Pearl Buck - Peony

“You have put on your cap?” the Rabbi murmured.

“Yes,” David replied. “I put it on when I come to you each morning.”

“I know,” the Rabbi said. “Why did I ask? You are faithful to the commands of the Lord.”

Nevertheless he reached up his hand and touched the blue cap on David’s head.

“You doubt me?” David asked, smiling.

“No, no,” the Rabbi said quickly.

They entered now the gate to the outer courts of the synagogue. When the Rabbi came here alone, he went at once into the inner courts at the back of the compound, near which his own small house stood, but today he wanted to lead David through the wide front gate, which was opened to them by an old man who belonged to the Jewish clan of Ai. The gate faced the east, and immediately inside was a great and beautiful archway. Beyond it was still another gateway and beyond this another archway. On either side stood two stone tablets, each upon a stone base carved in lotus leaves, and upon the tablets were cut in ancient letters the story of the Jews and how they had been driven from their land. Beyond the tablet was the immense platform upon which the great tent was raised at the Feast of Tabernacles, and still beyond was the Ark Bethel in the most sacred and inner part of the synagogue.

All of this David knew, and yet this day he looked with eyes that saw for the first time the meaning of this place, set for a palace of God in the crowded heathen city and its many temples to other gods. The air was cooler here than elsewhere, and he felt it cool upon his flesh. Olive trees lined the courts, and the silence was sweet. The place was empty of man but it was filled with the high spirit of Heaven. Upon a tablet over the main arch were carved these words, “The Temple of Purity and Peace.” Such indeed it was.

So they went slowly step by step, the Rabbi murmuring the Scriptures until David paused before a great stone tablet.

“How is it that the letters I see carved upon many of these stone tablets are Chinese letters and not Hebrew?” David asked suddenly.

The Rabbi sighed. “Alas, our people have forgotten the language of our fathers! When I die, there will not be one left who can read the word of the Lord.”

He paused, waiting for David to speak, to offer himself. The Rabbi had hoped each day that David would ask to learn the Hebrew language, but he had not asked and he did not now.

“Yet the story of our people is very plain upon this stone,” David said instead. And he began to read aloud the Chinese letters:

“

Abraham, the patriarch who founded the religion of Israel, was of the nineteenth generation from P’anku Adam

.”

“You see,” the Rabbi broke in. “P’anku is the Chinese first man. Yet even those who carved these tablets put his name with Adam.” David smiled and read on:

“

From the creation of Heaven and earth the patriarchs handed down the tradition that they received. They made no image, flattered no spirits and ghosts, and believed in no superstitions. Instead they believed that spirits and ghosts cannot help men, that idols cannot protect them, and that superstitions are useless. So Abraham meditated only upon Heaven

.”

David’s strong young voice fell silent. But to meditate upon Heaven was what his Chinese tutor also taught him! For some weeks now he had not gone to the Confucian, but the last time he had gone was on the midsummer feast night. The sky had been full of stars, and the old man had lifted his face to them.

“We can meditate upon Heaven,” he had murmured, “but we cannot know it.”

“The synagogue has twice been swept away by flood from the Yellow River,” the old rabbi said, not knowing David’s thoughts. “Yet these great stones have been preserved. Our God does not allow the name of His people to perish.”

They walked on slowly. The sky had darkened, and looking up, David saw hovering above the walls black clouds edged with silver.

“It will rain and then the air will be cooler everywhere,” he answered.

The Rabbi paid no heed. “Come with me into the Holy of Holies,” he said with solemn excitement. “I want to put the Torah into your hands, my son.”

They stepped over the high threshold and into the dim innermost chamber of the synagogue, and crossing the smooth tiles of the floors, they went toward the Ark. Before it stood a table, and above it was an archway, made in three parts, upon which was written:

Blessed be the Lord,

The God of Gods, the Lord of Lords,

The Great, the Mighty and Terrible God.

These words the Rabbi spoke aloud in a deep voice, and suddenly, like an echo from heaven, thunder rolled through the synagogue. The Rabbi stood still, lifting his face until his beard was thrust high. Then in the silence after the thunder he parted the curtains, and David saw the cases that held the Torah. They were gilt-lacquered, and the hinges were gilded, and there was a flame-shaped knob on each cover.

“These are the sacred books of Moses,” the Rabbi said in his grave voice, “and there are twelve, one for each of the tribes of our people, and the thirteenth is for Moses.”

So saying, he opened the thirteenth box, which like the others was in the shape of a long cylinder, and he set it upon a high carved chair, which was the Chair of Moses. Then he opened the cylinder and he took out the book.

“Put out your hands,” he commanded David.

David put them out and the Rabbi placed upon them the ancient book, shaped like a roll of thick paper.

“Open it,” he commanded, and David opened it.

“Can you read it?” the Rabbi asked.

“No,” David said. “You know the letters are Hebrew.”

“I will teach them to you,” the Rabbi declared. “To you, my true son, I will teach the mysteries of the tongue in which God gave the law to Moses, our ancestor, who carried the law down from the mountain to our people, who waited in the valley.”

The thunder was rolling again around the synagogue and the Rabbi bowed his head. When there was silence he spoke on. “It is you who will speak to our people in the words of the law, a second Moses, O my son.”

Then lifting his head and raising his hands high above it, the Rabbi cried out words that were used by the people when they worshiped in the synagogue.

“Hear ye, O Israel! The Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

His great voice drew out the solemn word One into a long wail, and again the thunder roared.

Who can say how this thunder, echoing the Rabbi’s voice, might have sealed the soul of David, the son of Ezra? But even as his soul trembled, even as he waited for the still small voice of God to come out of the storm, his eyes fell upon an inscription carved into a little tablet. There were many such inscriptions set into tablets, the gifts of Jews who had wished through hundreds of years to leave something of themselves in the synagogue. This tablet was less than any other, a dusty bit of marble without ornament. But upon its face a Jew, now forgotten and dead, had put this part of himself into these words that now fell under David’s eyes:

Worship is to honor Heaven, and righteousness is to follow the ancestors. But the human mind has always existed before worship and righteousness.

The wickedness in these last words shook the soul of David as though he had heard laughter in this sacred place. Some old Jew whose blood was mixed too strongly with ribald Chinese blood had written those words and had commanded them to be carved upon stone and set even into the synagogue! David laughed aloud, and he was not able to keep back his laughter.

The Rabbi heard it and was shocked. “Why do you laugh?” he demanded, and his voice was very sharp.