Elie Wiesel - Souls on Fire

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My father, an enlightened spirit, believed in man.

My grandfather, a fervent Hasid, believed in God.

The one taught me to speak, the other to sing.

Both loved stories.

And when I tell mine, I hear their voices.

Whispering from beyond the silenced storm, they are what links the survivor to their memory.

A ND IT CAME TO PASS that the great Rebbe Israel Baal Shem Tov, Master of the Good Name, known for his powers in heaven as well as on earth, decided to try once more to force his Creators hand.

He had tried many times beforeand failed. Burning with impatience, he wanted to end the ordeals of exile forcibly; and this time he was but one step away from success. The gates were ajar; the Messiah was about to appear and console the children and old men awaiting him, awaiting no one else but him. The Diaspora had lasted long enough; now men everywhere would gather and rejoice.

The heavens were in an uproar. The angels were dancing. Red with anger, outraged, Satan demanded an audience with God. Brought before Him, he protested, invoking laws and precedents, history and reason. Look at mans impudence, he said, how dare he take things in his own hands? Does the world deserve redemption? And the conditions to warrant the Messiahs coming, have they been met?

God listened. And had to recognize the validity of Satans arguments: Lo ikhshar dara , the Rebbes gesture was judged premature; his generation was not yet ready for a miracle of such magnitude. Moreover, since the order of creation may not be disturbed with impunity, he and his faithful scribe Reb Tzvi-Hersh Soifer were deported to a distant uncharted island. Where they were promptly taken prisoners by a band of pirates.

Never had the Master been so submissive, so resigned.

Master, the scribe pleaded, do something, say something!

I cant, said the Baal Shem Tov, my powers are gone.

What about your secret knowledge, your divine gifts: your yikhudim? What happened to them?

Forgotten, said the Master. Disappeared, vanished. All my knowledge has been taken away; I remember nothing.

But when he saw Hersh Soifers despair, he was moved to pity. Dont give up, he said, we still have one chance. You are here, and that is good. For you can save us. There must be one thing I taught you that you remember. Anythinga parable, a prayer. Anything will do.

Unfortunately, the scribe too had forgotten everything. Like his Master, he was a man without memory.

You really remember nothing, the Master asked again, nothing at all?

Nothing, Master. Except...

... except what?

... the aleph, beith.

Then what are you waiting for? shouted the Master, suddenly excited. Start reciting! Right now!

Obedient as always, the scribe proceeded to recite slowly, painfully, the first of the sacred letters which together contain all the mysteries of the entire universe: Aleph, beith, gimmel, daleth...

And the Master, impatiently, repeated after him: Aleph, beith, gimmel, daleth...

Then they started all over again, from the beginning. And their voices became stronger and clearer: aleph, beith, gimmel, daleth ... until the Baal Shem became so entranced that he forgot who and where he was. When the Baal Shem was in such ecstasy, nothing could resist him, that is well known. Oblivious to the world, he transcended the laws of time and geography. He broke the chains and revoked the curse: Master and scribe found themselves back home, unharmed, richer, wiser and more nostalgic than ever before.

The Messiah had not come.

This tale is characteristic because it contains most of the basic elements of Hasidism. The fervent waiting, the longing for redemption; the erratic wanderings over untraveled roads; the link between man and his Creator, between the individual act and its repercussions in the celestial spheres; the importance of ordinary words; the accent on fervor and on friendship too; the concept of miracles performed by man for man. It is also characteristic because it may well... not be true.

Like most of the stories about the Baal Shemor the Besht, as he is called in Hasidic traditionit describes events that may or may not have happened, and if they did, may or may not have happened in quite the way they are told. Viewed from the outside, all of these tales are incomprehensible; one must enter them, for their truth may be measured only from the inside. Whether accurately retold or invented outright by his admiring contemporaries, they must be passed on exactly as the narrator received them in his childhood. Clearly, it is to relive that childhood that he is telling them in his turn.

I would listen to them as night fellbetween the prayers of Minha and Maariv in the House of Study filled with the flickering shadows of yellow candles. The Elders spoke of the great Masters as though they had known them personally. Each had his favorite Rebbe and a legend he liked above all others. I came to feel that I was forever listening to the same story about the same Rebbe. Only the names of people and places changed. Motives, deeds, responses and outcomes hardly varied; just as there was always a person in need, there was always someone to lend him a hand. This apparent repetition troubled me, and so one day I discussed this with my grandfather: I dont understand. Is it possible there really was only one Rebbe?Yes, said my grandfather, it is possible, and even probable. Every Rebbe has but one Hasid and every Hasid has but one Rebbe. One could not exist without the other.Isnt this a sign of weakness? I asked.No, replied my grandfather, it is their very strength.

In fact, he was that Hasid. Every Shabbat and every Holy Day, he would leave his village to come and celebrate with us. I would remain with him until he went back home. I accompanied him to the mikvah, the ritual bath; to services; to the Rebbe. He would sing and I sang with him; he would speak and I thrilled to every one of his words. He would say: A Hasid must know how to listen. To listen is to receive. The Jew who does not know how or does not wish to receive is not Jewish. Our people is what it is because it knew how to listen and receive the Law, right? Yet, though the Torah was given only once, each one of us must receive it every day.

In his presence, the others in the House of Study kept respectfully silent. A fabulous storyteller, he knew how to captivate an audience. He would say: Listen attentively, and above all, remember that true tales are meant to be transmittedto keep them to oneself is to betray them. He knew how intently I listened; he must have known that I would remember, but he had no way of knowing how closely I would follow his advice. My very first Hasidic tales I heard from him. He made me enter the universe of the Baal Shem and his disciples, where facts became subservient to imagination and beauty. What difference did it make that events and chronological dates no longer matched? I surely didnt care. What mattered to me was not that two and two are four, but that God is one. Better still: that man and God are one.