The Collected Stories

though it had been hollowed. Hunger still gnawed somewhere in his stomach, but it was a hunger unrelated to him. What had he, Bainish of Komarov, to do with food? Must one yield to the body’s lusts? If one resists, what does it do—die? “Let it die, if that’s what it wants. I am satisfied.” A golden-green fly flew in through the open window from the other side of the curtain, and settled on the glazed eye of the carp. The rabbi murmured, “Well, what are you waiting for? Eat …”
    As the rabbi sat half-awake, half-slumbering in his old chair, his arms on the arm rests, engrossed in thoughts he did not know he was thinking, divested of all external things, he suddenly caught sight of his youngest daughter, Rebecca. Through the closed door she had entered and stood there, erect, pale, her hair plaited in two tresses, wearing her best gold-embroidered dress, a prayer book in one hand, a handkerchief in the other. Forgetting that she had died, the rabbi looked at her, half-surprised. “See, she’s a grown girl, how come she’s not a bride?” An extraordinary nobility spread over her features; she looked as though she had just recovered from an illness; the pearls of her necklace shone with an unearthly light, with the aura of the Days of Awe. With an expression of modesty and love she gazed at the rabbi.
    “Happy holiday, Father.”
    “Happy holiday, happy new year,” the rabbi said.
    “Father, say grace.”
    “What? Of course, of course.”
    “Father, join the guests at table,” she said, half-commanding, half-imploring.
    An icy shudder ran through the rabbi’s spine. “But she’s dead!” At once his eyes were drenched with tears, and he jumped to his feet as though to rush toward her. Through the mist of tears Rebecca’s form became distorted, grew longer and partly blurred, but she still loomed before him. The rabbi noticed the silver clasp of her prayer book and the lace of her handkerchief. Her left pigtail was tied with a white ribbon. But her face, as though veiled, dissolved into a blotch. The rabbi’s voice broke.
    “My daughter, are you here?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “Why have you come?”
    “For you.”
    “When?”
    “After the holidays.”
    She seemed to withdraw. In the whirling mist her form lost its substance, but her dress continued to drag on the floor in folds and waves like a golden train, and a glow arose from it. Soon this too dissolved, and nothing remained but a sense of wonder, a supernatural tang, a touch of heavenly joy. The rabbi did not weep, but luminous drops fell on his white silken robe embroidered with flowers and leaves. There was a fragrance of myrtle, cloves and saffron. He had a cloying sensation in his mouth, as if he had eaten marzipan.
    The rabbi remembered what Rebecca had told him. He put on his fur hat, stood up, and opened the door leading to the house of study. It was time for the evening prayer, but the old men had not yet left the table.
    “Happy holiday, my friends,” the rabbi said in a cheerful voice.
    “Happy holiday, Rabbi.”
    “Avigdor, I want to say grace.”
    “I’m ready, Rabbi.”
    Avigdor brought the wine, and the rabbi, chanting a holiday tune, recited the prayer. He washed his hands with the appropriate blessing and said the prayer for bread. After taking some broth, the rabbi commented on the Torah, a thing he had not done in years. His voice was low, though audible. The rabbi took up the question of why the moon is obscured on Rosh Hashanah. The answer is that on Rosh Hashanah one prays for life, and life means free choice, and freedom is Mystery. If one knew the truth how could there be freedom? If hell and paradise were in the middle of the marketplace, everyone would be a saint. Of all the blessings bestowed on man, the greatest lies in the fact that God’s face is forever hidden from him. Men are the children of the Highest, and the Almighty plays hide and seek with them. He hides His face, and the children seek Him while they have faith that He exists. But what if, God forbid, one loses faith? The wicked live on denials; denials in themselves are also a faith, faith in evildoing, and from it one can draw strength for the body. But if the pious man loses his faith, the truth is shown to him, and he is recalled. This is the symbolic meaning of the words, “When a man dies in a tent”: when the pious man falls from his rank, and becomes, like the wicked, without permanent shelter, then a light shines from above,