Читать книгу Jesus and Menachem - Siegfried E. van Praag - Страница 7

Once again Menachem set out alone. Although his parents had never lacked a circle of friends, no one had yet come close to seeking his friendship. Wealth attracted only adults, not the young, he thought. Especially here in this dump of Nazareth in the middle of Galilee where his father had moved for the sake of business. Menachem had not fared much better in Jerusalem. True, children had been welcome in his home and sometimes he went out with groups of companions. But he also felt, as it were, unaccustomed to other children and so he remained alone.

Outside the town and the dirty grey embrace of its bumpy streets, Menachem sat down on a stone, thinking that he really had no goal. The road was like a line of yellow powder that ran down to the plain which stretched out in the distance, green with crops and vegetation.

There the forests lifted their small shaggy backs. From the middle of the plain rose Mount Tabor. The mountain was full of the secret powers of the earth and more inscrutable than a human body which one can cut open. Menachem loved the spaciousness of that Galilean landscape.

At that moment a group of boys appeared from the village on the road which led northwards to godless Tiberias. Menachem was frightened and abashed. He wore a richly stitched mantle and sandals with silver thongs. His head was covered by a luxuriously embroidered red cap. His parents were rich people and he was ashamed of it. The boys remained standing before him.

“Ho, Jerusalemite,” they jeered, “did you steal those clothes again? Surely, your father is a tax collector for the stinkers.” “Hey, Judean, what are you doing here? Did you come to spy for the great Idolator, or for the old greybeards of the Sanhedrin? We smell of cow dung; tonight you will stink too. What will your mother say to that?”

“Come on, fellows, let’s chase him,” yelled another ringleader. “Ho, Jerusalemite, get up! Aren’t you going to stand up? We’ll teach that rich boy to run once. Then tonight he can say at home he had a peasant behind his ass.”

They began to look for the numerous small pebbles which lay everywhere before them on the road.

“Say, fellows, I’ve got a swell idea. Let’s stone him. Yea, let’s stone the little sissy from Jerusalem.”

The first throw hit him. Menachem felt a pain in his shinbone where the sharp edge of the stone had cut open his skin.

“Are you mad? Hands which stone will be palsied; and hands which have stoned an innocent will rot away!”

“There he goes spoiling our fun again. Go to the rabbis, woodchopper; there you can learn to split letters.”

But it was remarkable that none of the boys ventured to cast another stone at Menachem, who with large questioning eyes continued to gaze at the strange lad who had hindered the others from completing their pastime.

“We are going to look for more boys. Come along, Yeshua, we are turning down another road.”

Yeshua, as the others called him, was a thin, poorly dressed boy with a grave demeanor. His eyes were full of power. Sometimes that power appeared to pull inward, other times to flow out. His mouth was drawn with generous strokes. Nevertheless, there was something grim, almost indignant about that youthful countenance. A very docile companion he could not have been.

This Yeshua had magnificent hair, neither brown nor black, but like precious rosewood his locks flashed from brown to black and from black to brown.

This then was Yeshua, who had been unwilling to stone another lad simply because he came from somewhere else and in the course of his childhood years had become somewhat different from other boys.

“What do you see in me, Yeshua, that you have helped me?” asked Menachem, who had now gotten to his feet.

“Nothing unusual,” replied Yeshua quietly, continuing to stand before him. “One of the many who should not be hit, but who, nevertheless, are struck.”

They did not resemble each other; the boy from Nazareth looked healthier. The Jerusalemite had black hair combed backwards, which encircled the back of his head, and ears like a hood. Here and there where the light bored an opening it glittered. He had a dull sallow skin, delicate hands, withered mouth, with large questioning eyes which lay forever ready for affection. Menachem felt himself drawn to this first child of the poor who had been willing to speak to him without spitting on him.

He loved the poor people, the dust of the highways and the roughness of the ground. Once in Jerusalem when he had been younger and could not yet understand the distinction between homesickness and death, he had lain down in the filthy street with his best clothes and nestled his head against the stones plastered over with camel dung.

Thereupon, one of his father’s servants had gone outside, picked the child up roughly and carried him into the house. It was the only time his mother had allowed anyone to spank him.

“Who are you, boy?” asked Menachem.

“I am Yeshua ben Joseph the carpenter, and you?”

“I am Menachem ben Gedalia. My father is the merchant from Jerusalem, he whom they call Marcus Mercator,” answered Menachem. “Will you go home with me?”

“Why not?” said Yeshua. “Where another has set foot, I too can enter.”

“Yes, but we are rich people.”

“That is not your fault.”

The boys walked together. Menachem could not tear away his eyes from Yeshua but the latter paid no attention to his new comrade.

“Does your father love you?” Menachem asked him abruptly.

Yeshua looked at him. “I do not ask myself that question. Do you want me to put the same query to you?”

Menachem nodded. “My father does not love me. He does not think me a worthy successor. I don’t want to be a merchant. He also says I ask too many questions.”

Yeshua remained silent.

“Do you mean to say it doesn’t matter what your father thinks about you?” resumed Menachem after a pause. “Do you really think so?”

“I believe it,” said Yeshua.

Menachem shook his head.

“But it does matter, it matters very much. If you have everything, you never know what the next one needs and that’s important. It is not very pleasant at home when your father does not love you. My father thinks I can become dangerous. Are you dangerous also, Yeshua?”

“I am dangerous too. Blessed are they who expose themselves to danger, for they bring blessings.”

“You speak just like the prophets. But no one is a blessing to everyone.”

Yeshua surveyed Menachem thoughtfully.

“That is hair-splitting.”

“No, it is not, Yeshua. If I were a blessing to my mother I would be sitting with the rabbis, with Gamaliel in Jerusalem, but then I would not be a blessing to my father who wants me to be a merchant.”

Finally they reached the rich house of the merchant Gedalia ben Sirach, the Jerusalemite. It lay at the end of a path which led north from the village of Nazareth and had formerly belonged to a rich Roman who had withdrawn into beautiful Galilee. Yeshua, who had never set foot in a rich man’s house before, was not disconcerted by this at all and stepped boldly inside as though he were in his father’s shop.

“I shall bring you to my mother,” said Menachem. “If you wish to make her happy, pretend you’re my friend.”

Entering the atrium they came to a large oblong room where a broad stone table stood on curved ebony legs. On the shelves on the walls stood a row of brightly colored plates and dishes. Against the wall of the great room a seven-branched candelabrum blazed on top of an ivory table. The stone floor was richly overlaid with dark carpets. It was a room which seemed to absorb the light in waves, and to give it back only here and there on the edge of some gaudy metal leaf.

“Here we eat,” said Menachem. “Come.” He lifted a hanging carpet in the corner of the oblong room, and he and Yeshua entered a dark corridor. Only by feeling one’s way could one ascertain that this small space was sealed here by walls and there by yielding tapestries. But before they could push one of the carpets aside they heard groans, followed a moment later by a sob.

“That is my mother,” said Menachem. “She is unhappy because my father is not good to her. Now you know all about our house. If you wish to go back, I will take you out again.”

“Why should I do that?” said Yeshua. “I would rather go on.”

Menachem turned his head towards him in the darkness. There was something enigmatic in Yeshua’s voice.

“I must warn you,” he said, “it is not cheerful.” He shoved the tapestry aside and immediately the two of them stood in a luxurious woman’s apartment.

A slightly decaying and perfumed impression of flowers and tropical plants, budding and dying simultaneously, prevailed there in the room.

Menachem’s mother leaned against the pillows of the couch but her hands refused to lie still. Now they caressed her hair, now her bosom, and now they locked together spasmodically again upon her lap. Menachem ran swiftly to his mother and threw himself on his knees like a young camel.

“Is it you, Menachem? Come to me.”

His shoulders fell back, and his mother caught his head in her lap again as though it were a sacrifice.

“Menachem, my comforter,” crooned the woman.

“Is there bad news, mother? I heard you weeping.”

“Ask rather if there is good news. Does one ask the night whether the heavens are black? Nay, one asks if there are stars in the sky, Menachem. God has closed his doors to our people and myself,” the woman groaned again. “What must we do, my son? Go to Jerusalem, go to the rabbis, to Gamaliel who was my father’s friend, to Sirach the Hillelite. Perhaps they will teach you what a person must do. Your mother does not know any more. I begged heaven for a child, I, who was barren, I prayed for you but I was already afraid you would be born. I implored you for my sake and already before your birth I feared for your peace. I asked God for a child and I hoped for the child’s sake that my wish would be denied. Is there still a man in Israel then who knows which way one must go? A messenger came to tell me that a troop of Roman soldiers seized my brother Azaria near the village of Hebron. They slew him. God knows it is time for Him to fight, isn’t that so, Menachem?”

“And father?” asked the boy.

“It goes well with your father. This week he is being welcomed by Antipas in Tiberias and receives a commission” she sighed again. “I have heard it said that your father will not return home alone. He has fallen in love with a young woman. A new wife stands above a forgotten wife, Menachem. New children will come. I fear greatly that your father will forget you completely. The son of Rachel, who is nothing more to him now. It cannot be otherwise. I am growing old.”

“It could be otherwise,” interrupted Yeshua, who from a distance had taken in the conversation. He was still standing directly in front of the doorway. Behind him on the wall, blue fountains were interwoven in the tapestry.

Menachem knew that it could not be otherwise and he wanted to say so but Yeshua looked handsome in front of the wall curtains and he had spoken without hesitation.

It was only now that his mother saw there was someone else present in her room. She looked up, her eyes fascinated by the figure of the boy, for there was something very detached in Yeshua’s demeanor, and yet his body was vigorous as though rooted to the spot where he accidentally stood. The image of a young palm tree flashed instantly through her mind. His eyes wore an expression of strange certainty. The words lay ready in his mouth, his lips parted as though he wished to close them, immediately after he had uttered his words. She had no desire to look at his hair, for she had already seen it.

“Who is this boy?” she asked Menachem.

“He is my friend,” answered her son, springing up and standing beside Yeshua. Did he wish to hinder Yeshua from saying he was not Menachem’s friend? Was it because Menachem suddenly knew that he and Yeshua formed a pair?

“Come here, boy,” said the mother and she gave him a hand, which was not the custom of women in Israel. Yeshua, also against his wont, took her hand.

“I am glad Menachem has a friend,” she said. “He has so much to give and to receive! Who are you? But no matter. I’ve seen you. I know more about you than if I knew your name and origin. I thank you for wanting to be Menachem’s friend.”

Menachem thought that Yeshua would surely say now: “I am not his friend.” For although he was still a child, his sharp powers of discrimination had perceived that for Yeshua uprightness came before compassion. Yet Yeshua remained silent; perhaps he was really Menachem’s friend then.

“We are going away now, mother,” said Menachem. “We wish to play and talk together. Yeshua is a carpenter’s son. His father is Joseph ben Yaacov of Nazareth. He did not want his companions to throw stones at me just because I’m a rich man’s son.”

“No one is guilty for his birth,” remarked Yeshua.

“Nay,” said the woman, “no one is responsible for his birth but some people must throw off their birth while others adhere to it firmly. Then if they do no good their guilt begins. But what kind of talk is this for a child? I am a Jerusalemite, Yeshua. And Jerusalem has seen too many things. My father was a pupil of the great Hillel.”

“Mother also knows Greek and Latin.”

“Oh, I know many languages, too many languages. But what does it avail to know languages in order to read how people slander our folk?”

“In order to bless,” said Yeshua.

“In order to bless,” repeated the woman. “We always wanted to bless,” she continued. “The people take our blessings and give us curses in return. A friend of my father said that a long time ago.”

“Still we must bless,” insisted Yeshua.

“Yes, still we must bless,” agreed the woman, “but it is difficult to bless when they strike us on the hands. You are wise for a boy of your years, Yeshua but I am used to that. Menachem is wise also.”

Menachem laid a hand on Yeshua’s arm to pull him away from his house which was so mournful but Yeshua took a step closer to the rich woman saying: “Do not weep anymore.”

“I shall still have much to lament before I die, isn’t that so, Menachem? But when I think of you, Yeshua, I will not cry anymore and I will remember that small stars also shine at night.”

Then Yeshua quit the room before Menachem as though he knew the way better.

“The land of Galilee rises in the hills,” said a man at the city gates who acted as spokesman for the others. “But we descend the high mountains to Sheol.”1 Menachem thought of these words as he ran down the streets inside the town, seeking the blind alley where Joseph ben Yaacov the carpenter lived.

He found the dwelling of Yeshua’s father quickly. A man in grey work clothes stood in front of an open door sawing wood, which projected from a bench. That was surely Joseph.

“Peace be with you!” said Menachem.

“With you also peace!” replied Yeshua’s father.

“Where is your son Yeshua?”

Hardly had he spoken when Menachem saw Yeshua standing before him. He did not know whether Yeshua had appeared from a side passage beside the house, from the open doorway or from a street which ran into the carpenter’s alley like a small gulley.

“I came to speak to you,” said Menachem.

“You came to see our house and to compare it with your own. Afterwards you will say to yourself: “Blessed is Yeshua, for he has it better than I.”

“May I come in?” asked Menachem.

“Surely. All the boys from Nazareth are welcome here.”

Menachem stepped into a shabby room which was used for sleeping, cooking and baking.

“Good day, Menachem, peace be with you,” said a woman.

He saw a young woman of about twenty-eight, Yeshua’s mother.

Yeshua must have spoken of me then, thought the boy.

“Your son is the strongest boy in Nazareth, he saved my life,” he said, wanting to please her.

A smile appeared on Miriam’s face.

“I have much joy of Yeshua. I am glad when I hear something good of him. Three months before he was born I saw an angel at night. He predicted to me that Yeshua would become a great man in Israel, and he likened me to Sarah and Hannah. It is all very bewildering for a simple woman from Nazareth.”

Menachem looked at Yeshua’s mother. She had a friendly face.

Over her head she wore a red cloth with yellow ringlets. His eyes surveyed the room. On the east wall which faced Jerusalem somebody had scratched a candlestick in the white plaster. A crude bench stood in a corner. On the long side lay the mats where Yeshua and his parents slept. On a wooden block was a stone beaker which leaked at one end. Into this, oil was poured at night to provide illumination.

“The times are bad,” observed Menachem.

Miriam sighed. “The idolators have come again purposely. I heard a man say that with one leap, we . . .”

Menachem was about to retort that violence would only lead Galilee straight to hell but he felt that it did not become him and he did not wish to spoil the good humor of his friend’s mother.

“The Romans can do nothing to us!” rang out Yeshua’s voice.

“That cannot be said, Yeshua,” interrupted Menachem, “they have done us so much evil already. They tortured Ezekiel to death and now they seek his son Yehuda.”

“The Romans can only harm us if we permit them!”

And although Menachem was not of the same mind as Yeshua, still he remained silent for he loved the certainty with which his friend spoke.

1. Hell.