In the study room, there is always such a clamor that it resembles a bazaar—except that here the business at hand is of another sort. It’s never clear who is a teacher and who is a student. Learn from the young, the inexperienced, those who remain untarnished by books—that is Reb Mordke’s counsel. Isohar takes it a step further—though he remains the axis of this sanctuary, and it is around him that everything turns, this beth midrash nonetheless works more like an anthill or a beehive, and if it is overseen by a queen, she can only be Wisdom. A young person has many freedoms here. He has the right and the obligation to ask questions; there are no stupid questions, and each must be considered properly.
The same discussions take place here as in Lwów or in Lublin, just the circumstances and the surroundings have changed—here it happens not in a damp hut filled with smoke, not in the beth midrash room on the floor covered in sawdust that smells of pine trees, but rather under the open sky, on warmed stones. In the evenings, the men get drowned out by cicadas, so that you have to raise your voice to speak clearly and be understood.
Isohar teaches that there are three paths toward spiritualization. The first is the broadest and the simplest. This path is followed, for example, by Muhammadan ascetics. They’ll seize any possible ploy to kick out all natural forms—meaning all the images of the earthly world—from their souls. This is because such images interfere with the forms that are properly spiritual—when such a form appears in the soul, it must be kept separate and thus nurtured in the imagination until it occupies the entire soul; in this way, we become capable of prophecy. For example, they will ceaselessly repeat the name Allah, Allah, Allah, and so on, endlessly, until that word occupies the whole of their minds—they call this “extinguishing.”
The second is the philosophical path, and it has a sweet scent to our reason. It consists in the student’s acquiring knowledge in some field, for example in mathematics, and then in others, until finally he reaches theology. Any subject he has penetrated and that his human reason has mastered will come to dominate him, while to him it will seem that he is an expert in each of these disciplines. He’ll begin to understand complicated connections and be convinced that this is the result of a broadening and deepening of his human knowledge. But he will not realize that it is the letters grasped by his mind and imagination that are acting upon him in this way, ordering his mind with their movements, opening the door to inexpressible spiritualization.
The third path consists in Kabbalist shuffling, pronouncing and counting of letters, which leads to true spirituality. This path is the best, and besides, it also gives great pleasure, since by traveling it one can commune with the very essence of creation and get to know who God really is.
It isn’t easy to calm down after these kinds of conversations, and once he has smoked one last pipe with Reb Mordke, Nahman sees, just before he falls asleep, strange images of hives of luminous bees or of shadowy figures from which other figures emerge. Illusions. He can’t sleep, and his sleeplessness intensifies this heat he’s never known before, to which people from the north, like him, have trouble growing accustomed. Nahman sits many times by himself at night on the edge of the trash heap and looks at the starry sky. The first thing every neophyte must understand is that God, whatever he is, has nothing in common with humankind, and that he remains so far away as to be completely inaccessible to the human senses. The same is true of his intentions. At no point will people ever learn what he is up to.
Of Jacob the simpleton and taxes
Already as they were on their way here they heard of Jacob from fellow travelers, that he was a student of Isohar’s who was famous amongst the Jews, though it was not yet clear exactly why. Was it his cleverness and his strange behavior, which broke every rule known to man? Or perhaps his wisdom, uncommon in such a young person? Apparently he considered himself to be a simpleton, and he had people call him that—am ha’aretz, simpleton, or, in his version, amuritz. There were rumors he was a freak. It was said that when he was around fifteen years old, back in Romania, he dropped by the inn where duty was collected from the sale of goods, and, sitting down at a table, ordered wine and food, took out some sort of paperwork, and demanded that both goods and duty be brought straight to him. He listed these meticulously and took the money for himself. He would have gone to jail had some wealthy woman not interceded on his behalf, putting the stunt down to youthful folly; under her protection, he was dealt with very mildly.
Everyone listens to this story and smiles approvingly, patting one another on the back. Reb Mordke likes it, too, but Nahman sees the man’s behavior as improper, and to tell the truth, he is surprised that not only Reb Mordke, but also the others are chuckling contentedly.
“Why does this delight you all so much?” he asks, annoyed.
Reb Mordke stops laughing and glares at him.
“Why don’t you think about what’s good about that story,” he says, and reaches calmly for his pipe.
To Nahman it is clear that this Jacob deceived people and took money from them that did not belong to him.
“Why are you on their side?” asks Reb Mordke.
“Because I also have to pay a head tax, although I’ve done nothing wrong. So I feel sorry for those people who lost what rightfully belonged to them. When the real collector comes, they’ll have to pay all over again.”
“And what is it you suppose they’re paying for?”
“What do you mean?” Nahman is surprised by what his master is saying. “What do you mean, what for?” He has no words, so obvious is the answer to him.
“You pay for being Jewish. You live by the grace of the lords, the king. You pay your taxes, but when an injustice befalls you, no lord and no king is going to intercede on your behalf. Is it written somewhere that your life must cost money? That your year or your month has a price, and that every day of yours can be converted into gold?” says Reb Mordke, methodically filling his pipe.
This gives Nahman much more food for thought than the theological disputations. How did it happen that some have to pay while others collect? Where did it come from that certain people have such an amount of land they can’t even traverse it all, while others have only a little plot, paying so much in rent they can’t even afford a loaf of bread?
“It was given to them by their mothers and fathers,” he says without conviction when, on the following day, they return to the conversation. He already knows where Reb Mordke’s argumentation will head.
“And where did their parents get it?” asks the old man.
“From their parents?” says Nahman, but then he breaks off. He is starting to see how this whole conceptual machinery operates, so he goes on, becoming his own interlocutor. “Or they did favors for the king and got land in exchange for them. Or they purchased the land and now pass it down to their descendants—”
An ardent Nussen interrupts him mid-phrase:
“Seems to me land oughtn’t to be sold or purchased. Just like water and air. Nor do people deal in fire. Those are things given to us by God, not to each of us individually, but to all of us together. Like the sky and the sun. Does the sun belong to anyone? Do the stars?”