quickly dismisses the thought. In the time they have been together—five years, or more—the bond of affection and understanding that joins them in the search for truth has made them almost equals. So when Hananèl speaks, his manner is playful. “You can’t sleep, Mendel? What’s bothering you? Not your sins, I hope. As far as I know, you don’t have many of them. I’ve learned to read your intentions and evaluate your deeds, and everything in you is pure. And yet instead of sleeping, you come here and interrupt my studying—well, maybe
that’s
your sin. . . .”
He sees that something is troubling his friend. Usually, “Big Mendel”—as he is called, as if there were another by that name in his circle—maintains his outward composure. Self-assured in his words and his actions, he always finds the way to be respectful but frank in his dealings. He never lets himself be humiliated or diminished, even by the Kabbalist scholar whose voice silences the most fluent of demons. Only Big Mendel may speak freely to Hananèl, may tell him what his rich and powerful visitors would rather he not know. But right now, he seems distraught, somehow deprived of the power of speech. All he does in answer to the questions of the Blessed Madman, whom he insists, despite the other’s protests, on addressing as “Rebbe,” is shrug, as if to say, The Rebbe won’t believe me. . . . What I have to tell him may seem ridiculous, but it is serious. At last, he stammers, “Hmm, Rebbe, in the waiting room, yes, down at the end of the hall—well, it’s almost out-of-doors—there’s a priest waiting. . . .”
The Blessed Madman makes no attempt to hide his surprise. “Did I hear you right, Mendel? A priest, you did say a priest? Outside? And he’s waiting? What’s he waiting for? The Messiah maybe? No, his Messiah already came, and the world’s no different for it. . . .”
“He wants to see the Rebbe,” Mendel says, avoiding the scholar’s eyes. “He says he has a message for the Rebbe—an important message.”
The Rebbe pulls out a handkerchief and sets it on the book he has been studying, to keep his place. “Mendel,” he says, “if a priest comes to see a Jew, that doesn’t bode well. Yet if the Jew has to go see the priest, that’s far worse.”
Mendel is knotting his fingers. “What must I say to him, Rebbe?”
“Ask him to come in.” He sighs and adds, “May the Creator of all things—blessed be He and blessed be His name—may He have mercy on us.”
Young Hananèl suddenly feels old, as if he is weighted down by all the years lived by others, by his precursors. He finds it difficult to stand. Leaning on the beadle’s arm, he manages to get to his feet, then sits back down immediately. Why show even the slightest sign of weakness to a visitor who travels by night and doubtless wishes him no good? In his mind’s eye he glimpses scenes long buried in the sands of time. In Paris, during the reign of Louis IX, the queen mother, Blanche de Castille, presided over a debate between the famous Rabbi Yehiel, representing the Jewish faith, and Nicolas Donin, the infamous renegade—may his name be erased forever—now become spokesman for the Christian faith. In Barcelona, Rabbi Moses ben Nahman, known by the acronym Ramban, confronted Pablo Christiani in the presence of the king and queen. The Jewish scholar won the debate but had to flee. And in the cathedral at Tortosa, Rabbi Joseph Albo and twenty erudite Jews faced Geronimo de Santa Fe in a disputation, on the one side, knowledge, on the other, slander. And what does all this have to do with the Blessed Madman? Is it now his turn to defend his people in public debate? Is he worthy, is he capable of it? In his mind he summons his ancestors to lend him their strength and their virtue. With their support, he will be able to hold his own against his adversaries, above all to preserve his dignity: the honor of a Jew serving the God of Israel. He smiles
that’s
your sin. . . .”
He sees that something is troubling his friend. Usually, “Big Mendel”—as he is called, as if there were another by that name in his circle—maintains his outward composure. Self-assured in his words and his actions, he always finds the way to be respectful but frank in his dealings. He never lets himself be humiliated or diminished, even by the Kabbalist scholar whose voice silences the most fluent of demons. Only Big Mendel may speak freely to Hananèl, may tell him what his rich and powerful visitors would rather he not know. But right now, he seems distraught, somehow deprived of the power of speech. All he does in answer to the questions of the Blessed Madman, whom he insists, despite the other’s protests, on addressing as “Rebbe,” is shrug, as if to say, The Rebbe won’t believe me. . . . What I have to tell him may seem ridiculous, but it is serious. At last, he stammers, “Hmm, Rebbe, in the waiting room, yes, down at the end of the hall—well, it’s almost out-of-doors—there’s a priest waiting. . . .”
The Blessed Madman makes no attempt to hide his surprise. “Did I hear you right, Mendel? A priest, you did say a priest? Outside? And he’s waiting? What’s he waiting for? The Messiah maybe? No, his Messiah already came, and the world’s no different for it. . . .”
“He wants to see the Rebbe,” Mendel says, avoiding the scholar’s eyes. “He says he has a message for the Rebbe—an important message.”
The Rebbe pulls out a handkerchief and sets it on the book he has been studying, to keep his place. “Mendel,” he says, “if a priest comes to see a Jew, that doesn’t bode well. Yet if the Jew has to go see the priest, that’s far worse.”
Mendel is knotting his fingers. “What must I say to him, Rebbe?”
“Ask him to come in.” He sighs and adds, “May the Creator of all things—blessed be He and blessed be His name—may He have mercy on us.”
Young Hananèl suddenly feels old, as if he is weighted down by all the years lived by others, by his precursors. He finds it difficult to stand. Leaning on the beadle’s arm, he manages to get to his feet, then sits back down immediately. Why show even the slightest sign of weakness to a visitor who travels by night and doubtless wishes him no good? In his mind’s eye he glimpses scenes long buried in the sands of time. In Paris, during the reign of Louis IX, the queen mother, Blanche de Castille, presided over a debate between the famous Rabbi Yehiel, representing the Jewish faith, and Nicolas Donin, the infamous renegade—may his name be erased forever—now become spokesman for the Christian faith. In Barcelona, Rabbi Moses ben Nahman, known by the acronym Ramban, confronted Pablo Christiani in the presence of the king and queen. The Jewish scholar won the debate but had to flee. And in the cathedral at Tortosa, Rabbi Joseph Albo and twenty erudite Jews faced Geronimo de Santa Fe in a disputation, on the one side, knowledge, on the other, slander. And what does all this have to do with the Blessed Madman? Is it now his turn to defend his people in public debate? Is he worthy, is he capable of it? In his mind he summons his ancestors to lend him their strength and their virtue. With their support, he will be able to hold his own against his adversaries, above all to preserve his dignity: the honor of a Jew serving the God of Israel. He smiles
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