Trail of Miracles Read online

  So that’s how it is, those who are rich have money and those who are poor only get more impoverished—so how will the world be set to rights?

  One day my legs carried me out beyond the city’s eastern walls, and I saw a splendid gate with two arches blocked with stones. I recalled things I had heard and realized I was facing the locked Gate of Mercy. Mounds of garbage were piled up around it, and inside those mounds, dogs and cats burrowed—even some mangy-looking children. They scratched themselves, jostling one another, and when they spotted me, their eyes burned with fear. I lowered my gaze and I prayed for the poor boys of the world. Not only did they have nothing to eat, but they were also deprived of Torah learning. I seated myself between two large stones, not far from all the refuse, and I fixed my gaze on the Gate of Mercy. Prayer was required, and good deeds were required, and I would offer both. In my heart a tempest was raging, and that tempest would turn my poverty into riches.

  On my first Rosh Hashanah eve in Jerusalem, I sat at the table of the widow Chaya-Rivke, her daughter Sheindel, and her young sons Zechariah and Benjamin. The three oldest boys stayed in their yeshiva for the holy days. Zechariah was ten years old—a sickly youth, shortsighted, stuttering—and it was he who made the blessing over the bread. When he was about to make the blessing over the head of the fish, May it be Thy will that we be the head and not the tail, the words stuck in his throat and would not come out. He stared at the dish in front of him, aghast.

  I looked at the fat fish, adorned with slices of carrot, and felt regret that it had not been blessed. And then I had an idea. I slid the wine for the benediction over to Zechariah. It was still almost full, and I told him to drink it all. He glanced at his mother apprehensively, blinking, and then with one deep gulp, emptied the glass. All of us looked at him, for his face had become flushed and all his hair stood up in ecstasy, as if on fire. In a clear, powerful voice he recited the blessing, took a piece of the fish, and put it in his mouth.

  I have no idea what kind of soul was in the fish, but that evening, Zechariah was quite different from his usual self, and after he had sated his hunger, he opened his mouth and began speaking words of Torah. We listened to him quietly, drunk on his words. Sheindel brought him some sweets, and Zechariah ate and spoke.

  Toward midnight he said the Grace-after-the-Meal blessings, then his head slumped onto the white tablecloth and he fell asleep. The other boy, Benjamin, also fell asleep at the table. The flames of the dying oil lamps danced as they drew in the last drops of oil. The faces of my own distant little boys rose up in front of my eyes. Pain filled my chest as if a bird’s wings beat against my ribs. Chaya-Rivke smiled at me with a bashfulness that I had never seen in her before. She winked and whispered in a warm, yet stifled voice, “Who knows, Gittel, perhaps you are the gold coin that God sent me hidden inside the mouth of the fish that we serve on the High Holy Days . . .”

  But the simple Chaya-Rivke forgot that gold is too rich for a person used to eating only fish. And when Zechariah’s moment of glory passed, he walked about silent and downcast, as if he found it difficult to return to ordinary life.

  Toward the end of the Festival of Tabernacles, he complained of a headache. His mother laid him down to rest in a darkened room and placed damp cloths on his forehead, but his temperature began to rise. Thirst made his lips crack and set his face aflame. Chaya-Rivke brought a holy man to recite psalms. He sat in the doorway of the room, muttering and sighing for days on end, but Zechariah’s fever continued to soar.

  The autumnal month of Marcheshvan arrived, and with it, a heavy easterly wind. The windows were always kept shut, and the air in the house grew more stagnant than ever. Chaya-Rivke and Sheindel never moved from Zechariah’s bed. I cooked and washed and ironed. The acrid scent of camphor was everywhere. The house was sunk in silence, and when we spoke among ourselves, it was in whispers. The only sounds were the droning psalms and, when the man went home to rest, the ticking of the clock.

  I was familiar with this mumbling, ticking silence. Three times in the course of my life I had heard the footsteps of the Angel of Death, and twice he took away the soul that he had come for.

  I prayed for Zechariah as I had for those others, but this time, I did not give myself over to sorrow and dread. My soul drove me to venture beyond the city walls, and every day toward sunset, my legs would carry me down the paths to the south and east. I breathed in the scorched air that cried out for a drop of water, and—between the heaps of stones on which thistles grew, between the olive trees and the dusty carob trees—the buds of a new love stirred in my heart. I listened to the sounds around me and I heard the moans of the earth, the cries of the ever-restless wind trapped beneath the soles of my feet. I looked at the impoverished sheep in the Ishmaelite herds, at the shepherds who bend low to Allah, and felt pity for this hard, parched, impoverished land.

  Yet the thought occurred to me that surely it was on account of this punishing clime that God had placed his ladder here. I felt as if a door were opening in me and, from inside it, there issued a hidden path, as narrow as a trail for goats. I thanked the Master of the Universe for His wisdom, again and again I asked Him to purify me of the dark spirit inside me, of the memories and the nightmares that disturbed my repose.

  And when evening fell and I turned back to the city, I asked the heavenly court to take pity on Chaya-Rivke and her son Zechariah and not to separate them, unless for some higher purpose that we, in our lowliness, could not fathom.

  At the end of the month of Marcheshvan, as he was sleeping, the soul of the child slipped from his body.

  It happened at night. Chaya-Rivke was dozing on the sofa in the next room and I had taken her place next to his bed. Zechariah’s sister Sheindel sat by his head, wiping the endless beads of sweat from his forehead. The psalm-sayer was sprawled on the floor, singing in a weary voice, his eyes closed. These are the hours when the angel steals away souls, and it’s vital not to cease saying the prayers, not even for a moment.

  Suddenly, I noticed that the man had ceased his mumbling. He opened wide his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand, staring at the oil lamp. A large black moth was fluttering around the flame.

  Sheindel had dozed off, her hand resting on Zechariah’s forehead. The psalm-sayer closed his eyes and resumed singing, but both he and I knew that the youth was gone. A heavy spirit descended upon me and I slept.

  When I awoke, the moth had disappeared, and the psalm-sayer was dozing in his corner. Sheindel awoke as well, stroked Zechariah’s forehead, and took fright. She embraced her brother and propped him up. I brought the oil lamp to his nose and we saw that the flame did not move.

  Years before this, the great Maggid, Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezeritch, sat on his high-backed chaise longue overflowing with cushions, his lame left leg extended in front of him and covered with rabbit furs.

  He wore white, as always, and his face was so pale that it was like the color of his clothes. Now the spirit whispered in his ear and revealed to him that his only son, Avraham, was about to die. The Maggid squeezed shut his eyes, and remained this way for a long time. When he opened them, he knew what had to be done to save his child. In a weakened but decisive voice, he ordered his attendant, Rabbi Feilet, to bring him two of the most influential men in the region.

  When they appeared before him, he commanded them to travel to the city of Kremnitz and arrange a match between his son Avraham and the daughter of the illustrious Rabbi Meshulum Feivish Horowitz. “Bring her here with all possible haste!”

  The emissaries filled a wagon with rolls of silk fabric and tailored suits, and they set out that same day.

  When they arrived in Kremnitz, they were taken aback to discover that the holy congregation there had not even heard of the Maggid. The following morning, they loaded everything that they had brought with them onto the wagon and, with great noise, with the cracking of whips and with the chiming of bells, they traveled from the inn where they had spent the night to the home of my father, Meshulum
Feivish Horowitz. Everyone came out to gaze at the lavish wagon. My mother also went out and saw it stop at the entrance of her house. Two distinguished men climbed down and addressed my mother. They remained standing before the steps, not entering the house out of modesty and respect. They spoke of their great rabbi, of his recently widowed son, and of the Maggid’s wish to make a match between his son and her daughter.

  My mother burst out laughing and said that I was only twelve years old, and it was a little early to seek out a groom for me.

  But the emissaries continued to speak of the excellent match, and in the end, she shrugged and declared, “Well, I have a husband, thank God! Let him decide and do as he thinks best!”

  My father was sitting, as he always did, in the house of study, and when they came to tell him that his wife was looking for him, he left his book open and returned home with a heavy heart. He invited the illustrious guests to enter, listened to them with some suspicion, and questioned them about how the Maggid lived, about the hours that he spent studying Torah, about his prayers, about his clothing, until he had no more questions.

  My father hesitated, saying that his daughter was too young and completely unprepared for marriage. But the words of the emissaries spoke to his heart and, in the end, they convinced him. The two men took his hands and cried, “Mazel tov!”

  In the course of the day during which my fate was sealed, I sat at my mother’s market stall, and snatches of rumors reached my ears about the well-disposed emissaries from the north. All the market people knew that they were in our house and everyone whispered and winked at me, but I understood nothing. And when the day dipped toward evening, I skipped home between the puddles, a bag with the day’s earnings in my hand. When I came to our street, I saw my mother waiting on the steps with tears in her eyes. Frightened, I ran to her and she hugged me. She led me to the back entrance, and when we came into the kitchen, she spread out her hands and whispered that the time had come for my match, that esteemed men had come all the way from Mezeritch in the north, and now my father and the emissaries were poring over the details of the marriage contract.

  My mother opened the door a crack, and we sat at the kitchen table and listened to what was being said in the room. I heard the voice of the scribe, Chaim-Berel. He spoke my father’s name with awe, and then he coughed, whispered with someone, and said the name of Rabbi Dov Ber, the great Maggid of Mezeritch. Even though I had never heard his name before this, I was moved as I waited for the name of the groom.

  “His son, the illustrious rabbi, Rabbi Avraham, who has been widowed for a short while . . .”

  I felt a chill go through my entire body. So he was no youth, but a rabbi! And how did his wife die? I pressed myself close to my mother, my head to her bosom. I didn’t want to hear any more, but fresh voices, unfamiliar to me, rose from the room. The emissaries announced that they agreed in advance to all the conditions, and they had but one demand—that the wedding take place immediately.

  “But what’s the haste?” my father wondered. “What of the customary twelve months to give the maiden time to prepare?”

  At this, one of the emissaries replied to him in a decisive voice, “Those are the Maggid’s orders.” He would say no more.

  There was silence on the other side of the door. My heart beat wildly and I thought, So my father must call it off. And at that moment, my mother jumped up and stormed into the room. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? How are we to prepare the bride’s trousseau?”

  The emissaries remained calm. They promised that they would take care of everything and they soothed my parents with great patience. The nuptial contract was written immediately, clause after clause. I let my head drop and burst into bitter tears. When my mother returned to the kitchen to bring out more brandy, I raised my head and saw a large wet stain in the middle of the tablecloth.

  A few days later, I was sitting with my mother on a wagon that the rabbi’s men had hired. It was decked in a white fabric and adorned with green boughs. The driver gazed in wonder at the many women who came to say good-bye to me. They handed my mother cakes and pies, and with downcast eyes, they muttered blessings for fertility and placed small gifts wrapped in ribbons in my lap.

  It was early in the morning. A splendid blue headdress sparkled on my mother’s head. She was wearing a new blue dress and had a festive white pinafore fastened about her waist. I had never seen her so jubilant as on that morning. Her fingers caressed the sable fur the emissaries had given her; she chewed luxurious almonds and raisins and spoke incessantly about how I had been blessed with an excellent match.

  But I felt that, in her heart, she was not with me. For the first time in her life, she had set out on a long journey, and she was elated to be seeing the world and its wonders. Her large body took up space on the seat next to me, and a sigh of pure pleasure escaped her lips. I held my breath, held in my tears, raised my eyes to the window of the second floor of our house, and searched for my father there.

  Wasn’t he even going to wave good-bye?

  Father would not be coming to Mezeritch for my wedding so as not to waste time that should be spent studying the Torah. How much can someone love the Torah? I thought. My stomach churned with sorrow and disappointment. Even Chaike the matchmaker, who was surely angry at having lost a client, even she had come to catch a final glimpse of me with her squint eye.

  So what of my father? Was he not still my father? And had I not been, till now, his beloved daughter?

  He must simply be hesitating, I’d thought, his eyes on his sacred books, but his heart on the momentous event happening here, beneath his window.

  The rabbi’s men pulled up in a wagon decked out with bells. They touched the round brims of their black hats and smiled at us with satisfaction. Then they reached down from the wagon and shook hands with all the townsfolk.

  “And the honorable rabbi and the girl’s father, where might he be?” the emissaries wondered.

  “Studying in his room,” they were told.

  The two exchanged confused glances, but then decided that there could be no further delay. One of them called out loudly, “Well then, we must set out! May good fortune be with us!”

  Their wagon driver cracked a whip over the backs of his horses, and ours followed him. The crowd that had gathered scattered to either side and someone shouted, “Make way for the bride!”

  I turned back and finally saw my father standing at the window, pressing his white palms to the glass. His face looked blurred through my tears. And so I recall him now, pale and blurry, locked away with his sacred books as if imprisoned in a tower.

  I was lonely on that journey and even lonelier because I did not travel alone.

  It was a very clear day. A soft winter sun caressed the beech trees, streams and puddles sparkled like mirrors. From afar, the blond hair of the Ruthenian peasants looked like golden helmets. Expanses of green meadows spread out at the sides of the road, covered with grazing horses and pigs. Geese scrambled between the puddles, sending up sprays of water, and a great flock of birds drifted high above. Herons perched in the trees, their white wings spread out like wet laundry.

  Barefooted peasant children ran behind the wagon, their blue eyes wide as they stared at me like some kind of doll. I really did look like one, wearing a pink silk dress and a pink dress coat, my hair swept back in a ribbon that looked like a butterfly.

  My mother sat up straight. By turns, she would look fixedly at the book and then raise her eyes, drawn to the vistas that spread out before us, struggling to be a pious woman whose every fiber was intent upon prayer. Each time she looked around, her mouth would fall open in wonder, and when she went back to the book, her mouth would purse again and her face grew stern.

  Perhaps my father is right, perhaps I’m too young to marry. I looked sideways at my mother and couldn’t understand how she could have agreed to such a hasty wedding, and with a groom she had never seen. It made no sense, yet it was really happening. What would come from al
l this? Should I stop the wagon, run home to my father, and plead with him to consult his books, reflect more on the matter? And who was this man, the Maggid, whose wishes were carried out with alacrity by two respectable men such as these? And his son . . . I closed my eyes tight and asked God to show me the face of my future husband.

  I was a child, a frightened child.

  The children who wandered in the fields looked happy enough to me, even the horses and the pigs seemed content, as did the geese and the birds. They were living their lives as usual, the life they were used to, and it was only for me that everything had changed.

  It was in honor of this change that they had sewn me a pink dress, that a wagon had been hired for me and decked out in white. From time to time, my mother would steal glances at me from the corner of her eye, and when I looked back, she would evade my gaze.

  My fingers stroked her arm and, to my surprise, she caught hold of my hand and held it tight. She didn’t turn to face me, but her lips quivered and the prayer book fell into her lap.

  “Meine Tochter, my darling daughter,” she muttered.

  I moved close and pressed against her sturdy body. My mother embraced me and encircled my head in her arms, for a long time, I curled up in her lap like a babe in a cradle.