prophet Enoch, but each time sadness or hate or bitterness came to me I pushed it away and thought of love, love profane, love sacred, love of the good…
I still could not recall Zurvan distinctly, only the feeling, but I quoted him now out loud as best I could. Each time it seemed I used new words but it was the same quote: “The purpose of life is to love and to increase our knowledge of the intricacies of creation. Kindness is the way of God.”
They kept up the exorcism, and I searched my mind, closing my eyes, and sought for the proper words, calling to the world to yield to me the proper words that would quiet them, just the way that it yielded to me the clothing I wore, or the skin that appeared human.
Then I saw the words. I saw the room. I didn’t know where it was then. Now I realize that it was the scriptorium in my father’s house. All I knew was that it was familiar and I began to sing the words, as I had sung them long ago, with the harp on my knee. As I had written them over and over.
I sang them now in the ancient tongue in which I learned them, loudly and with rhythm, rocking as I sang:
This silenced them. They stood staring in wonder, not afraid and not full of hate. Even the Rebbe’s soul was stilled and had lost its hate.
I spoke in Aramaic: “I forgive those who made of me a demon, whoever they were, and to whatever purpose. Learning to love from Esther and Rachel, I come in love and to love Nathan and to love God. To love is to know love, and that is to love God. Amen.”
The old man looked suspicious suddenly, but it was not of me. He looked at the telephone on his desk. Then he glanced at me.
The very old one said, in Hebrew, “So he was a demon who would be an angel? Is such a thing possible?” The Rebbe didn’t answer.
Then suddenly the Rebbe picked up the phone and punched in a long series of numbers, too long for me to follow or remember, and then he began to talk in Yiddish.
He asked if Nathan was there. Had Nathan arrived safely? He assumed that someone would have called, had Nathan not arrived, but he wanted to speak to his grandson.
Then shock came over his face. The room was silent. All the men looked at him and seemed to know what he was thinking.
The Rebbe spoke into the phone in Yiddish:
“He didn’t tell you that he was coming? You have not heard from him, one single word?”
The old men were distressed. So was I.
“He’s not there,” I said. “He’s not there!”
The old man went over all the details with those at the other end of the line. They knew nothing about Nathan coming to Israel. Last they heard, Nathan would come at his regular time later in the year. All was in readiness for Nathan’s regular visit. They had received no calls from Nathan about an early visit.
The Rebbe put down the phone. “Don’t tell Sarah!” he said with his hand raised. All the others nodded. He then told the youngest of the men to go for Sarah. “I’ll speak with Sarah.”
Sarah came into the room, a modest and humble woman, very beautiful, her natural hair covered by an ugly brown wig. She had narrow almond-shaped eyes, and a lovely soft mouth. She emanated kindness and when she glanced at me shyly she made no judgment.
She looked at the Rebbe.
“Your husband has called you since he left?”
She said no.
“You went with him and Jacob and Joseph to the plane?”
She said no.
Silence.
She looked at me and then looked down.
“Please, forgive me,” I said, “but did Nathan tell you he was going to Israel?”
She said yes, and that a car had come for him, from a rich friend in the city to take him, and he had said he would be back very soon.
“Did he tell you who this friend was?” I asked. “Please tell me, Sarah, please.”
She seemed utterly reassured and something inside her was suddenly unlocked. I saw in her eyes the same gentleness that I had seen in the girl on the street in the southern city, and in Esther herself, and in Rachel. The pure gentleness of women, which is wholly different from the pure gentleness of men.
Maybe this is what happens when you love, really love, I thought. People love you in return! I felt so free of hatred and anger suddenly that I shivered, but I implored her with my eyes to speak.
She looked shaken and then she glanced at the Rebbe, and bowed her head and blushed. She was about to cry.
“He had with him her diamond necklace,” she said, “the necklace of his brother’s daughter, Esther Belkin. He was taking it to his brother.”
She began to cry.
“When he had heard of the necklace being stolen,” she said, “when he heard this tale, he knew it wasn’t true. He had the necklace. Esther Belkin had given it to him for mending.” She swallowed her tears and continued. “Rebbe, he didn’t want anyone to be angry. He called his brother to tell him. He said his brother was crying. The car came to take him to his brother so that he might restore the necklace to him which had been Esther’s, and then his brother wanted Nathan to come with him to Israel that they stand together at the Wailing Wall. Nathan promised me that when he had comforted his brother, he would return. Perhaps, he said, he could bring his brother back home.”
“Ah, of course,” I said.
“Quiet,” said the Rebbe. “Sarah, don’t be sorry or sad. Don’t worry. I’m not angry that he went with his brother. He went in love, with good intentions.”
“He did, Rebbe,” she said. “He did.”
“Leave this to us.”
“I’m so sorry, Rebbe. But he loved his brother and was so stricken with grief for the girl. He said the girl would one day have come to us and would have wanted to be one of us. He was sure of it. He had seen it in her eyes.”
“I see, Sarah. Don’t think any more about it. Go out now.”
She turned her head, still crying, glanced back at me once, and then left the room.
I felt so sorry for her, so very sorry! She knew something was wrong, but she had no idea what was wrong,
