S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

“And your father?” “My father doesn’t give way either. It happened once on the Sabbath eve that he was officiating in the synagogue and recited, ‘And the children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath.’ Most of the congregation banged on the tables and silenced him with a rebuke, for two Sabbaths before the opponents of the Hasidim had won a victory and decided that this paragraph should not be recited. And Father was angry all through the Sabbath. Here is the locksmith’s shop.”

The shop was open, but the locksmith was not there. Where had he gone? To the house of the Gordonia pioneer group to repair the lock of the door there. I looked at the old keys that were hanging by the entrance in case I might find the key I had lost among them, but though I searched I did not find it. I said to Bach, “Forgive me, sir, for detaining you; no doubt you find it difficult to stand on your leg.” “If you are thinking of this wooden leg, sir,” said Mr. Bach, “there is nothing that suits it better than to stand in one place, for then it feels like one of the trees in the forest, and perhaps it dreams that someone will make of it a couch for a king’s daughter.”

We went to the Gordonia group and found the locksmith. When he saw me he smiled as if he knew me. What a wonderful thing: all the old men smile — that old man I saw last night and this locksmith as well. Most of the young men, on the contrary, were looking angry, because the communists had pulled off the lock, broken in, and soiled the pictures, and now they had to get themselves a new lock.

Although the two of them resembled each other, there was a difference between them. That old man who appeared to me last night was tall and upright, while the locksmith was small as a schoolboy, and bent, his head hanging on his chest. That old man also had a bent head, but his bending was the result of his uprightness, as one who wishes to bring his words nearer to the listener’s ear bows his head and seems to be bent. Just as they were different in height, so were they different in their laughter. The laughter of that old man from Jerusalem was not truly laughter, but a smile that emerged from among the wrinkles around his mouth and vanished, and even his smile was not a smile, but the image of a smile. As for the locksmith, his laughter was true laughter, which split up into several kinds, each of them a laugh in itself, and when he laughed his body shook until one could hear the jingling of the locks and keys hanging from the belt around his waist. And even when he was not laughing aloud, a smile emerged from among the wrinkles on his face and his face shone; for he was one of the last of the Kossov Hasidim, who have learned that the world is worth rejoicing in, for so long as a man lives in this world he can acquire virtuous acts and good deeds, of which a man eats the fruits in this world and the capital remains for the next, and whoever takes these things to heart rejoices in his world, rejoices in his deeds, and lives for many a day and year. Hence the Hasidim of Kossov live for many days and years and rejoice. And if this old man’s body is dry with age, there is an overplus of sap in the wrinkles of his face, which refreshes the soul and gladdens the eye.

“This is the gentleman who wishes to have a key made,” said Bach to the locksmith. The locksmith greeted me, clasping my hand joyfully, and I too rejoiced in him. First, because he would make me the key, and second, because when I was a child I used to stand at the entrance to his shop, looking at the keys and locks, for in those days I longed for a chest with a key and a lock. When, later, I gave up the idea of the chest I did not give up the idea of the key, and I would lie in bed at night thinking of it — a large, heavy key, the kind a man takes out of his pocket to open his house. I pictured this key in various shapes, but all the shapes were less important than its function and final purpose: the act of opening. Imagine it: In the center of the city stands a house, and that house has a door, like all the other houses, and on the door hangs a lock. Along comes a child from school, puts his hand in his pocket, takes out a key, pushes the key into the lock, and twists it this way and that — and immediately the whole house is open before him. What is there in that house? A table and a bed and a lamp. That is, there is nothing in the house that there is not in other houses. But that moment of the opening of the door with the key that is in the child’s hand — no other moment can compare with it. So now you can imagine how wonderful was that old man, who had a hundred keys and more hanging at his shop entrance. There are hidden stores of treasure that can be opened with a sentence, as when one says, “Open Sesame”; I was not used to seeking things that were hidden from the eye, but only things that the eye could see, and I wished to have the key to them in my possession.

There was another man in the town to whom I was drawn in my childhood. That was the collector for the Land of Israel, and although the matter is not relevant here, I mention it because of his key. When I would hear the sound of his feet my heart would pound. And when he would enter, and with the key from his pocket open the collection box named after Rabbi Meir the Wonderworker, I would stand astonished. Here was a box into which everyone dropped coins, and this man came, opened it, and took all the money. And no one said a word to him; indeed, they looked at him with affection, and he would sit and write something on a piece of paper, like a doctor writing a prescription for a sick person, and set the writing before Mother and say, “May you be privileged to see the coming of the Redeemer.” I did not know who he was, this Redeemer who was spoken of in the blessing. But I knew that all other blessings were not equal to this blessing.

The old man stood at the door of the Gordonia group’s house and examined the lock, the smile dancing in his eyes and in the wrinkles of his face, as if he were delighted that people were not growing lazy, but continued to make trouble for each other, so that the blood should not congeal. I wanted to wrap my arm around his waist and lift him up; but it was good I did not do so, for how would I have been able to face him afterward? In short, the locksmith busied himself with his work, scraped with a nail, and examined the lock. In the end he took it off and made a new lock.

The man who has come to this place stands and waits. He is well on in years and far from childhood, and still he is seeking a key. From what I have said, you understand that this man is I, and it is I who am seeking a key, in order to open our old Beit Midrash, for the key that was entrusted to me is lost, and I need a new one.

When the locksmith had finished his work I said to him, “Now will you go with me and make me the key?” He smiled and said, “Is the making of keys like the 145th Psalm, which we say three times every day—‘Blessed be the Lord day by day’? Since the day I first came to act reasonably, I have not done two tasks on one day.” “If so,” said I, “when will you make me the key?” “God willing, tomorrow,” said he. “Tomorrow?” I cried in surprise. He smiled and said, “Do you believe, my son, that tomorrow is far from today? On the contrary, tomorrow is close and near, and this is a thing that a man should know, for if he has not succeeded in doing something today he will do it tomorrow.”

Since I have mentioned the meetinghouse, I will tell you something about it. The Gordonia group’s house is actually a single room. You go up to it by wooden steps — half stair, half ladder. The ascent is not difficult, for after all there are only five small steps, but the top one is shaky, and you must take care not to be alarmed, for alarm can lead to a stumble. It seems that these steps were not made for the house, but were brought from elsewhere, and since they were not high enough, a plank was added; this plank is the shaky step.