Night: Compare Translations

They called him Moché the Beadle, as though he had never had a surname in his life. He was a man of all work at a Hasidic synagogue. The Jews of Sighet— that little town in Transylvania where I spent my childhood — were very fond of him. He was very poor and lived humbly. Generally my fellow townspeople, though they would help the poor, were not particularly fond of them. Moché the Beadle was the exception. Nobody ever felt embarrassed by him. Nobody ever felt encumbered by his presence. He was a past master in the art of making himself insignificant, of seeming invisible.

Physically he was as awkward as a clown. He made people smile, with his waiflike timidity. I loved his great, dreaming eyes, their gaze lost in the distance. He spoke little. He used to sing, or, rather, to chant. Such snatches as you could hear told of the suffering of the divinity, of the Exile of Providence, who, according to the cabbala, awaits his deliverance in that of man.

I got to know him toward the end of 1941. I was twelve. I believed profoundly. During the day I studied the Talmud, and at night I ran to the synagogue to weep over the destruction of the Temple.

One day I asked my father to find me a master to guide me in my studies of the cabbala.

“You’re too young for that. Maimonides said it was only at thirty that one had the right to venture into the perilous world of mysticism. You must first study the basic subjects within your own understanding.”

They called him Moishe the Beadle, as if his entire life he had never had a surname. He was the jack-of-all- trades in a Hasidic house of prayer, a shtibl. The Jews of Sighet—the little town in Transylvania where I spent my childhood—were fond of him. He was poor and lived in utter penury. As a rule, our townspeople, while they did help the needy, did not particularly like them. Moishe the Beadle was the exception. He stayed out of people’s way. His presence bothered no one. He had mastered the art of rendering himself insignificant, invisible.

Physically, he was as awkward as a clown. His waiflike shyness made people smile. As for me, I liked his wide, dreamy eyes, gazing off into the distance. He spoke little. He sang, or rather he chanted, and the few snatches I caught here and there spoke of divine suffering, of the Shekhinah in Exile, where, according to Kabbalah, it awaits its redemption linked to that of man.

I met him in 1941. I was almost thirteen and deeply observant. By day I studied Talmud and by night I would run to the synagogue to weep over the destruction of the Temple.

One day I asked my father to find me a master who could guide me in my studies of Kabbalah. “You are too young for that. Maimonides tells us that one must be thirty before venturing into the world of mysticism, a world fraught with peril. First you must study the basic subjects, those you are able to comprehend.”

On l’appelait Moché-le-Bedeau, comme si de sa vie il n’avait eu un nom de famille. Il était le «bon-à-tout-faire » d’une synagogue hassidique. Les Juifs de Sighet — cette petite ville de Transylvanie où j’ai passé mon enfance l’aimaient bien. Il était très pauvre et vivait misé- rablement. En général les habitants de ma ville, s’ils aidaient les pauvres, ils ne les aimaient guère. Moché-le-Bedeau faisait exception. Il ne gênait personne. Sa présence n’encombrait personne. Il était passé maître dans l’art de se faire insignifiant, de se rendre invisible.

Physiquement, il avait la gaucherie du clown. Il éveillait le sourire, avec sa timidité d’orphelin. J’aimais ses grands yeux rêveurs, perdus dans le lointain. Il parlait peu. Il chantait ; chantonnait plutôt. Les bribes qu’on pouvait saisir parlaient de la souffrance de la divinité, de l’Exil de la Providence qui, selon la Kabbale, attendrait sa délivrance dans celle de l’homme.

Je fis sa connaissance vers la fin de 1941. J’avais douze ans. J’étais profondément croyant. Le jour, j’étudiais le Talmud, et, la nuit, je courais à la synagogue pour pleurer sur la destruction du Temple. Je demandai un jour à mon père de me trouver un maître qui pût me guider dans l’étude de la Kabbale.

— Tu es trop jeune pour cela. C’est seulement à trente ans, a dit Maïmonide, qu’on a le droit de s’aventurer dans le monde plein de périls du mysticisme. Tu dois d’abord étudier les matières de base que tu es à même de comprendre.