The Collected Stories

valedictory candles, contained a spice box, and citron box, and a Hanukkah candelabra. The rabbi, taking out a Zohar, opened it at random, stared at the page, nodded, and then, smacking his lips, exclaimed, “A nice invention, very nice!”
    II

    More and more Hasidim departed. In the house of study, on Saturdays, scarcely a quorum remained. The sextons, all but Avigdor, had left. Finding her solitude unbearable, the rabbi’s wife went for a long visit to her brother, the rabbi of Biala. Reb Abraham Moshe stayed at Komarov. He spent one Sabbath each month with his family in his native town. If a man were not to be deserted when his body was sick, he reasoned, then he certainly should not be left alone during the sickness of his soul. If their rabbi were committing sins, God forbid, then one would be interdicted from associating with him, but actually, his piety was now greater than before. He prayed, studied, visited the ritual bathhouse. And he was so ardent in his charity, that he sold his dearest possessions—the silver candlesticks, the large Hanukkah candelabra, his gold watch, and Passover tray—and gave the proceeds to the poor. Reb Abraham Moshe told him reproachfully he was squandering his inheritance, but the rabbi replied, “Poor men
do
exist. That’s one thing of which we can be certain.”
    The summer went by and the month of Elul came. On week days, Avigdor, the sexton, blew the ram’s horn at the house of study. Komarov used to be crowded to capacity during the month of Elul; there were not enough beds at the inns, and young people would sleep in storerooms, barns, attics. But this year, it was quiet at Komarov. The shutters remained closed at the inns. Grass grew wild in the rabbi’s courtyard; there was no one to trample it. Gossamer threads floated through the air. The apples, pears, and plums ripened on the trees in the orchard, because the boys who used to pick them were gone. The chirping of birds sounded louder than ever. Moles dug up numerous mounds of earth. Certain bushes sprouted berries of a poisonous sort. One day, the rabbi, on his way to the bathhouse, plucked one such berry. “If a thing like this can turn one into a corpse,” he thought, “what is a corpse?” He sniffed it and threw it away. “If everything hinges on a berry, then all our affairs are berries.” The rabbi entered the bathhouse. “Well, demons, where are you?” he said aloud, and his words were thrown back at him by the echo, “At least let there be devils.” He sat on the bench, undressed, removed his fringed garment, and examined it. “Threads and knots and nothing else …”
    The water was cold, but it made no difference to him. “Who is cold? And if one is cold, what of it?” The coldness cut his breath, and he clung to the railing. Then he plunged and stayed for a long while under the water. Something within him was laughing. “As long as you breathe, you must breathe.” The rabbi dried himself and dressed. Returning to his study, he opened a Cabala book, The Two Tablets of the Covenant. Here it was written that “the rigor of the law should be sweetened to deprive Satan of his nourishment.” “Well, and what if it’s a fairy tale?” The rabbi squinted one eye while the other kept staring. “The sun? Close your eyes and there is no sun. The birds? Stuff your ears and there are no birds. Pain? Swallow a wild berry, and the pain is gone. What is left, then? Nothing at all. The past no longer exists and the future has yet to come. The conclusion is that nothing exists beyond the moment. Well, if so, we really have nothing to worry about.”
    No more than thirty Hasidim gathered at Komarov for Rosh Hashanah. Although the rabbi appeared at the service in his cloak and shawl, one could not tell if he prayed, for he was silent. After the service the Hasidim sat at the table, but their rabbi’s seat was vacant. An old man chanted a little song and the others gave him a rattling accompaniment. Reb Abraham Moshe repeated a comment the rabbi had made on the Torah twenty years ago. Thank God, the rabbi was alive, though for all practical purposes, he was dead.
    Avigdor brought to the rabbi’s room a decanter of wine, apples with honey, the head of a carp, two hallahs, a quarter of a chicken with stewed carrots, and a slice of pineapple for the blessing of the first fruit. But although it was already evening, the rabbi had touched nothing.
    During the month of Elul he had fasted. His body felt as