S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

And Mr. Bach went on to say, “Those that live in sanctity do not know of it, and those who bear the name of sanctity on their lips are not aware of it. And that is not all. If a man does a thing from his heart, with conviction, what sanctity is there in the doing? That is what he was made for, that is what he wants, isn’t it? And in any case I do not want to judge things I have not been appointed to judge. A man like me — it’s enough for me that I keep myself alive, without bothering to judge the lives of other people.”

I remembered my comrades in the village and recalled that I had promised to go back to them. “Come with me,” I said to him, “and I will show you an example of Yeruham’s comrades.” “Perhaps it is worth seeing what the lads are doing there,” said Mr. Bach. “It is many years since I stirred from the town.” So we went out to the market and bought some food, as well as some knickknacks for the two girls, hired a cart, and set off.

It was three days since the rains had stopped, and it was still damp. The ground had not hardened and the journey was easy and pleasant. The rye was standing and a pleasant fragrance rose from the fields. The horses trotted by themselves and the cart followed them. The carter sat on his perch and sang a love song about a handsome young man who went to the wars and left his beloved in the village, while Daniel and I sat back in comfort like travelers who forget their troubles in the journey.

On our way, Bach asked me if I had heard anything about Aaron Schutzling. Since Schutzling had written nothing, I had nothing to tell, and since I had nothing to tell about Schutzling we talked about other people. About whom? About those that kept all mouths busy and those whom no one remembered, until we reached the village and went out to the fields.

We found our comrades standing in the fields and loading sheaves of hay. Two of them stood on top of a wagon, while two stood on one side and two on the other, with long forks in their hands, and the boys in the wagon stood up to the waist in hay, treading it with their feet to make room for what their comrades lifted up to them. Down below, on a sheaf of hay, sat the farmer, unlit pipe in his mouth, watching the work of his laborers. The lads were busy with their work and did not notice us, while we stood watching them and their work.

When the farmer saw Bach, he took his pipe out of his mouth, tucked it into his high boots, and ran to meet us joyfully. He gripped Bach’s hands and would not let them go. “Oh, Mr. Bach, sir, if it hadn’t been for you the crows would have eaten me,” he exclaimed. As he spoke, his wrinkles smoothed out, his face lost its angry expression, and something like a Jewish sadness filled his Gentile eyes. Finally he gazed at Mr. Bach’s artificial leg and said, “So this is what they have done to you, Mr. Bach, sir. And you came here with this leg of yours, and I didn’t go to you even once. A man is like a pig, he squats on his dungheap and scratches himself and eats. That is the whole of man.”

So the farmer stood in front of Bach, and talked, and talked again, and showed him every kind of affection, for Daniel Bach had saved him from death, as we shall tell below — or perhaps we had better tell the story at once, in case we forget. It happened that during the war both of them were serving in the same regiment. Once the officer ordered that farmer to do such and such, but the farmer violated his orders and did the opposite, so they sentenced him to death. But Bach came along and spoke up in his defense; he said the farmer had acted as he did because he did not understand German. So they exchanged the death sentence for a lighter penalty.

After the farmer had recalled this story, he went on to say, All the troubles come only because people’s languages are not the same. If everyone spoke the same language, they would understand each other. But people’s tongues are different: the German speaks German, the Pole Polish, and the Ruthenian speaks Ruthenian. Then the Jew adds Yiddish. And now go and tell me we are brothers. How can we say we are brothers, when one of us doesn’t know the other’s language, and can’t tell a blessing from a curse? And now the sons of the Jews come along and talk the Hebrew language, which I and even their fathers don’t know. Hello, Hebrews, don’t you see that you have guests? Stop your work and come to welcome your guests. That Jerusalemite from Palestine, he’s come too. He’s put on a new suit in your honor. Look out for him and his suit, and don’t let a scrap of straw fall on it.” When the lads heard him, they jumped down and came up to us, those from the two sides of the wagon and those from the top, greeting us and waving their hands in joy. Nor did they stop rejoicing until the farmer said to them, “You Hebrews, better stop work and get them some food, for I suppose they won’t want to eat with me.”

So one of the group rushed off to the girls in the cowshed to tell them visitors had come, so that they should prepare supper, and the rest went off to change their clothes, for their master gave them permission to leave their work an hour early in honor of Mr. Bach.

The farmer took us and showed us his fields, and every man and woman who saw Bach bowed their heads in respect and asked after his health. The farmers had known him during the war, and their wives had known him after the war, for they used to buy soap from him so that their husbands should wash their hands of the blood they had shed.

In the meantime we reached our comrades, who were standing in front of the house waiting. The girls laid the table with things from the village, while I added the foodstuffs I had brought from town.

A small lamp lit up the little room, and a fine smell rose from the fields and the hay and the bread and the new cloth that was spread on the table. The boys ate with an appetite as if after a fast, and encouraged us to eat too, showing us great affection and then still more, not knowing whom to honor first and whom last — the one who had come from the Land of Israel or Mr. Bach. Said I, “I deserve to be honored first, for I have brought you an important guest, and since you know me well as one of yourselves, you and I together will honor Mr. Bach.”

The young people thanked me for bringing them such an important guest — important for the sake of Yeruham his brother, who had been killed for the Land of Israel, as well as for his father, who lived in the Land, and for his own sake, because he had taken the trouble to visit them — unlike the other townsfolk, who scoffed at them, and even if some praised them, none took the trouble to visit them. After they had somewhat appeased their hunger and eaten all I had brought, they turned to me with great affection and asked me to tell them something from the Land of Israel. Especially pressing was Zvi — the same Zvi who had visited me a few weeks before and invited me to come here. So I did not refuse to tell them what I know and what I thought I knew. Since our comrades were well versed, in their own way, in the affairs of the Land, I did not have to explain much, and if I explained something I did so only in honor of Daniel Bach. So I sat and told my tale, until midnight came and I had not reached the end.

At that moment the kerosene came, to an end, for my story was long and the lamp was small, as I said before. So we rose from the table, and that was only right, for the lads had to get up for their work at sunrise, and especially because the two girls had to get up in the middle of the night to milk the cows. While they were filling the lamp with kerosene, we went out to stroll in the fields. Our comrades went with us and continued the tale of the Land, until the talk turned on their work in the village. Daniel Bach told them in the farmer’s name that he was pleased with their work — and not only that farmer, but all the farmers they had been with said they had never had such diligent workers.