S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

On that occasion I was in a playful mood. I said to her, “Would you like to hear an interesting story, madam?

“An old man and an old woman who had spent most of their days in a village among the Gentiles came to live in the city in a place of study and prayer. The old man went to the Beit Midrash, where he saw Jews sitting and studying. He sat down to listen, but understood nothing, for this was the table for great scholars, and they were discussing a difficult problem. He went and sat by another table, where they were studying Gemara. He listened attentively, but understood nothing. He went and sat by another table, where they were studying Mishna. He listened attentively, but understood nothing. So he went and sat by the table where the children were being taught. At that moment they were studying in the Book of Samuel the story of David and Goliath and of Abigail the wife of Nabal the Carmelite. The old man listened attentively. When he came home he said to his wife, ‘You surely know David the author of the Psalms, don’t you? Would you have believed that this David made love to another man’s wife and killed a Gentile?’”

After I had told the story I felt sad, as I usually do after a jest. Why did I say that the compilers of the Tales from the Scriptures did wrong to arrange the stories by themselves? Because they took them out of the sphere of holiness and made them secular.

And what is holiness?

The simple meaning of the word is: a summit of the spirit that no tongue can explain. And this word was first used to denote the holiness of the Almighty, the Holiness of all holinesses, of whom it is said, “For I am holy.”

From this summit of the spirit there emanate a number of objects, which partake of His holiness; such as Israel, of whom it is said, “Israel is the Lord’s holy portion,” for He took them to Him to be a holy people, and assigned His holiness to them, and said, “Ye shall be holy for I am holy.” And similarly with the Tabernacle and the Temple: the Tabernacle, as it is said, “in a holy place,” and the Temple, whose name in Hebrew testifies to its holiness. Similarly with Jerusalem, the Holy City, and the Holy Land, which have been made holy by the holiness of the Almighty and the holiness of the deeds of Israel, who are called “a special people and a holy nation.” Similarly with special days for the nation, such as the Sabbath day, which is called the Holy Sabbath, and the Day of Atonement, which is called a Holy Day, and so with the other divine festivals. And all those things that have been said in the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings are called the Holy Scriptures, as is said in the tractate Sabbath , chapter 15, “All the Holy Scriptures must be saved from burning.” From this we learn that all these things are holy — the opposite of secular. And anyone who makes one of these things secular degrades a supreme spiritual quality, at the very time that all creatures long to become more holy and to rise higher.

All the while I was sitting in Bach’s house, the child busied himself with his picture book and paid no attention to me. Suddenly he asked, “Are you from the Land of Israel?” “Yes, my dear,” I said, “I am from the Land of Israel.” “Were you in Jerusalem too?” he asked. “I was in Jerusalem too,” I said. “Did you see my uncle Yeruham?” he asked. “No, I didn’t see him,” I said. “Why didn’t you see him?” “I just didn’t happen to see him,” I said. “Why?” “Your uncle lived in one place and I lived in another,” I said. The child looked at me in surprise, and said, “But don’t all the Jews live together in the Land of Israel?” “Yes, my dear,” I said, “all the Jews live together, but even so, is it possible to see every one? There is a distance that divides one place from another, you know, and if you live in one place you do not see the person who lives in another place.” “You don’t see?” “Certainly you don’t see; every separation separates.” “And why do I see him?” “Whom do you see, my love?” asked the child’s mother. The child laughed and said, “I see my uncle Yeruham.” “You see him?” said the mother in a fright. “Yes, Mother, I see him,” said the child.

“How do you see him — in a dream?” asked the child’s father. “In a dream, and not in a dream too,” said the child. “I always see him. Before this gentleman came in I saw my uncle Yeruham putting brown polish on his shoes.” “Brown polish?” cried Erela in surprise. “Yes, Erela,” said her brother, “brown polish he put on his shoes.” Erela took off her spectacles and shined them and asked again, “Why brown polish?” “So that they shouldn’t see the blood on them that drips from his heart.”

The child whispered to me, “Do you know my uncle was killed? An Arab killed him. Why did he kill him? He was a good uncle. Once he gave me a sugar soldier riding on a sugar horse, with a long sugar spear in his hand. The soldier was very sweet, but I didn’t eat him. I swear I didn’t eat him, though he was sweet. I only licked the horse’s hoofs a little and the spear too. And do you know my grandfather?” “Yes, I know your grandfather,” I said. “He went up to Jerusalem,” said he. Daniel stroked the child’s cheek and said, “Yes, dear, he went up to Jerusalem.”

“And does he see my uncle Yeruham?” the child asked his father. “But Uncle is dead,” said his father, “so how is it possible to see him?” “And if he is dead, don’t you see him?” asked the child. “No, my love, you don’t see him,” said his mother.

The child was silent for a while, and asked again: “Why did the Arab not die? The Arab was not a good man. After all, he killed my uncle. What is dead? Is everyone you don’t see dead?” Said his mother, “Some of them are dead and some of them are alive.” “And how do we know who is alive and who is dead?” asked the child.

His mother sighed and said, “Don’t mention the dead, my love.” “Why?” “Perhaps they will show themselves to you in a dream.” “If you see them will that mean they are alive, Mother? And is Yeruham Freeman dead too?” “Why?” “Because I don’t see him.” “Of course you don’t see him,” said his mother. “He has stopped coming here.” “Why doesn’t he come here?” His mother sighed and said, “Because he likes it better somewhere else.” “What is somewhere else?” “A place that isn’t here is somewhere else.” “Am I not here either?” “No, my love, no, my darling,” said the mother, “you are here, you are here.” “Why am I here and not somewhere else?” “Because, my love, you are a little weak,” said the mother, “and you can’t walk with your feet.” “Now I know.” “What do you know, my love?” “Why all the places come to me.”

“What do you mean, all the places come to you?” Erela asked her brother. “They shift themselves and come to me,” he replied. “And sometimes I go to them. It’s not with my feet I go, I go to them with my self. Sometimes I fall suddenly from a high mountain and roll over and over down to the bottom, and suddenly I find myself standing in a brook, and there are so many fish swimming in the water, and they have no heads — only soldiers’ caps. Mother, when I’m big you’ll make me a soldier’s knapsack and I’ll go to war. Daddy, has every soldier got a wooden leg?”

The child’s mother sighed and said, “Close your eyes, my love, the time has come to sleep.” “I’m afraid of sleeping,” said the child. “Don’t be afraid, my love, say the ‘Hear, O Israel.’ Your hands are clean, aren’t they? So say: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.’ And now say good night.” “Good night to all the good people.” His mother kissed him and said, “Good night, my love.”