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By Root 2185 0

atmosphere of tension on the “set,” namely the community “offices.” Martin gave his instructions, setting camera angles and positioning the lights and adjusting the sound. Then came the final commands: Quiet on the set, lights, camera, action! Moshe turned out to be a natural, as if he had studied dramatic arts somewhere. We talked about the Rebbe of Wizhnitz, who used to be our rebbe. I asked him about his childhood in the mountains, and his religious studies. Then about the war years, the deportation, the camps; the return to an empty town, and, despite it all, his faith. How had he managed it? Moshe smiled. There was no point in asking him that, he said, the question should be addressed to the Holy One, blessed be His name. He quoted a Talmudic saying that love of God comes from God, but fear of God is the domain of man. He, Moshe, loved God and feared Him too. What was so hard to understand about that? Though they grasped not a word of our Yiddish, the entire crew had tears in their eyes. There was something surrealistic in our exchange. Fully at ease in his role, Moshe went on speaking, and I let him. Finally, after a silence heavy with meaning, I asked the question: “Do you have a special wish?” He waited a long time before replying softly, “Yes, I do.” Then he fell silent. I wanted to remind him of our plan for the new roof, but he seemed lost in thought. The silence dragged on, gathering weight. I pointed discreetly—I hoped—at the ceiling. Moshe didn’t react. Poor Martin, also at a loss, seemed frozen. Suddenly Moshe stared straight at me and sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I have a wish.” He paused. “I would like the Messiah to come. But please let Him hurry, for we can’t take it anymore. That is my deepest wish.” I was stunned. Had he forgotten our plan? Or was he the reincarnation of the other Moshe, my Moshe? I collected my thoughts. “Moshe,” I said, “dear Moshe. Might you perhaps be content with a little less?” No, he replied, he would accept no less. It was the Messiah or nothing.

I later learned that our first conversation had been bugged. A Jewish official who understood Yiddish had awakened Moshe and threatened him: Didn’t he know that it was forbidden to complain? Didn’t he know that complaints were tantamount to defamation of the socialist state? To say that the Communist roof of the only Communist synagogue in Sighet was in disrepair constituted anti-Communist agitation and therefore treason. Moshe had been unable to warn me before the filming.

Thereafter I found it hard to continue our dialogue. “You’re waiting for the Messiah, and so am I. You await Him here, I await Him in New York. We can wait for Him anywhere. What matters is to wait. But you are old and alone. Why not leave and await the Messiah in Israel?” His reply was poignantly pragmatic: “Israel needs young soldiers. I sent my three sons there. They need a mother, so I sent my wife. But me? They don’t need an old man like me. Here at least I can be of use to some Jews.…”

The interview lasted an hour. When it was over, I said: “Reb Moshe, don’t be angry, but I still don’t understand why you never went to Israel, if only as a tourist. You could have gone and come back. Aren’t you curious to see Jerusalem, to wander through the Old City, to pray at the Wall?” Suddenly his smile was gone. “Curious?” he said faintly. “You ask if I’m curious? The word isn’t strong enough. I dream of going, ache to be there even for an instant, just long enough to utter a single ‘Amen.’…” Perhaps it was wrong of me to press on, but I did: “In that case, Reb Moshe, what stops you? Tell me.” He seemed to be gasping for breath as he searched for an answer, perhaps a justification. “It’s a question that troubles me,” he murmured. “I think about it all the time. I don’t understand it myself. Perhaps I’m unworthy of going.…” He tried to go on but could not. It was then that all of us—the crew, Marion, and I—broke down. This tzaddik of the Carpathians, as I call him in my journal, doubted that he was “worthy” of treading on Jerusalem’s soil. Once again I found myself thinking