Satan in Goray

Benish had kept his eyes open and had seen to it that this plague (as he sometimes called it in his thoughts) did not spread. Secretly he had taken the cabalistic volumes with their wooden covers from the study house and had hidden them in his own home. He recited the lessons for the older boys himself, to be sure that they understood the meaning clearly; and he did not allow them to indulge in pilpul. Rabbi Benish ordered them to read the biblical Prophets and Writings until they had memorized them, and he taught the boys Hebrew grammar, although in Poland this was considered al- Satan in Goray 25 most apostasy. If a younger rabbi had dared this, he would have been driven from the town. But Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi was respected. The substantial citizens--men of means who liked common sense and moderation in all things--stood by Rabbi Benish in his battle against the zealots. The young man who secluded himself to become immersed in the study of the mysteries would be flogged, or forbidden to appear in the prayer house, until he stood before the congregation in his stockinged feet and promised no longer to isolate himself from the community. Occasionally, adepts in the cabala, men who could extract wine from walls, heal the sick, and even revive the dead, would appear in Goray. But Rabbi Benish did not permit them to stay long. Those who refused to leave of their own accord would be forced to leave. There would be a certain amount of grumbling, Rabbi Benish's foes claiming that he disbelieved in the cabala.
    Once unknown persons posted a paper slandering Rabbi Benish. But the rabbi remained steadfast in his ways, maintaining, "So long as I live, there will be no idolatry in Goray!"
    To Rabbi Benish the misfortunes of the years 1648 and 1649 were a punishment visited on Polish Jews because they had been unfaithful to the Law; he was certain that, once the persecutions were over, they would return to the ways of their fathers. But now that their afflictions were past and his expectations were not fulfilled, the rabbi shrank into himself and said nothing. For he perceived that divine providence willed otherwise; as he did not know what Heaven wished, he humbly acquiesced. Each day brought its news, never anticipated, never the same, often contradicting that of the day before. More and more, Jews divided into sects. Even the great rabbis could not agree. Nor was this age of sickness and catastrophe the time to harangue the people.
    And Rabbi Benish returned from Lublin, to the town that lay in the midst of the hills, half in ruins and cut off from the world. There the old man immured himself as within an ark, to endure the bad years in solitude. Only on rare occasions did Rabbi Benish cross the threshold of his house. He would glance about him, and inquire of a passing porter or school boy: "How will it end?"
    "What does God want?"

    4

    The Old Goray and the New

    October 1666. The rain had been coming down in torrents for a week, and every night that week the wind had blown as fiercely as though seven witches had hanged themselves. The downpour had flooded cellars, washed plaster off walls, put out fires in ovens. In the woods many trees were uprooted. The swift stream that ran near Goray had been blocked in its course and had overflowed the low places. The windmill sails had been torn from their chains, hence meal was dear. The few who were well off in Goray and who had laid in stocks of food during the summer months remained secluded at home, fearful of worshiping in congregation, lest they see the misery of the poor and hear their complaints. They dozed under goosefeather comforters, relished hot grits, smoked tobacco, dreamed of the fairs of old, and the mad, spendthrift gentry. For fear of thieves, they lit no lamps at night and would, at the slightest provocation, have buried their property and goods in the earth and made off. On the stoves of the poor, the pots stood empty and cold. The roads were dangerous, and no wagons dared venture into town. On rare occasions, a peasant carrying a small bag on his back would swim into view. He would sink above his knees in the mud, and plod from shop to shop, deliberating over where to sell his handful of rye. Women in mannish boots, their heads covered with torn shawls, would crawl forth to meet him like worms emerging from their holes. Tugging at his arms they would bargain for hours, until their toothless mouths became blue with cold.
    "A black year on you, dear sir," they