S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Now that I heard his widow had come to ask for me, I remembered the high repute of her fathers, and I was sorry that gentle soul had taken the trouble to come to see me. So I put on my coat and went to her house.

The house was in ruins and its head had been taken off. A man whose head has been cut off is not alive; the same is true of a house. And it was even hard to tell whether the storey that still remained — the base of the body, with the large store that had provided a livelihood for so many families — was still standing or in ruins. Nevertheless, Sarah lived there cramped together with her four sisters-in-law, the wives of her husband’s brothers, some of whom had been killed in the war and some of whom had died of hunger.

Sarah looked at me in surprise. I had often been in her husband’s house when I was a child, and now my years were as his were then. Many years had passed since then, and if they had passed without trials she would have faced the final day with smiles, but since they had not passed without trials, she looked at me affectionately and sighed from the heart. Sarah took a chair and put it in front of me. I sat down before her in silence, and she too sat in silence. I wanted to ask about her children, but I said to myself: I will not ask, in case — heaven forbid — they are dead. Since the war overwhelmed us you do not know whether your friend is alive, and if he is alive whether his life is worth living. The good years have passed when you used to ask about a man and they would tell you: He has had a wedding in his house, he has had a circumcision in his house, his grandson has celebrated bar mitzvah, his son-in-law is adding a third storey to his house. Thou art righteous, O Lord, and Thy judgments are upright. The sufferings Thou hast sent to Israel, Thou alone knowest whether they are for good or for ill.

Four women came in one after the other: her four sisters-in-law, who had been left widowed of their husbands. This war has widowed the women of Israel.

A verse came to my lips: “She has become as a widow.” When Jeremiah saw the destruction of the First Temple, he sat down and wrote the Book of Lamentations, and he was not content with all the lamentations he wrote until he had compared the congregation of Israel to a widow and said, “She has become as a widow”—not a true widow, but like a woman whose husband has gone overseas and intends to return to her. When we come to lament this latest destruction we do not say enough if we say, “She has become as a widow,” but a true widow, without the word of comparison.

So this lamenter sat before the five gentle widows from good families, whose husbands had gone away and not returned. He searched his heart for a word to say to console them. But since the word of comparison had been taken away he found no consolation.

Said Sarah, “Forgive me, sir, that I have made you take this trouble. Truly there was no need to trouble. I would have come again.” I bowed my head before her and said, “On the contrary, it is a great honor to me that I have been honored to come here. I remember this house when I used to gaze at it in humility and say, Happy the house in which learning and abundance are to be found in one place, and happy are they that dwell in it, who observe the Torah in the midst of wealth.”

Said one, “Of all that wealth nothing is left us but one single book.” Said a second, “And this book we wish to sell.” Said a third, “Perhaps you will help us in this, sir.” Said a fourth, “This book is a manuscript that has been left us by our grandfather, the illustrious author of The Hands of Moses .” Said I, “Is it possible that any work by that great scholar has been left unpublished?” “We are referring to the book The Hands of Moses ”, said Sarah. “But The Hands of Moses has already been printed several times,” said I. Said one, “The book has been printed, but the manuscript is in our hands.” Said a second, “And it has a special virtue for women in the hour of childbirth; I too was helped by it when my son, peace be upon him, was being born.” When she mentioned her son, she burst into tears, for he was killed in the war and his limbs were scattered, so that he could not be given a Jewish burial. “Stop, Sarah’le, stop,” said the third. “You have wept enough. Do not arouse the divine judgment, heaven forbid.” And she too burst into tears.

“I will explain, sir,” said one. “It is like this. This manuscript has a special virtue, for if a woman has a hard childbirth, when it is put on her side she bears easily. And I can say that since this has been known there have been no mishaps here to women in childbirth. Be good enough, Sarah’le, bring the book.”

Sarah rose, went into another room, and returned bringing a large book, like the tractate Sabbath or some other large talmudic volume, and put it before me on the table. She stroked it with her hand and said, “This is the book.” An odor of phenol and medicaments rose from the book, filling the whole house.

I opened the book and looked into it a little here and there. The writing was beautiful and clear, and the letters elegant and legible, as our forefathers used to write a hundred years ago, when they loved writing. Each letter shone from the paper, and the paper shone like a mirror. But my joy was not complete; my eyes rejoiced at the sight, but my heart did not take part in this joy.

I turned over the pages and looked into it again, here and there a little. The words were truly divine; not for nothing has the book been accepted throughout the dispersions of Israel. Nevertheless, I did not feel more in it than a man who holds an ordinary manuscript. It came into my mind that this was not the manuscript of the author. But if it was not the manuscript of that righteous man, how was it the women had been helped by it?

I turned over the pages idly, with disinterest, yet wondering what to answer the rabbis’ widows who were waiting expectantly for what I had to say. Then I came to a certain place where the following was written: “Copied from the actual sacred manuscript of our illustrious teacher, by Elyakim, surnamed Getz, a servant of the holy work.” I was surprised and astonished. Was there so much power in that amanuensis that salvation and mercy were wrought through him? Whether or not it was so, I did not know what to do. The book had been printed a number of times and was to be found in many hands, and even had it been the manuscript of the author I did not know who would buy it.

I had a shrewd idea and said, “I am surprised at you, dear ladies. Would you take a book that our town has been privileged to own and abandon it to the outside world? And what will happen to the women who will be in need of it?” They sighed and answered, “If the town had been in need of it, we would not have sold it for all the money in the world.” “What do you mean by ‘if the town had been in need of it’? Are the women in your town like the beasts of the field who have no need of a talisman? Tomorrow you will be asked for the book and what will you answer? ‘We have sold the book’? Surely they will ask you, ‘Why have you done this thing?’ as Pharaoh said to the Jewish midwives — though Pharaoh said it because the midwives let the children live, and you, dear ladies — but let me not put words into Satan’s mouth.… If you listen to me, even if you are offered all the silver and gold in the world you should not sell it.”

Said one, “Pharaoh only ruled out male children, but the women in Szibucz rule out female children, too. Have you seen a cradle rocking since the day you came here?”

“Israel is not yet barren,” said I. “I myself witnessed the marriage contract of the hotelkeeper’s daughter. Surely you know Rachel, his little daughter, who married a certain young man called Yeruham Freeman, the one with the curly hair?”