S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

One man asked Reb Shlomo, “And where did you put the letter from his comrades?” “That was a good question,” said Reb Shlomo. “I put it next to the prayer ‘Give honor, O Lord, to Thy people,’ to show the Almighty that the sons of Israel deserve that He should do them honor. It is written, ‘The Lord shall reign… before his elders in glory,’ and so sons who pay honor to the aged deserve that the Holy One, blessed be He, should pay honor to them.”

I gazed at that old man, whose face was marked with love of God, love of his fellow men, humility and lowliness of spirit, and I said, “When our righteous Messiah comes and sees Reb Shlomo, he will greet him with great joy.” Said Elimelech Kaiser, “It is clear that all the gentleman looks forward to is the joy of the Messiah. Perhaps he will live in our town until the Messiah comes, and see his joy.” I nodded my head and was silent.

The man pointed to me and said, “He nods his head but says nothing; his head speaks and his lips are silent.” I laid my hand on my heart. “My head and my heart are the same,” I replied, “but I have not yet shaped the words with my mouth.”

“Perhaps you are waiting for permission,” said Elimelech Kaiser mockingly. “Look, we’ll give it to you. And if you like we’ll hand you over the key and you can be master of the whole Beit Midrash.” Another spoke up: “We’re leaving and we don’t need the key. We’ll give you the key and it won’t lie about in the muck. Elder, give him the key and let him take care of it.” The elder saw my hand stretched out to receive it. He rose, mounted the platform, went up to the lectern, and put his hand into the drawer. He took out a large brass key with iron wards, came down, and, standing on the lowest step of the platform, held out the key to me. This was the great key with which I used to open our old Beit Midrash when I was a boy to study the Torah, early and late. For many years I had not seen it even in a dream, and suddenly it was being presented to me outright, in public, in the Beit Midrash, on the Day of Atonement. I took the key in my hand and put it away in my pocket.

Some of the people who had not taken part in our conversation came up and looked at me. I wanted to say something to them, but the words did not take shape in my mouth.

I raised my eyes and looked at the people in the Beit Midrash to see if perhaps they would change their minds and take the key. I put my hand in my pocket and was ready to give it back even before they asked for it, but no man stretched out his hand, for they were moving next day and leaving this place, and what did it matter to them whether the key lay in the drawer of the lectern or in the pocket of this visitor? At that moment I was overcome by a deep sadness. I began to feel sorry that I was sad. And because I was sorry that I was sad, my sadness was redoubled.

At that moment they opened the sacred Ark and took out a Torah Scroll for the Afternoon Service reading. With one hand I embraced the Scroll and with the other held on to the key of our old Beit Midrash, where I had studied the Torah and spent the days of my youth. And I did not yet know that I was destined to make it my accustomed place. But let us not anticipate.

The sun stood in the treetops, close to setting. The walls of the Beit Midrash darkened, and the few candles dimly lit its duskiness. People who had not been in synagogue all day came in and stood there sadly, their eyes twitching as they looked at the cantor, who lifted up his voice and chanted the first psalm of the Closing Service. The whole day long they had sat at home as if ashamed, but now that the sun was setting and the hour had arrived when the judgment is sealed, they rose and went to the Beit Midrash. Perhaps they had no intention to pray, because they did not believe in the power of prayer and did not expect any reward, but the hour overcame their reason.

The cantor bowed low, bent all his body, like a sinner who is lowly in his own eyes, and chanted the Kaddish, leaving out not a single note of the traditional melody. It was not like the Kaddish before the Additional Service, in which he had intertwined the melody the mourners use. The cantor set aside the death of his son in respect for the greatness of his Father in heaven. In the end his voice was drowned by the Amen of the congregation; at last the voices of the congregation died out, and finally the entire Beit Midrash was silent. The silence did not last long; sighs that did not make up any speech or any language began to rise. Only He who knows all secrets understood this language.

After I had finished the silent prayer, I saw Daniel Bach standing bowed in front of the table at the southern end, beside the door, with a book in his hand. He was standing in the same position as the cantor — but the cantor stood on both his feet, while one of Daniel Bach’s legs was made of wood. I put out of my mind the bitter words he had spoken to me yesterday at dusk on the eve of the Day of Atonement, so that his sins should not be brought up against him at the time when the judgment was being sealed.

The congregation took more time over this prayer than over any prayer of the whole day. Even those who had just come drew closer to their neighbors and looked into their prayer books, and a kind of murmur rose from their throats. When they came to the shorter confession, some of them beat their breasts as is the custom: “We have been guilty, we have dealt treacherously.” The Beit Midrash grew darker, but the memorial candles somewhat lit up the darkness. After the whole of the congregation had finished the silent prayer, the cantor mounted the steps of the sanctuary, opened the doors of the Holy Ark, came down, and took up his place in front of the lectern. He waited a moment and began in a loud voice, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord….” The candles were almost burned out, and the cantor chanted rapidly, “Have mercy on Thy creatures…”; then he raised his voice and said, “Open us Thy gate, the day is ending,” and then, “Many are the needs of Thy people.” The walls of the Beit Midrash grew dark and the facing hillside added its share of darkness.

The worshippers drew nearer to the cantor and surrounded the reading desk with their prayer books to catch a little of the light from the candle that burned there. Perhaps the light sensed their presence and perhaps not, but in any case it leaped up toward them. The cantor clapped both his hands in joy and read, “Israel is delivered by the Lord with an eternal deliverance”; clapped once again, and said, “Even today they will be delivered by the word of Thy mouth, O Dweller on high.” A sound of weeping rose from the darkness, like the voices of a crowd supporting the cantor in his prayer. The doors of the Ark stood open, like a heavenly ear attentive to Israel’s prayer. From the table in the south beside the door there was a dull sound, like wood striking on wood. Daniel Bach had changed his position. Again the same sound was heard, as of wood striking on wood. It seemed that his foot could find no rest. The cantor took a watch out of his pocket, looked at it, and began to shorten the chants, for the sake of the old men who had not the strength to remain on their feet on account of the fast. When he came to the verse “Every city is builded in its place and the City of God is degraded to the depths of hell,” he wept for a long time. And for as long as he wept at this line, so long did he raise his voice in joy at the line “We are Thy people.” After the ram’s horn had been blown to mark the end of the fast, all those who had come for the Closing Service went away, except for Daniel Bach, who remained in the Beit Midrash.

The cantor lowered the prayer shawl from his head to his shoulders and read the weekday Evening Service before the lectern, as the year of mourning for his son had not yet elapsed. As for his leading the prayer on the Day of Atonement, though a mourner does not lead the prayers on a holy day, the Day of Atonement is different from other holy days, for the cantor is the emissary of the congregation, like the High Priest, who offers up the sacrifice even immediately after a bereavement.