It was all a little too arcane for Liebermann’s tastes.
Could ancient memories really be passed on, from generation to generation?
He was abruptly roused from his meditation by a hand falling heavily on his shoulder.
“Have you had any cake yet?”
It was his father. He was holding a piece of guglhupf over a small dish. The sponge was sweetly fragrant and dense with raisins.
“No.”
“You should try some.” He held the slice up, creating a little shower of icing sugar. “It’s from Grodzinksi’s shop. He supervised the baking himself.”
“In which case…”
At least there were some things that he and his father could still agree on.
3
The Zaddik-rebbe Elimelech Ben Solomon Barash-was a thickset man with craggy features, a long black beard, and uncut sideburns that had been styled into springlike coils. He wore a somber frock coat-lined with fur-a white shirt, and slippers without buckles or laces. White tassels hung from his waist (each individual thread knotted five times to represent the five books of Moses). His large head was shaven, but shadowed with enough spiky stubble to keep his velvet skullcap firmly in place. He was enthroned on a quilted armchair with a high back.
In front of the zaddik was gathered a group of young men-about ten in number-sitting cross-legged on the floor. Each wore an ornately embroidered shawl draped around his shoulders. Prayer books were scattered among them on the Persian rug. Like their master, they had shaven heads and their sideburns hung in uncut ringlets or braids.
“The magid of Safed tells us that the world in which we live is imperfect. The divine light could not be contained in the sacred vessels-and the sacred vessels were broken. Thus it was that His mighty undertaking failed. What came to be was not correspondent with the divine plan. What came to be was flawed-a universe out of humor, an ailing universe, a universe in which wickedness might thrive.”
The zaddik turned his head, making eye contact with each of his disciples. His gaze was particularly intense, and some of the young men had to look away.
“When something is broken, it must be repaired. This is our task: tikkun, the mending of the vessels, the healing of the cosmos. When you ask yourselves “What is the purpose of human existence?” you now have an answer: tikkun. What is the purpose of the sky, the earth, the stars, and the moon? You now have an answer: tikkun. It is the purpose of the holy books, the purpose of scripture, the purpose of prayer. The achievement of tikkun is the only means of redemption. It brings perfection back to God and so to the universe, to humanity, and to the people of Israel.”
Barash paused and gripped the arms of his chair. His hands were large, like the oversize hands on a classical statue-a rough assembly of bulbous knuckles and swollen phalanges.
“And how are we to achieve tikkun?”
He paused again, allowing his question to persist in the minds of his disciples.
“My rebbe…”
A young man sitting at the front raised his hand.
The zaddik nodded, encouraging him to speak.
“Study of the law, observance of the commandments, and absolute commitment to ethical behavior.”
“The unselfish pursuit of religious perfection, Gershom,” said the zaddik, endorsing the young man’s answer while extracting from it an abstract essence. “The task in hand is so great that all must participate, all have a role to play-however small. The greatest scholar and the unschooled laborer have this in common. No man is exempt. Without total participation, the tikkun will not succeed, and wickedness will remain in the world.”
The zaddik suddenly leaned forward. One of the young men started.
“There is no such thing as an inconsequential observance. Every observance is of the greatest importance, because through observances the tikkun proceeds and that which is wrong is corrected. If you are negligent, it is not only the fate of your soul that is affected but the whole of creation. The burden of tikkun weighs heavily on our shoulders at all times. All deeds and misdeeds have cosmic consequences. Every day the choices you make will either cure the world or hasten the progress of its malignancies. Every day your thoughts will either strengthen or weaken the powers of good and evil.”
Barash’s voice, which was deep and resonant, had been growing steadily louder. He appeared unnaturally large and powerful, monumental, a mountain of a man, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, huge feet and marble hands. His zeal created an illusion of expansion, and he seemed to fill the room. His commanding presence made it easier for his followers to believe a fundamental tenet of their faith: that God could be approached only through the mediation of a zaddik. Barash was a divine messenger, like his father, Solomon, and his grandfather- another Elimelech-before him. In their Hasidic sect, Barash was regarded as the single human being who could redeem their souls; bring their prayers before God; and ensure that if they sinned, God would accept their repentance. In return, his followers gave him their faith and material security.
The study group came to an end and the young men collected their coats and departed. Barash stood by the window, watching them cross the yard before spilling out onto Grosse Sperlgasse. The surrounding buildings were rather dilapidated, having once been part of the former ghetto. When the last of his followers had disappeared from view, Barash attended to some correspondence, discussed housekeeping arrangements with his wife, donned a large beaver hat, and set off to visit some of the elderly members of his congregation.
Barash marched down the narrow streets, passing numerous shops on the way: a general store, a bakery, a kosher butcher’s-with substantial joints of meat hanging from hooks on the wide-open doors-a cobbler’s establishment, a watchmaker, a textile merchant. Some of the shop signs were in Hebrew, but most were in German. Occasionally Barash saw other men dressed like himself, although, relative to the rest of the Jewish population, the Hasidim of Vienna were few in number. Even in Leopoldstadt, caftans and beaver hats were not such a common sight.
Turning off the main thoroughfare, Barash entered a dim alleyway-a gap between buildings that served as a shortcut. The temperature dropped as soon as he ventured between its dank, precipitous walls. He became aware of footsteps-a soft accompaniment shadowing his own tread-and glanced over his shoulder.
“My rebbe…” It was Gershom.
Barash halted. “What is the matter?”
“I was in Zucker’s and saw you passing.”
Zucker’s was a small coffeehouse on Tandelmarktgasse.
The young man came forward.
“I was reading this.” Gershom offered Barash a folded newspaper indicating a particular news item. The headline read PIARIST MONK MUDRERED IN JOSEFSTADT.
Barash grabbed the paper and read down the column of Gothic typeface. His tangled eyebrows came together and his breathing quickened. When he had finished reading, he handed the paper back to the young man, who said tremulously, “How did you know?”
The zaddik, who towered over his acolyte, did not respond.
“You said our enemies would be struck down.” The young man was nervous, uncertain whether to proceed. But his need for answers spurred him on. “Is this what you meant? Has it begun already?”
“Yes,” said Barash. “It has begun.”
“My rebbe, how did you know?”
Barash observed a procession of carts passing at the other end of the alley. A peddler was shouting, trying to sell a trayful of dreidels.
“Be thankful, Gershom. Our troubles will soon be over. As the great Maharal of Prague freed his people from persecution, so we shall be freed. Pray, Gershom, and give thanks.”
The young man was not consoled by these words.
“But… my rebbe, who did this?” He held up the newspaper. “Was it…” Gershom lowered his voice, almost to
