I laughed.
“They even suspect me.”
I consoled him. “Joseph, if ever I should go beyond the gate—will you come with me?”
He did not answer for a long while.
“Can one remain a Jew there?” he asked at last.
“One must at least pretend that one is not.”
“Wherever you go, I go, Isaac.”
Within two days, four men died of violent cramps. The Ghetto forgot its quarrels and its petty intrigues, and battered the doors of the Rabbi. “The plague! The plague! Pray to God to spare us! You are a holy man—pray!”
The synagogue was crowded to the brim. Rabbi Sholom, bare-footed and covered in a shroud, called to God to spare his people. The shofar was blown seven times. The congregation beat their breasts. The women sobbed violently.
Two men fell dead on the threshold of the Holy House. The people scattered, shouting and waving their arms.
Rabbi Sholom asked a dozen men to confer with him. They shouted their opinions at the top of their voices. The fault lay in the sinfulness of the city and the lack of proper reverence for Yahweh. They suggested prayers, incantations, and sackcloth and ashes.
I entered the room. An ominous silence ensued. The men retreated and skulked. Rabbi Sholom, a little irritably asked, “What brings you here, my son?”
“Why do you ask me this, father? Is it not evident?”
“It is only for men who have spent their lives in the study of the Torah to discover why the Lord punishes us.”
“You saw that even while you prayed, two men fell dead.”
“Our sins are great!”
“The dirt and the squalor are greater.”
“It is God’s way of purifying our souls.”
“God has given us water to purify our bodies.”
“If our souls were pure, our bodies would need no purification.”
“Very true,” the Chasidim whispered to one mother. “Very true. Our souls must be pure.”
“Father, while you discuss the soul and it. purification, our people die of the plague.”
“It is God’s will.”
“Our obstinacy was our undoing, father. Even in the time of the Romans– —”
“May their memory perish!” Rabbi Sholom interrupted.
The others repeated: “May their memory perish!”
“Father, I am a Jew and have our people at heart.”
There was grumbling among the Chasidim. I stared at them. They huddled together.
“Do you doubt, father, that I am a Jew?”
“How should I doubt it since I gave you my daughter in marriage?”
“Have I not proved my love for our people? Have I not given charity? Have I not– —?”
“It is not by charity that one shows love but by leading a godly life.”
“Yes, yes,” the others remarked.
“Have I not led a godly life, father?”
“Only the Lord can read our hearts. But there have been many complaints against you, my son.”
“Complaints?”
“You are clean-shaven. Should not a Jew wear a beard? Should he rebuke God for causing hair to grow upon man’s face? You have a Gentile friend.”
“The golem! The golem!” some whispered.
“You object to your wife’s wig. Should a virtuous woman look like a wanton? It pains me, Isaac, to tell you these things in public.”
“Father, whatever the complaints against me may be, and however true, this is no time for words. Hearken to me! I have lived in many lands. I have seen many things, including plagues. Let me help my people. Let me save them from suffering and death.”
“How are you capable of doing this, when our holy men know no remedy?”
“I shall pay large sums of money to physicians to come from the other side of the gate. I shall supply the funds necessary for purifying the sources of water and other necessities of life.”
“But if our souls be impure, how can physicians purify us?”
“They know means by which the pestilence may be stopped. Later, we shall attend to our souls.”
The Chasidim shook their heads.
“You begin at the end, Isaac.”
“At least for the time being, the people should not gather in the synagogue. They infect one another.”
“What?” the Chasidim shouted.
“Isaac!” the Rabbi admonished. “Not foregather in the synagogue? Not pray to the Lord in time of sorrow?”
“You are not a Jew!” one Chasid exclaimed, rising and pointing his forefinger at me. “You are not a Jew! Your words are the Devil’s words and your advice is the advice of one who wishes to destroy our race!”
He stopped suddenly, pressing his hands upon his stomach, groaning with pain.
“He is the Devil!” some shouted.
“He has looked at him with his evil eye!”
“Look away, everyone!”
“He will kill us all!”
They turned their backs upon me and hid their faces. Rabbi Sholom covered his head with a tallith.
Late at night, Joseph entered my room on tiptoes.
“Isaac,” he whispered, “Isaac—leave at once! They are planning to kill you and Kotikokura. They blame you for the plague. They claim that your evil eye killed a Chasid.”
“I know, Joseph. I shall leave. Will you accompany me?”
He looked at me, his eyes filled with tears.
“Come with me, Joseph! The world is beautiful.”
He looked at me reproachfully.
I placed my hands upon his shoulders. “Joseph, you are like the friends of my youth, long ago—longer than you imagine. It is for their sake I cherish you. Believe me, I am neither the Devil nor a magician. I do not mean to destroy your soul, but to show you the way to discover it.”
He wept bitterly.
Kotikokura meanwhile was becoming impatient.
“Do not fear, Kotikokura, we have time enough to escape.”
He looked at Joseph angrily.
“At most, he can be with us a few paltry years,” I whispered.
Kotikokura grinned, pacified.
“Meet me at the gate, on the stroke of twelve!”
Joseph nodded and left.
As we reached the road that led to the gate, we saw dangling from a withered tree, like an immense and grotesque cat or monkey, the body of a man. We approached. The body remained perfectly still. Kotikokura, whose eyes glittered in the dark like a tiger’s, recognized Joseph.
“Perhaps he is not dead yet. We may be able to save him.”
Kotikokura began to climb up the tree.
I stopped him. “Don’t! It is best not to disturb him. He can never overcome his environment; nor can he accept it again. Poor Joseph symbolizes his own existence—suspended between two worlds and belonging to neither!”
We walked along the shore of the Guadalquivir. The sun had not yet risen, but wide strips of red were already visible on the horizon. Here and there, upon the river, a fisherman’s boat turned lightly about itself. From time to time, a dog barked and a cock crowed. Seagulls, fat and slick, uttered ominous screams.
“Kotikokura, you have seen my people and you have not found them to your taste.”
He nodded.
“Poverty is like a horse’s hoofs crushing delicate flowers. You must not judge my people too severely.”
He nodded.
“Perhaps it was my fault, Kotikokura. I was indeed as a son returning to his parental roof. I was offered the toys and dishes I had enjoyed as a child,—but I am no longer a child.”
He nodded.
“In the Christian world, I am not a Christian. Among the Mohammedans, I am a stranger. To the Jews, I seem a wicked magician, bringing about the plague. I do not belong anywhere, Kotikokura,” I sighed.
Kotikokura sighed also.
“But that is the destiny of man. I am Man—and man is always a stranger among men. I am not the Wandering Jew, but the Wandering Man.”
“Ca-ta-pha—god; Kotikokura—high priest.”
“God or man,—I am. Life is. We are two parallel lines, running on always—perhaps. Life knows no favorites. Henceforth I shall know neither creed nor race. I am free, Kotikokura! Free!” I shouted.
Kotikokura echoed: “Free!”