Legends of Our Time Read Online Free PDF

front would shift and once again the God of Abraham would save his people, as always, at the last moment, when all seems lost.
    The
Haggadah
, with its story of the Exodus, confirmedour hope. Is it not written that each Jew must regard himself, everywhere and at all times, as having himself come out of Egypt? And that, for each generation, the miracle will be renewed?
    But our guest did not see things that way. Disturbed, his forehead wrinkled, he troubled us. Moody and irritated, he seemed intent upon irritating us as well.
    “Close your books!” he shouted. “All that is ancient history. Listen to me instead.”
    We politely concealed our impatience. In a trembling voice, he began to describe the sufferings of Israel in the hour of punishment: the massacre of the Jewish community of Kolomai, then that of Kamenetz-Podolsk. Father let him speak, then resumed the ancient tale as though nothing had happened. My little sister asked the traditional four questions which would allow my father, in his answers, to explain the meaning and import of the holiday. “Why and in what way is this night different from all other nights?” “Because we were slaves under Pharaoh, but on this night God made us free men.” Discontent with both the question and the answer, our guest repeated them in his own way: “Why is this night not different from other nights? Why this continuity of suffering? And why us, always us? And God, why doesn’t he intervene? Where is the miracle? What is he waiting for? When is he going to put himself between us and the executioners?”
    His unexpected interruptions created a feeling of uneasiness around the table. As soon as one of us opened his mouth, our guest would cut us short:
    “You concern yourselves with a past that’s three thousand years old and you turn away from the present: Pharaoh is not dead, open your eyes and see, he is destroying our people. Moses is dead, yes, Moses is dead, but not Pharaoh: he is alive, he’s on his way, soon he’ll be at the gates of this city, at the doors of this house: are you sure you’ll be spared?”
    Then, shrugging his shoulders, he read a few passagesfrom the
Haggadah:
in his mouth, the words of praise became blasphemies.
    Father tried to quiet him, to reassure him: “You’re downhearted, my friend, but you must not be. Tonight we begin our holiday with rejoicing and gratitude.”
    The guest shot him a burning glance and said: “Gratitude, did you say? For what? Have you seen children butchered before their mother’s eyes? I have, I’ve seen them.”
    “Later,” said my father. “You’ll tell us all about that later.”
    I listened to the guest and kept wondering: who is he? what does he want? I thought him sick and unhappy, perhaps mad. It was not until later that I understood: he was the prophet Elijah. And if he bore little resemblance to the Elijah of the Bible or to the prophet of my dreams, it is because each generation begets a prophet in its own image. In days of old, at the time of the kings, he revealed himself as a wrathful preacher setting mountains and hearts on fire. Then, repentant, he took to begging in the narrow streets of besieged Jerusalem, to emerge, later as student in Babylonia, messenger in Rome, beadle in Mayence, Toledo, or Kiev. Today, he had the appearance and fate of a poor Jewish refugee from Poland who had seen, too close and too many times, the triumph of death over man and his prayer.
    I am still convinced that it was he who was our visitor. Quite often, of course, I find it hard to believe. Few and far between are those who have succeeded in seeing him. The road that leads to him is dark and dangerous, and the slightest misstep might bring about the loss of one’s soul. My Rebbe would cheerfully have given his life to catch one glimpse of him, if only for the span of a lightning flash, a single heartbeat. How then had I deserved what is refused so many others? I do not know. But I maintain that the guest was