Moshe exclaims:
“At the messianic feast, Israel will eat the Leviathan! Sure, Maimonides explains this philosophically and loftily, but who are we to disdain the beliefs of simple people who spent their whole lives hungry?”
Moshe takes his seat in the very center of the long table, not missing a beat in his peroration:
“Yes, the people of Israel shall devour the Leviathan! The vast body of the beast will prove to be as delicious and as delicate as . . . as . . .”
“. . . as the meat of virgin quail,” suggests one of his pals.
“Or transparent flying fish,” Moshe continues. “The people will eat the Leviathan at such length that they will satisfy their many-centurieslong hunger. There will be such great grub, an unforgettable feast. The wind will flutter the white tablecloths, and we’ll toss the bones under the table for the dogs, who will be present, too, to reap the rewards of salvation . . .”
The applause that sounds is weak, since everyone’s hands are already busy placing food on plates. Until late in the night music and bursts of laughter will carry all throughout the Dobrushkas’ house as the youths play their fashionable French party games. Sheyndel stands with her arms folded, leaning against the doorframe, gazing proudly at her son. She has reason to be proud of him: in 1773 alone he has published three of his own treatises—two in German, and one in Hebrew. All on the subject of literature.
After Zalman’s funeral, which takes place in January of 1774, Moshe requests a conversation with his uncle Jacob Frank. They sit on the veranda, where Sheyndel kept her flowers over the winter, and where tall figs, palms, and oleanders still stand.
Moshe seems to admire Jacob while simultaneously not caring for him at all. This is often how he feels about people: immoderate and ambivalent. Now he watches him furtively and is irritated by the country manners his uncle so flaunts, irritated by his Turkish outfit, gaudy and theatrical. And yet he admires his completely inexplicable and seemingly unshakable selfconfidence; he has never seen such a thing in anyone before. He sometimes catches himself feeling respect toward his uncle, occasionally even fearing him. Perhaps this is what attracts him so much.
“I want you to be my witness at the wedding, Uncle. I want you to be there for my baptism, too.”
“I like that you’re inviting me to a wedding at a wake,” says Jacob.
“My father would have liked it, too. He was always one for getting straight to the point.”
Through the window, seen by those attending the wake, they look as if they are smoking their pipes and talking about Zalman, wishing him a peaceful rest. They look relaxed: Jacob has stretched out his legs in front of him and is releasing rings of smoke, lost in thought.
“It all boils down to this,” says Moshe Dobrushka now. “Moses and his constitution are frauds. Moses himself learned the truth, but he hid it from his people. Why? So that he could hold power over them, no doubt. And he constructed such a massive lie that it actually started to seem like the truth. Millions of people have believed in that lie, cited it, and lived by it.” Moshe is giving a lecture more than he is having a conversation—he doesn’t even look at his uncle. “What must it be like to realize your whole life has been an illusion? It’s like someone telling a child that red is green, yellow pink, that this tree is a tulip . . .” He forgets himself in enumerating comparisons, makes a kind of circular gesture with his hand and keeps going.
“In other words, the World is a deceitful lie, rehearsed theater. And yet, Moses had been given the greatest opportunity, he could have led the exiled nation, the nation that was wandering the desert—he could have led them to the true light, and yet he preferred to deceive them, and to present the injunctions he himself had invented as if they were divine. He kept that secret well, and it took us ages to realize the truth.”
Moshe suddenly, violently, slides off his chair and kneels before Jacob, putting his head on Jacob’s knees.
“You, Jacob, are the one who insists we uncover this truth. You took this task upon yourself, and for that, I admire you.”
Jacob does not seem surprised to find himself holding the head of the young Dobrushka in his hands. Anyone who saw them through the glass now would imagine that the uncle was consoling the son after his father’s death—a touching sight.
“You know, Uncle, Moses was terribly wrong, he condemned us Jews, and not only us, to countless misfortunes, defeats, plagues, suffering, and then he abandoned his people—”
“He converted to another religion . . . ,” Jacob interjects, and Dobrushka goes back to his chair, but he scoots it up so close to his uncle that their faces are only a hand’s width away from each other.
“Tell me, am I right? Jesus tried to save us, and he was close, but his message got warped, just like Muhammad’s.”
Jacob says:
“Mosaic laws are a burden on and a violence to the people, but the divine laws are perfect. No man or creature had the good fortune to hear them, but we trust that someday we will hear them. You know that, right?”
Moshe Dobrushka nods vigorously.
“The whole truth is in the philosophy of the Enlightenment, in all the knowledge we can attain, knowledge that will free us from this misery . . .”
Sheyndel is made anxious by what she sees through the veranda window, and she hesitates a moment, then decisively knocks and opens the door to tell them the modest repast has been served.
Of the house by the cathedral and the delivery of maidens
As soon as they’re set up on Petersburger Gasse, guests start to visit, and noise fills the house. The annexes are occupied already, and those who could not fit have rented apartments in the homes of local burghers—so now the sleepy city of Brünn sees an influx of new strength, with all the young newcomers. Since the teachings take place in the morning, the rest of the day is open, and the Lord begins to direct drills, so that thenceforth the courtyard is characterized by polyglot commotion, as boys from Poland, Turkey, as well as from the Czech and Moravian lands—the “Krauts,” as the Lord calls them—train together. The court in Brünn allocates significant amounts to purchase them all uniforms, and once they are outfitted thus, the Lord divvies up his little army under varied banners. Sketches for uniforms and pennants are spread out on the table, and plans for setting up the troops. Every morning the Lord starts in similar fashion. He goes out onto the balcony and, leaning on the stone balustrade, says to those in training:
“Whosoever heeds not my words may under no circumstances remain at my court. Whosoever swears will immediately be erased from everything. And if anyone should say that the thing that I am striving for is bad or needless, he, too, will be banned.”