The Collected Stories

reason.”
    “But He who created the bull can reason.”
    The boy did not know the answer to that one. The rabbi pinched his cheek.
    “Well, go study,” he said, returning to his room.
    Reb Abraham Moshe came to him shortly afterwards. He was a small, youthful-faced man, with white beard and earlocks, wearing a floor-length robe, a thick, moss-green sash, and carrying a long pipe that reached to his knees. Over his skullcap he wore a high cap. His eccentricities were well known. He would recite the morning prayer in the afternoon, and the afternoon prayer long after others had returned from the evening service. He chanted psalms at Purim, and during the Kol Nidre prayer, he slept. On Passover eve when everyone celebrated at the Passover feast, he would study a commentary of the Talmudic Treatises on Damages and Compensations. It was rumored that once, at the tavern, he had won a game of chess from a general, and that the general had rewarded him with a license to sell brandy. His wife ran the business; he himself spent more time at Komarov than at home. He would say that living at Komarov was like standing at the foot of Mount Sinai; the air itself purified one. In a more jocular mood, he would comment that there was no need to study at Komarov; it was sufficient to loiter on a bench in the house of study and inhale the Torah as one breathed. The Hasidim knew that the rabbi held Reb Abraham Moshe in the highest esteem, discussed esoteric doctrine with him, and asked his advice. Reb Abraham Moshe was always seated at the head of the table. Nevertheless, each time he visited the rabbi, he spruced up like a young man. He would wash his hands, button his caftan, curl his earlocks, and comb his beard. He would enter with reverence, as one enters the house of a saint.
    The rabbi had not sent for him since Rebecca’s death; this in itself was an indication of the depth of the rabbi’s grief. Reb Abraham Moshe did not shuffle now, as customarily, but walked briskly, almost running. When he had reached the rabbi’s door he halted for a moment, touched his cap, his chest, wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and then walked in mincingly. The rabbi, having opened one of the shutters, sat smoking his pipe in the grandfather’s chair with the ivory armrests. A half-full glass of tea stood on the table, a roll beside it. Apparently, the rabbi had recovered.
    “Rabbi, I’m here,” said Reb Abraham Moshe.
    “So I see. Be seated.”
    “Thank you.”
    The rabbi remained silent a while. Placing his narrow hand on the table edge, he stared at the white nails of his long fingers. Then he said, “Abraham Moshe, it’s bad.”
    “What’s bad?”
    “Abraham Moshe, it’s worse than you think.”
    “What could be worse?” asked Abraham Moshe, ironically.
    “Abraham Moshe, the atheists are right. There is no justice, no Judge.”
    Reb Abraham Moshe was accustomed to the rabbi’s harsh words. At Komarov, even the Lord of the Universe would not be spared. But to be rebellious is one thing; to deny God, another. Reb Abraham Moshe turned pale. His knees shook.
    “Then who rules the world, Rabbi?”
    “It’s not ruled.”
    “Who then?”
    “A total lie!”
    “Come, come …”
    “A heap of dung …”
    “Where did the dung come from?”
    “In the beginning was the dung.”
    Reb Abraham Moshe froze. He wanted to speak, but his arguments caught in his throat. Well, it’s his grief that talks, he thought. Nevertheless, he marveled. If Job could endure it, so should the rabbi.
    “What should we do, then, Rabbi?” Reb Abraham Moshe asked hoarsely.
    “We should worship idols.”
    To keep from falling, Reb Abraham Moshe gripped the table edge.
    “What idols?” he asked. Everything inside him seemed to tighten.
    The rabbi laughed briefly. “Don’t be frightened; I won’t send you to the priest. If the atheists are right, what’s the difference between Terah and Abraham? Each served a different idol. Terah, who was simpleminded, invented a clay god. Abraham invented a Creator. It is what one invents that matters. Even a lie must have some truth in it.”
    “You are merely being facetious,” Reb Abraham Moshe stammered. His palate felt dry, his throat contracted.
    “Well, stop trembling! Sit down!”
    Reb Abraham Moshe sat down. The rabbi rose from his seat, walked to the window, and stood there a long time, staring into space. Then he walked to the book cabinet. The cabinet, which smelled of wine and snuffed-out