jutting far out of the sleeves of his caftan, were outstretched against his guests. His lips quivered. But he said nothing.

“Shemariah, listen carefully now to what I tell you,” Nissen began, going to the table. “You need not be afraid. The gentleman hasn’t come to take you away and lock you up. He has only come to ask you if you will do something for him — he has a little favour to ask of you. Come, say ‘yes.’—Then we’ll go away again at once.”

“What does he want?” Shemariah asked.

“There’s a man lying ill in his house — very ill. He’s going to die.” Nissen made a movement of the head to indicate the monk, who still stood at the threshold and had not come into the room. “This sick man says that he once did something terrible to you, and he can’t die in peace because of it. You must say that you are not angry with him, only that. Just ‘yes’—that’s all you need to say.”

It was a long time before Shemariah moved. Then he left the place against the wall where he had taken refuge. And to Nissen’s astonishment he said in a loud voice:

“I know who he is. Let him die in peace; I’m not angry with him.”

And to the dealer’s blank amazement, Shemariah came round the table close up to him, raised his right hand, putting the nail of the thumb against the nail of the first finger, and said:

“I’ve nothing against him, tell him, not this much! He shall die in peace. Tell him so!”

IN Brother Eustachius’s cell, and in his bed, lay Nicholas Tarabas. He was waiting. On the stone floor beside the bed a fire was burning, so that the sick man might have the warmth he needed. One of the brethren sat by him at the other side of the bed.

Eustachius entered, and Tarabas sat upright in the bed.

“He has forgiven,” said Eustachius.

“Did you speak to him yourself?”

“I did,” answered Eustachius.

“How is he then? Can he still be sensible? Does he know what he is saying?”

“He’s very sensible indeed,” said Eustachius. “He understood it all, perfectly. He’s a great deal clearer than they think.”