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PARTISAN REVIEW
of the old Rabbi. "Johan, don't be late home," my mother admon·
ished, "the wolves come as far as Marianka itself." I reassured
her, "Of course not, mutti, I shall be home for supper."
Village elder, a pious and simple man, an authority on the
Talmud, a great scholar who could interpret the meaning of the
divine texts, Master Mellakh was the religious head of the Jewish
community in Marianka, the Rabbi, the chanter, the
schokhet.
Because his judgments had a reputation for infallibility, he was
asked to settle lawsuits and other quarrels and to shed light on
obscure passages in the law. In him his fellow worshippers saw a
man of God and so they venerated him, as Jews do, through a veil
of sanctity.
A handsome man, still very erect in spite of his seventy-two
years, his oval face framed by a long white silky beard, there was
something seigneurial about Rabbi Mellakh's appearance. Mter
being twice widowed without children, he remarried late in life for
the third tinie and, at the ripe age of fifty-five, became the father
of a daughter, Myriam. To have been denied male progeny, had
been the deep sorrow of his life, for who would say the
Kaddisch
after him? However, to be granted a daughter when he had ex·
pected to die childless, had gradually transformed this sorrow into
love, into that type of fanatical love that only Jewish fathers know.
It
was about half past three when I stepped in to see the aged
Master, and darkness already had fallen over the countryside. His
home was partitioned into one large room, a smaller one where the
Rabbi's wife had her grocery shop and a kitchen. The warmth was
pleasant. The table in the centre of the main room was covered
with a white cloth neatly set for three people. Rabbi Mellakh's
wife-she was a well preserved and pretty enough woman–
brought in two heavy silver candelabras which she laid on the
table. She lit the candles, stood quietly one moment, held her
palms above the flame and then, veiling her face with her hands,
whispered some prayers.
Master Mellakh soon appeared, impressive, a kind smile in
the depth of his good-natured eyes. He was dressed
khassidim'
fashion, in a long clinging tunic of black silk, short breeches, white
socks, shiny leather shoes and, for headgear, a massive helmet
moulded in long haired skunk.
He strode towards me and patted my shoulder, affectionately:
