S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

I asked him about his other sons and daughters. He waved his hand and said, “Don’t ask, my friend, don’t ask. My youngest daughter was caught for communist activity, and her eldest sister was caught with her, though she had done no wrong; and the middle one ran away so that they shouldn’t catch her, for it was she who started the business. The good times have passed when a man can say what he thinks without being punished for it. This republic is stricter than the Emperor. On the face of it, why should it care if a little high-school girl pays her respects to Lenin? Did my friends and I do any harm when we were anarchists? It’s eight months now that these two children have been in prison, and I doubt whether they’ll let them out in a hurry. And maybe I’ve made peace with the position by now, but what troubles me is my youngest son, the American woman’s child. Perhaps you know of some way to save him from disaster and prevent him following in his sisters’ footsteps? Perhaps I should send him to the Land of Israel? But then there, too, there is trouble and suffering, disturbances and communists.”

“The fathers have gathered wood and the sons kindle the fire,” said I. Schutzling sighed and said, “Let us leave history to the historians and the present to the journalists, and drink another glass. What do you think of this ale? What do you drink in the Land of Israel?” “Some drink wine, some drink soda, and some tea.” “And don’t you drink ale there?” “There is no ale there.” “And didn’t you feel the want of it?” “I felt other wants.” “So even there the Land is no paradise. You haven’t told me anything yet about what you did there.” “What I did there? I haven’t done anything yet.” “You are modest, my friend.” “I am not modest, but when a man sees that most of his life has passed and he is still at the beginning of his work, he cannot say that he has done anything. They say in the Gemara: ‘He who has not seen the Temple built in his days, it is as if it had been destroyed in his days.’ I am not thinking of the Temple, but it is a parable of all we have done in the Land of Israel.”

My friend patted me affectionately on the shoulder and said, “It is not you that will build, just as it was not we who destroyed. What are we and who are we in this great and terrible world? Not so much as this drop of ale. What do you think of this drink? I’ve drunk five glasses and you’ve not even drunk one. Drink, my friend, drink. I’d wanted to soak my outer limbs, instead I’ve soaked my inner. Come here and let me kiss you. One kiss of parting, because we parted from Szibucz. And a second kiss of meeting, and then a third parting kiss, for immediately after the Sabbath I am going away. Don’t say I’m drunk, but say I feel good because I have seen you. Do you remember that song the charming brunette used to sing? Let us drink to her memory and sing her song:

“In grief and pain my years have gone;

No days of joy and ease — not one.

In sorrow and nothing my life is done—

Sleep now; sleep now; sleep, my son.”

At sundown we parted. Schutzling went to his sister and I to my hotel, to change my clothes and welcome the Sabbath in the Great Synagogue, for there were no longer any prayers in our old Beit Midrash.

When I came to the synagogue, the congregation had already finished the Afternoon Service, and since there were only about two quorums it seemed as if the synagogue were empty and still waiting for the rest of the people. Or perhaps it only seemed so to me; for it was surely accustomed to only a score of worshippers.

Shlomo Shamir was reciting the Welcome to the Sabbath at the lectern, but for the Afternoon Service he went down to the rostrum before the Ark and started with “Bless ye the Lord” and so forth. This is an old custom in the Great Synagogue of Szibucz, as well as in several old congregations, that they welcome the Sabbath at the lectern, but for the Evening Service the leader of the prayers goes down before the Ark, for the six hymns in the Welcome to the Sabbath, as well as “Come, my beloved,” do not belong to the original code of prayers but are a later addition; so it was ruled that they should be recited at the lectern, since passages that do not belong to the early liturgy are not said before the Ark. That is why, in our old prayer book, which was handed down in manuscript by the early authorities on the liturgy, you do not find either the six hymns or “Come, my beloved,” but the Sabbath Evening Service begins with “Bless ye the Lord.”

Shlomo recited the prayers melodiously like the old prayer leaders in Szibucz, who start in joy and tranquillity like the gate-keeper who opens up the palace to the king’s retinue when they come to greet the king, and waits until they have finished their greetings. Until the war came, Shlomo used to read the Torah, and when the people returned to Szibucz after the war, and could not afford to hire a cantor, he agreed to lead the prayers without pay. Previously, before the war came, we had two cantors in the Great Synagogue, in addition to the Reader of the Torah. When people began to whisper that the reader wanted to go away to America, they dismissed him, for it was not to the honor of Szibucz that a man like that should read the Torah in the Great Synagogue, and they appointed Shlomo Shamir in his stead. So now he reads the Torah and recites all the prayers if there are no others occupying the position before the Ark. These others are new people, recently arrived from the hamlets and villages near Szibucz, after the people of Szibucz itself left the town, and it is they who have taken over Szibucz and occupied all the places of honor at the eastern end, behaving as if they owned the Great Synagogue and with their voices making men forget the melodies handed down from ancient generations. In a place where it was a rule that no changes should be made either in the form of prayer, the melodies, the structure, the number of candles, or the slightest matter, until the coming of the Messiah, along come these lightheaded people, who pronounce Hebrew with difficulty and breach the fences our fathers erected. They had caused me annoyance before, on the eve of the Day of Atonement, and now my annoyance is redoubled.

I returned to my hotel and sat down to eat. Mr. Riegel was eating with us at the hotelkeeper’s table, unlike the other guests, who were not Sabbath observers and for whom Krolka had set another table. Like a steadfast proselyte who happens to find himself in a Jewish home for the first time, so Mr. Riegel sat, gazing in Mr. Zommer’s face with great affection, spontaneously imitating all his movements.

After the Kiddush, Babtchi came in and sat down beside her mother. In fact, she had already arrived before, but she had gone to change her dress, which had been torn in an unfortunate incident that is not to be mentioned here.

Her expression was divided, as it were: one of her faces was angry, the other was gracious. If her mother asked her anything she replied as if from the bottom of a well. She, too, fixed her eyes on her father’s face — not like Mr. Riegel, who gazed at him with admiration, but like a mute lamb, innocent of sin. Her father sat as usual, his head bowed and his hands under the table, singing the Sabbath hymns.

Between the fish and its sauce, Lolik came, followed by Dolik, and brought news from the town. Since no one heeded them, they smiled to themselves, one a malicious smile and the other his feminine smile. Krolka served the table in utter silence, took away the empty plates and brought full ones, trimmed the candles, came in and went out, and did not utter a sound as she came and went.

When the fingerbowl water was brought, the master of the house raised his eyes, looked at Riegel for a while, and knitted his eyebrows, like one who is considering a question and does not know how to decide. He was probably wondering whether to count Riegel in for the Invitation to the Grace, because Mr. Zommer was not in the habit of reciting the Invitation with his sons, except for Passover eves, when they used to sit down at the table with him before the Kiddush.