ceases. So does everything. Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. There lies the true mystery: The most beautiful of dreams, the grandest of conquests, all end in the silent indifferent earth.
Sitting under the curving branches of a giant oak, Gamaliel absently watches passersby laughing and arguing, heedless of one another. A yearning clings to him: Even at his age, he misses his parents. The more he thinks about them, the greater the pain in his chest; he can hardly breathe. On the High Holy Days, he always attended synagogue to say Kaddish for them, and his eyes would fill with tears. One day, Rebbe Zusya made an observation he will never forget: “Most people don’t realize that the dead live among us. We only become aware of them on the eve of Yom Kippur, during the recitation of the Kol Nidre, but they are always among the living.” Is it true? Gamaliel wonders. If it is, then his parents can’t be far away. They’re dead, but what does that mean? That they are parted from him? Is that what death is, a parting? Will they meet again, on high? Sometimes he talks to them, but they don’t answer. Sometimes when he’s alone, he tells them about his days, his nights, his struggles, his failures. The worst of those failures was his family life. All lost and gone. His angry wife, Colette, their defiant two daughters. How can he redeem himself in the eyes of his dead parents?
For some time now, he’s been thinking about Death. Or rather, it’s as if Death were thinking about him. At first, Death was a stranger to him, then it became a neutral onlooker. Now they are well acquainted; it taunts him, casts spells, trying to gain control over him. For many years, he could shake off Death’s barbs, could make it back away: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Leave me alone. There are things I must do. . . .” But recently his defenses are down. Death is holding on; its shadow clings to him. Last week, or maybe it was yesterday, the Angel of Death—he whom the Talmud calls the Messenger to Men—had replied with a snicker, “You say ‘I’? Don’t you know that in the blink of an eye I can erase that word from your vocabulary forever?” Gamaliel suddenly remembers the old Sage he’d met in Brooklyn. He, too, had referred to the ban that forbids man to say the word
I.
He showed Gamaliel the passage in the Midrash where it is written that the Ten Commandments were pronounced by Moses rather than by God. God only spoke the first word:
Anokhi,
“I.” One evening, Rebbe Zusya looked deep into Gamaliel’s eyes and explained, “God alone may use that word; God alone understands its fearful power. That’s the sin of pride that comes from idolatry: man putting his own ‘I’ in the place of the Creator’s.” At the time, Gamaliel replied, smiling, “At least we stateless ones don’t run that risk. We’ve been robbed not only of our nationality but also of our identity.” The Sage shook his head, gently, sadly. “In a sense, but in one sense only, we are all men without a country.” “Even God?” “Yes, God, as well. Of course, God is everywhere, and it is only in the hearts of men that He sometimes feels Himself a stranger.” Night had fallen. The old Sage asked his visitor to step outside with him. There, under a starry sky, he confided his only regret: that he had lived his life so far away, not from the King of Kings, the Lord of Creation, but from His creatures, for it is through man, rather than through books, that one can draw near to God. Gamaliel asked, “Why are you telling me that? And why out here on the street?” Now it was Rebbe Zusya’s turn to smile as he said, “To teach you a truth that you will find to be very valuable: Regret also is part of man.” Gamaliel felt like saying that, in his case, regret dominated his whole being, but he decided to remain silent.
Suddenly, Gamaliel is shivering. His thoughts have drifted away from the old Sage. He is alone again, but no, not quite. A
Sitting under the curving branches of a giant oak, Gamaliel absently watches passersby laughing and arguing, heedless of one another. A yearning clings to him: Even at his age, he misses his parents. The more he thinks about them, the greater the pain in his chest; he can hardly breathe. On the High Holy Days, he always attended synagogue to say Kaddish for them, and his eyes would fill with tears. One day, Rebbe Zusya made an observation he will never forget: “Most people don’t realize that the dead live among us. We only become aware of them on the eve of Yom Kippur, during the recitation of the Kol Nidre, but they are always among the living.” Is it true? Gamaliel wonders. If it is, then his parents can’t be far away. They’re dead, but what does that mean? That they are parted from him? Is that what death is, a parting? Will they meet again, on high? Sometimes he talks to them, but they don’t answer. Sometimes when he’s alone, he tells them about his days, his nights, his struggles, his failures. The worst of those failures was his family life. All lost and gone. His angry wife, Colette, their defiant two daughters. How can he redeem himself in the eyes of his dead parents?
For some time now, he’s been thinking about Death. Or rather, it’s as if Death were thinking about him. At first, Death was a stranger to him, then it became a neutral onlooker. Now they are well acquainted; it taunts him, casts spells, trying to gain control over him. For many years, he could shake off Death’s barbs, could make it back away: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Leave me alone. There are things I must do. . . .” But recently his defenses are down. Death is holding on; its shadow clings to him. Last week, or maybe it was yesterday, the Angel of Death—he whom the Talmud calls the Messenger to Men—had replied with a snicker, “You say ‘I’? Don’t you know that in the blink of an eye I can erase that word from your vocabulary forever?” Gamaliel suddenly remembers the old Sage he’d met in Brooklyn. He, too, had referred to the ban that forbids man to say the word
I.
He showed Gamaliel the passage in the Midrash where it is written that the Ten Commandments were pronounced by Moses rather than by God. God only spoke the first word:
Anokhi,
“I.” One evening, Rebbe Zusya looked deep into Gamaliel’s eyes and explained, “God alone may use that word; God alone understands its fearful power. That’s the sin of pride that comes from idolatry: man putting his own ‘I’ in the place of the Creator’s.” At the time, Gamaliel replied, smiling, “At least we stateless ones don’t run that risk. We’ve been robbed not only of our nationality but also of our identity.” The Sage shook his head, gently, sadly. “In a sense, but in one sense only, we are all men without a country.” “Even God?” “Yes, God, as well. Of course, God is everywhere, and it is only in the hearts of men that He sometimes feels Himself a stranger.” Night had fallen. The old Sage asked his visitor to step outside with him. There, under a starry sky, he confided his only regret: that he had lived his life so far away, not from the King of Kings, the Lord of Creation, but from His creatures, for it is through man, rather than through books, that one can draw near to God. Gamaliel asked, “Why are you telling me that? And why out here on the street?” Now it was Rebbe Zusya’s turn to smile as he said, “To teach you a truth that you will find to be very valuable: Regret also is part of man.” Gamaliel felt like saying that, in his case, regret dominated his whole being, but he decided to remain silent.
Suddenly, Gamaliel is shivering. His thoughts have drifted away from the old Sage. He is alone again, but no, not quite. A
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