When it warms up, in April, the fun moves out into the field. Jacob once told Nahman that when he was little and living in Czernowitz, some crazy person came around, and all the children ran after him and imitated him, all his gestures, his scary faces, his rage, and repeated his words. When the crazy man disappeared, when he went to another town, the children still aped him, and even expanded their repertoire of mad gestures, perfecting the madness of that madman. It was like an epidemic, for in the end, all the children in Czernowitz started behaving that way, Jewish, Polish, German, Ruthenian, until frightened parents took the rods down from their walls, and it was only through the use of these rods that they were able to dispel that madness from their children’s minds. But they were wrong to do so, because it had been fun.
Now Jacob makes faces, and the children follow. His tall figure can be seen leading the way, moving strangely, and then the children do as he does. Their legs shoot out, and every few steps they jump, waving their arms. The chain they make winds around the ponds, where in the wake of winter the water has cleared up and now trembles anxiously, reflecting the sky. Some of the grown-ups join in. Moshe from Podhajce, the old widower, has gained in vigor since being matched with Ma?ka of Lanckoroń, barely fifteen, and he and his wife-to-be join Jacob’s retinue. That encourages others, for Moshe is a wise man, one who knows what he’s doing, and he’s not afraid of a little ridiculousness. In fact, isn’t ridiculousness what we want, isn’t ridiculousness on our side? thinks Nahman, also breaking into a dance. He hops on both legs, bounces like a ball, and he wants to bring in Wajge?e, so petite, so delicate, but she turns away, furious, still too childish to play like a child. Wittel, on the other hand, doesn’t need to be convinced, she holds on tightly to Nahman’s hand, and her abundant breasts jump in preposterous fashion. Other women follow Wittel, abandoning the hanging laundry, interrupting the feeding of their infants, the milking of the cows, the beating of the bedding. Seeing this, their husbands stop chopping wood and leave the axes on the blocks. Briefly spared is the life of the rooster from which today’s broth is supposed to be prepared. Yeruhim climbs down from the ladder, where he was patching up the thatched roof, and now he takes a laughing Hayah by the hand. Jacob leads the mad retinue between houses, over the toppled fence, through the barn that lies open at both ends, then along the embankment between the ponds. Whoever sees them either stands in pure astonishment or immediately unites with them, until they return to where they started, warmed up, with flushed cheeks, weakened from laughing and hollering. Suddenly there are a lot of them, many more than there were in the beginning. It’s almost everyone, in fact. If some stranger found himself at that moment in Ivanie, he might take them for a village of idiots.
In the evening, the elders gather in the largest chamber. They stand in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, men and women alternating. First they sing, then they recite the prayer, moving back and forth and supporting each other with their shoulders. Then, until late at night, Jacob teaches, meaning, as he says, he tells tales. Nahman tries to remember them exactly, and when he returns to his room, he writes them down, despite the prohibition. This takes him a lot of time, which is why he is always so exhausted.
A tale of two tablets
This is a story that everyone in Ivanie knows by heart.
By the time the Jews left Egypt, the world was ready for salvation and everything was waiting, prepared—both down below and on high. It was unprecedented—the wind died down completely, the leaves did not move on the trees, the clouds in the sky drifted so slowly that only the most patient were able to discern their movement. It was the same with the water—it became thick as cream, while the earth went the other way, became flimsy and unreliable, so that it often happened that people fell into it up to their ankles. No bird chirped, no bee flew, there were no waves in the sea, people did not speak—it was so quiet you could hear the heartbeat of the smallest animal.
Everything stopped in anticipation of the new Law, and all eyes were turned to Moses, who was climbing Mount Zion to receive it directly from God’s hands. And so it was that God Himself engraved the Law on two stone tablets in such a way that it would be discernible to the human eye and comprehensible to the human mind. This was the Torah of Atzilut.
During Moses’s absence, his people gave in to temptation and indulged in sin. Then Moses, coming down from on high and seeing what was going on, thought: I left them for such a short time, and yet they were unable to persist in virtuousness. Thus they are unworthy of the beneficent and noble law God appointed them. In his great despair Moses shattered the tablets on the ground so that they broke into a thousand pieces and turned to dust. Then a terrible wind rose up and threw Moses against the rock and set the clouds and the water in motion and made the earth solid again. Moses understood that his people were not mature enough for the law of liberty intended for the saved world. All day and all night he sat resting against the rock and looking down at the fires burning in the camp of his people, and he heard their voices, their music, and the cries of their children. Then Samael came to him in the guise of an angel and dictated to him the commandments that from then on would keep God’s people enslaved.
In order that no one would know the true Law of Freedom, Samael carefully gathered the little pieces of the shattered Torah of Atzilut and scattered them around the world among many different religions. When the Messiah comes, he will have to pass over into Samael’s kingdom to collect the tablets’ shards and present the new Law in its final revelation.
“What was this lost Law all about?” asks Wajge?e, when she and Nahman climb into bed.
“Who could possibly know, since it has been dispersed?” he answers warily. “It was good. It respected people.”
But Wajge?e is stubborn.
“Was it the opposite of what we have now? The opposite of ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ would be ‘Thou shalt commit it.’ And the opposite of ‘Thou shalt not kill’ would be: ‘Kill.’”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You always tell me that—‘It’s not that simple, it’s not that simple . . . ,’” she mocks him. She pulls a pair of woolen stockings up over her skinny legs.
“People want easy explanations, and so we must simplify everything for their sake, and since it cannot be written down, it all becomes rather stupid . . . This or that, black, white—it’s like digging with a hoe. Simple is dangerous.”
“But I want to understand it, and I can’t.”
“Wajge?e, my time will come, and your time will come. That is grace. Sabbatai, the old Mosaic law, the one given by Samael, is no longer in effect. That also explains the conversion of our Lord, Sabbatai, to Islam. He saw that Israel, in obeying the Mosaic law, was no longer in the service of the God of the Truth. That is why our Lord gave up the Torah in favor of the Din Islam . . .”
“How can you believe in all of this, Nahman? What do you need it for? The truth is simple. Isn’t it?” Wajge?e says sleepily.
“. . . and why we are crossing over to Edom. We are destined by God to perform such acts.”
Wajge?e doesn’t answer.
“Wajge?e?”
In the silence, he hears the girl’s even breathing.
Nahman carefully climbs out of bed so as not to wake her and lights a tiny clay lamp. He places a board between it and the window so that it can’t be seen from outside. He will write. He throws a blanket over his shoulders, and he begins:
Scraps, or: Eight months in the Lord’s community of Ivanie