The Oath Read Free Page A

suffering—and what is death if not the paroxysm of suffering—that one can disarm it. The mystery of the universe resides not in the universe but in man; perfection can be attained only by the individual.
    So you hope to defeat evil? Fine. Begin by helping your fellow-man. Triumph over death? Excellent. Begin by saving your brother. Make him understand that escape into death is more senseless than escape into life. A man who does not fear death is a fool who wants to die. Fear is a healthy thing, itimplies a rejection of death. Proof: Kolvillàg was crumbling under fear. No connection? Wrong. If you are tired of living, young man, it is because in Kolvillàg death was victorious. The abyss inside you was opened there. In your own way, you are a ghost. A survivor. Except that you have no story to relate. You wish to take your life in order to give yourself a story. You’d like that of Kolvillàg, eh? And then you’ll live, eh? No blackmail, please.
    I cannot give you that which is not mine. I don’t have the right. Don’t push me, I won’t relent. Others have tried with no success. A word of advice: chain your gaze, rein in your thoughts; they must not venture too far, beyond the accepted bounds. You risk stumbling over a people engulfed in silence and protected by it, and you would lose your mind.
     
    There followed feverish days, filled with excitement. My involvement with Kolvillàg became deeper, more intense, turned into obsession. I ate little, slept poorly. How can I explain its hold on me? I couldn’t explain it to myself. Could I have seen in Azriel a personification of the prophet Elijah, the one the disinherited, the downtrodden dream about? Or of my grandfather, who died
over there
in the tempest? I couldn’t say. Did he help me to escape? Accept myself? Fulfill myself? Possibly. It hardly matters. Psychoanalysis is not my strong point. Azriel knocked down the walls I had erected around myself. Something important and genuine happened to me while I discovered the city that lived inside him. By allowing me to enter his life, he gave meaning to mine. I lived on two levels, dwelt in two places, claimed more than one role as my own
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    In one night he had me adopted by his entire community. So much so that I could find my way in his town. The streets, the gardens, the public buildings. Every chimney, every lamppost. The asylum with its dried-out wooden roof, where wanderers found shelter and food. Across the street, the big general store. The police station, the church. The House of Study with its crumbling walls, the old synagogue with its impressive entrance. The Jewish school where on Saturday afternoons Shaike and his exalted friends prepared the revolution, the victory of the oppressed in a world where poverty would be a virtue envied and bought by the rich. The rabbi who, it was said, slapped impertinent merchants but later had himself secretly whipped by an anonymous servant. The priest with his sanctimonious airs of pious martyrdom. The notables, the president. Moshe the Madman and his overly ambitious plans.Kaizer the Mute, who cried himself into drunkenness. The beggars, amateur actors all, who on Purim eve succeeded in eliciting applause; as long as the festivities lasted, they were the unchallenged masters of the town. Leizer the Fat, Yiddel the Cripple, One-Eyed Simha, Avrom the Wise, Adam the Gravedigger; I watched them live, I was present at their discussions. I laughed at their intrigues, shared in their sorrows. The alliances, jealousies, complicities, daily adventures and secular traditions which together create the climate and the pulse of a town, well, Azriel had communicated them to me as a gift
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    As for the storyteller, he intrigued and fascinated me. Who was he? A saint? A madman? A Just Man disguised as vagabond? He lived alone in a wretched little garret. His neighbors avoided him, the janitor trembled as he spoke of him. After he disappeared, none of his personal belongings could be