And the Sea Is Never Full Read Free Page B

to her that I am not angry. In return, I’d like to speak to her alone; I’d like her to give me fifteen minutes. Thereafter, she’ll be free to return to her parents.”
    In those days such a request seemed preposterous. What? Two young people alone before the wedding? Still, the rabbis agreed. A quarter of an hour, no more. Mendelssohn welcomed the young girl, smiling. He invited her to sit down and to listen to him. “I shall tell you a talmudic legend,” he said.
    Before coming down to Earth to be born, every soul is escorted by an angel. Together they leave the heavens, while a divine voice announces: The son of so-and-so will be the husband of so-and-so’s daughter…. Well, when I heard this voice, I turned to the angel and told him that I would like to meet my future wife. “Impossible,” answered the angel, “that is strictly forbidden.” Since I was born a philosopher, I knew how to defend my cause. “Listen,” I said, “if you don’t show her to me, I shall simply refuse to go down to Earth.” That’s when the angel panicked: “You cannot disobey. This command comes directly from God. Don’t you know that it is He Who keeps souls in a coffer that none other can open?” “No matter,” I said. “Either you show her to me, or I stay here.” Eventually this angel gave in, making me swear that I would never betray him. Then he showed me the woman God had, perhaps inadvertently, chosen for me. And when I saw her, I fainted. To say that she lacked beauty and grace would be charitable…. She had a hump, her nose was crooked, better not dwell onit…. In a rage I began to shout, “I don’t want her, do you hear me, I don’t want her; I’d rather die than live one day at her side!” “It’s my fault,” sobbed the angel, “I shouldn’t have given in. I shall be punished, and the punishment inflicted on angels is the worst of all….” I felt sorry for him and offered him a deal: I would consent to go down and marry the young girl, but on one condition: that I could take her ugliness upon myself.
    And the beautiful girl believed him. And her wedding to the philosopher was celebrated with great joy.
    Bit by bit I move away from professional journalism, which no longer satisfies me. I feel like changing—if not my profession, then my workplace and my schedule. I still visit the U.N. on a regular basis. In the absence of great speakers, its discourses and goals lack vision. I have to force myself to “cover” its political and diplomatic events. Its cast of characters is usually uninteresting. In truth, my heart is no longer in it. Even scoops no longer excite me. I propose to Gershon Jacobson, my colleague with ties to the Lubavitcher movement, that he take over. Dov Judkowski, my boss in Tel Aviv, agrees. But how will I manage financially? I still send weekly columns to
Yedioth
and occasional special features to the
Forverts
, for whose news desk I stopped working some time ago. I am tired of repeating the same formulas, just changing the names. “Mr. X met last night with ambassador Y….” “It appears that … Z formally denies that …” I feel my vocabulary getting poorer and poorer by the day. Fortunately, there are my studies with Lieberman, my walks with Heschel.
    And yet there would be plenty of topics for a journalist with a passion for his profession. While years ago space was allotted to me parsimoniously at
Yedioth
, today I could command as much as I’d like. Noah Mozes is happy: The daily has increased in size, circulation, and influence. But Dov advises me to give up my column; he thinks I should be writing more “serious” material. At the
Forverts
, my editors are more indulgent; they would publish my thoughts on the theological dimensions of Chinese gastronomy if I so chose.
    The times are dramatic—intervals of freedom punctuated by brutal interventions. The sadness of the 1968 Prague Spring: “Wake up, Lenin! Your children have gone mad!” A demented