Chaim Potok - The Chosen

It was bad for my father to get excited that way, but there was nothing I could do to stop him. He could talk of nothing else but the destruction of European Jewry.

One morning at breakfast Reb Saunders came out of a brooding silence, sighed, and for no apparent reason began telling us, in a soft, singsong chant, the story of an old, pious Hasid who had set out on a journey to Palestine – Eretz Yisroel, Reb Saunders called it, giving the land its traditional name and accenting the 'E' and the 'ro' – so as to be able to spend the last years of his life in the Holy Land. Finally, he reached the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, and three days later he died while praying at the Wall for the Messiah to come and redeem his people. Reb Saunders swayed slowly back and forth as he told the story, and when he was done I said quietly, not mentioning my father's name, that a lot of people were now saying that it was time for Palestine to become a Jewish homeland and not only a place where pious Jews went to die. The reaction on the part of the entire family was instantaneous; it was as though someone had thrown a match onto a pile of straw. I could almost feel the heat that replaced the family warmth around the table. Danny went rigid and stared down at the plate in front of him. His brother let out a little whimper, and his sister and mother seemed frozen to their chairs. Reb Saunders stared at me, his eyes suddenly wild with rage, his beard trembling. And he pointed a finger at me that looked like a weapon.

'Who are these people? Who are these people?' he shouted in Yiddish, and the words went through me like knives. 'Apikorsim! Goyim! Ben Gurion and his goyim will build Eretz Yisroel? They will build for us a Jewish land? They will bring Torah into this land? Goyishkeit they will bring into the land, not Torah! God will build the land, not Ben Gurion and his goyim! When the Messiah comes, we will have Eretz Yisroel, a Holy Land, not a land contaminated by Jewish goyim!'

I sat there stunned and terrified, engulfed by his rage. His reaction had caught me so completely by surprise that I had quite literally stopped breathing, and new I found myself gasping for breath. I felt as if I were being consumed by flames. The silence that followed his outburst had a fungus quality to it, as though it were breeding malignancies, and I had the uncanny feeling that I had somehow been stripped naked and violated. I didn't know what to do or say. I just sat there and gaped at him.

'The land of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob should be built by Jewish goyim, by contaminated men?' Reb Saunders shouted, again. 'Never! Not while I live! Who says these things? Who says we should now build Eretz Yisroel? And where is the Messiah? Tell me, we should forget completely about the Messiah? For this six million of our people were slaughtered? That we should forget completely about the Messiah, that we should forget completely about the Master of the Universe? Why do you think I brought my people from Russia to America and not to Eretz Yisroel? Because it is better to live in a land of true goyim than to live in a land of Jewish goyim! Who says we should build Eretz Yisroel, ah? I'll tell you who says it! Apikorsim say it! Jewish goyim say it! True Jews do not say such a thing!'

There was a long silence. Reb Saunders sat in his chair, breathing hard and trembling with rage.

'Please, you should not get so angry,' Danny's sister pleaded softly. 'It is bad for you.'

'I'm sorry,' I said lamely, not knowing what else to say.

'Reuven was not talking for himself,' Danny's sister said quietly to her father. 'He was only-'

But Reb Saunders cut her off with an angry wave of his hand.

He went rigidly through the Grace, then left the kitchen, wearing his rage visibly.

Danny's sister stared down at the table, her eyes dark and sad. Later, when Danny and I were alone in his room, Danny told me to think ten thousand times the next time I wanted to mention anything like that again to his father. His father was fine, he said, until he was confronted by any idea that he felt came from the contaminated world.

'How was I supposed to know that Zionism is a contaminated idea?' I said. 'My God, I feel as if I've just been through the seven gates of Hell.'

'Herzl didn't wear a caftan and side curls,' Danny said. 'Neither does Ben Gurion.'

'You can't be serious.'

'I'm not talking about myself. I'm talking about my father.

Just don't talk about a Jewish state anymore. My father takes God and Torah very seriously, Reuven. He would die for them both quite gladly. A secular Jewish state in my father's eyes is a sacrilege, a violation of the Torah. You touched a raw nerve. Please don't do it again.'

'I'm glad I didn't mention it was my father who said it. He might have thrown me out of the house.'

'He would have thrown you out of the house,' Danny said grimly.

'Is he – is he feeling all right?'

'How do you mean?'

'The way he cries all the time like that. Is he – is something wrong?'

Danny's hand went slowly to an earlock, and I watched him tug at it nervously. 'Six million Jews have died,' he said. 'He's – I think he's thinking of them. He's suffering for them.'

I looked at him. 'I thought he might be sick. I thought your sister said -, '

'He's not sick,' Danny broke in. He lowered his hand. 'I – I really don't want to talk about it.'

'All right,' I said quietly. 'But I don't think I want to study any Talmud this morning. I'm going to take a long walk.'

He didn't say anything. But his face was sad and brooding as I went out of his room.

When I saw Reb Saunders again at lunch, he seemed to have forgotten the incident completely. But I found myself thinking carefully now before I said anything to him. And I was constantly on my guard with him from that time on.

During an afternoon in the last week of July, Danny began talking about his brother. We were sitting in the library, reading, when he suddenly looked up, rested his head in the palm of his right hand, the elbow-on the table, and said his eyes were bothering him again and that he wouldn't be at all surprised if he ended up wearing glasses soon, his brother was having glasses made and he was only nine. I told him his brother didn't seem to be doing much reading, what did he need glasses for.

'It has nothing to do with reading,' Danny said. 'His eyes are just plain bad, that's all.'

'Your eyes look bloodshot,' I told him.

'They are bloodshot,' he said.

'Your eyes look as if you've been reading Freud: 'Ha – ha,' Danny said.

'What does Freud say about an ordinary thing like bloodshot eyes?'

'He says to rest them.'

'A genius,' I said.

'You know, my brother's a good kid,' Danny said. 'His sickness is quite a handicap, but everything considered he's a good kid.'

'He's quiet, I'll say that for him. Does he study at all?'

'Oh, sure. He's bright, too. But he has to be careful. My father can't pressure him.'

'Lucky boy.'

'I don't know. I wouldn't want to be sick all my life. I'd much rather be pressured. He's a nice kid, though.'

'Your sister's pretty nice, too,' I said.

Danny didn't seem to have heard me – or if he had, he chose to ignore my words completely. He went on talking about his brother. 'It must really be hell to walk around sick all the time and have to depend upon pills. He's really a sweet kid. And bright, too.' He seemed to be rambling, and I wasn't sure I knew what he was trying to say. His next words jarred me. 'He'd probably make a fine tzaddik,' he said.

I looked at him. 'How's that again?'

'I said my brother would probably make a fine tzaddik,' Danny said quietly. 'It occurred to me recently that if I didn't take my father's place I wouldn't be breaking the dynasty after all. My brother could take over. I had talked myself into believing that if I didn't take his place I would break the dynasty. I think I had to justify to myself having to become a tzaddik.'