The Time of the Uprooted by Elie Wiesel Page B

faintly. “Show the priest in, Mendel. Who knows? Perhaps he needs our help. In the world of our Lord, anything is possible. Miracles can happen even today.”
    Mendel leaves, and Hananèl remains absorbed by his impure thoughts. He has difficulty controlling the trembling in his left arm. Though the Blessed Madman has no idea of the reason for the priest’s visit, he has been expecting it, or, rather, he has been expecting something from the outside world. He senses that some great evil is brewing for the Jewish communities of Hungary. Is this what the priest has come to tell him?
    Mendel is back, but he is by himself. “Rebbe, I will show him in, but if he takes the Rebbe away, I go with you. Is that clear? I promised your worthy parents— may their saintliness protect us!—that I would watch over you. Does the Rebbe remember that?”
    “I remember,” the young scholar replies. Yes, he remembers the event to which Mendel is referring. His heart is beating faster. He has learned that man must not look too far, or too high.
    “In that case, I’ll—” Mendel starts to say.
    “May the Lord above protect us,” says the young Master, interrupting.
    Once again, he senses that the moments he is about to live through are linked to the mystical knowledge he has acquired: the names of the angels and the powers they will confer on whoever knows to invoke them according to the manner told to Adam by the angel Raziel and transmitted by whispered word of mouth by the very few chosen ones from generation to generation. How to disarm the evil intentions of any enemy of Israel. How to act on events in such a way as to change their course. . . . And also, thanks to the backing of the old Kabbalist Rabbi Kalonimus, his guide and revered Master, he knows how to bring about the ascension of the soul to the heavenly tribunal, where the destiny of humanity is decided.
    Yes, he remembers.
    He even remembers what he would rather forget: the unhappy event that gave him his nickname. Before that, he was just Hananèl.
    The only disciple of old Rabbi Kalonimus, he was as attached to him as he was to his father, if not more so. Hananèl had not hesitated a moment when the Master of the mysteries had suggested that the two of them, with the Lord’s help, could precipitate the ultimate events and thus hasten the Day of Deliverance. “I am willing,” he said. But the old Kabbalist had warned him: “You realize there are dangers, don’t you?” “Yes, Rabbi, I do.” “And you’re not afraid?” “Yes, I am afraid, but you taught me to overcome fear.” Rabbi Kalonimus gazed at him for a long moment, then said, “Our forefathers are fortunate to have begotten you.” And he added, “Receive their blessing as well as mine. Like Rabbi Akiva, you will enter in peace into the Garden of Knowledge, and, like him, leave in peace.”
    There was nothing else to do, Hananèl reflected. The children of Israel had been too long in exile; they could bear no more. The ordeal was too much. The enemy was too powerful, his designs too cruel. And the prophet Elijah was too far away. The descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob could no longer hold out.
    Thus the Master and his young disciple entered on a perilous ascetic journey known for its traps and obstacles. Isolated from the world, even from their families, they lived for three times three weeks in a shack at the edge of the forest overlooking the village. They followed a program of study, of intense meditation, of prolonged fasting, of prescribed prayers, of litanies recited without moving the lips, all this while standing, in a state of concentration that would leave them dizzy. Ritual baths morning and night, chanting at midnight, carefully preparing themselves to penetrate walls, to set on fire their minds and souls and time itself. They dealt with unnameable sacrifices and ordeals performed according to rules set down in the esoteric and difficult texts of the Kabbalah. Sometimes the old