THE GREAT WORKS OF JEWISH FANTASY AND OCCULT
Compiled, translated and introduced by Joachim Neugroschel
 

AT NIGHT
DOVID BERGELSON

At night once, I awoke in the dark, crowded, loudly snoring railroad car; instantly I saw him on the seat across from me and instantly I recognized him. There he sat, the old, familiar night-Jew, who, whenever he travels on a train, can never sleep at night; and when he can't sleep at night, he bores you, and when he bores you, he looks for something in your eyes, and exacts something from your soul, exacts mutely, but naggingly, and unceasingly.
"Young man," he glanced at me with his watery, ever mournful eyes, "where are you off to, young man?"
And his voice echoed in my ears, so acrid and ancient, older than time out of mind.
And because that was all he said, it seemed as though the voice were coming not from him but from somewhere far away, calling me to account.
"Young man, just where are you off to, young man?"
And when I opened my eyes a second time in the dark, heavily snoring railroad car, the train was still rolling across black swamps and desolate watery fields, and the night was still whining and lashing raindrops against the windows, and far off in the corner of the car, the light was still flickering, it kept flickering and vanishing. Beyond the thin wall, in the second train compartment, a swaddled baby was squalling endlessly, and there, next to the waking night?
Jew, across from me on the seat, someone else was already sitting, a red-cheeked youth in a jacket and boots, and I felt as though I had known this youth, too, for a long time. Some sort of misfortune has always just come upon him and driven him from his home town, and people are always listening to his story; looking pitifully into his face and listening in silence. But, looking pitifully into his face and listening in silence, they realize that he's a decent sort, and they say:
"Young man, why don't you get up and fix us a pot of tea?"
By now, the youth had already told the waking night-Jew all about the misfortunes that had come upon him.
"To top it all off, I can't sleep," he quietly lamented, "and what can you do, what can you do, in such a long night?"
The bored night-Jew did not understand.
"What do you mean...?"
He had been looking and looking for something in the eyes of the red-cheeked youth and kept exacting something from his soul. "What should you do?" he repeated, and again his voice became low and monotonous, it sounded acrid and ancient, older than time out of mind.
"Open up a sacred book," he said, "study the holy writings."
"But I don't know how," the youth lamented.
"You don't know how?"
The Jew meditated.
"If you don't know how, then just repeat after me, word for word.
"In the beginning," the youth repeated, "the earth was waste and wild, and the chasm was darkness, and the spirit of God hovered over the waters."
All the way through, the heavily rolling, darkened car was still full of the snoring and wheezing of the passengers who, in the flickering light, were asleep in three layers, atop one another. Sweaty faces were ruddy and puffy as though swollen, cheeks bulged out, noses were whistling, and each in its own way. There was a sedate and respectable whistle that sounded like the very soul of innocence and seemed to be saying:
"Well yes, I'm sleeping.... Of course I'm sleeping."
There was also a despairing whistle of helplessness.
"I'm sleeping because the world is waste and wild, the world is waste and wild."
There was also a cantorial coloratura, spiraling up like a chant and inquiring: "So what....? If the whole world is asleep, so what?"
And a stronger whistle that didn't care about anything, and warned:
"Do not disturb, it won't help."
And amid the snoring and whistling, the red-cheeked youth repeated what the bored night-Jew said, word for word, about how God created the heavens and the earth, the sun and the stars, day and night, reptiles and beasts, birds, plants, and humans; how the serpent was cunning, and the evil that men did increased, and God regretted that he had created mankind and he spoke:
"I wish to wipe from the face of the earth everything, everything that I have created, every last reptile, every last bird that flies through the air. For I must regret that I did create them."
And suddenly, suddenly, next to the bored night-Jew, there emerged some sort of man named Noah:
"Repeat word for word," he said to the red-checked youth, "repeat . . . : 'And Noah found grace in the eyes of God."'
"And Noah," the youth repeated, "found grace in the eyes of God."
All around, there was still the hearty and heavy snoring. The train was still running across black swamps and desolate watery fields, and the night was still whining and lashing raindrops against the window. The only passengers not asleep were myself, the bored night-Jew, and the red-cheeked youth in the jacket and boots. The old Jew and the youth were sitting petrified, looking at one another, and I was lying and thinking:
"A good word: 'And Noah found grace.' It saved the world."
 

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