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 child-

hood—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 excep-

tion. 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, gaz-

ing 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 syna-

gogue 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."

My father was a cultured man, rather unsentimental. He rarely

displayed his feelings, not even within his family, and was more

involved with the welfare of others than with that of his own kin.

The Jewish community of Sighet held him in highest esteem; his

advice on public and even private matters was frequently sought.

There were four of us children. Hilda, the eldest; then Bea; I was

the third and the only son; Tzipora was the youngest.

My parents ran a store. Hilda and Bea helped with the work.

As for me, my place was in the house of study, or so they said.

"There are no Kabbalists in Sighet," my father would often

tell me.

He wanted to drive the idea of studying Kabbalah from my

mind. In vain. I succeeded on my own in finding a master for my-

self in the person of Moishe the Beadle.

He had watched me one day as I prayed at dusk.

"Why do you cry when you pray?" he asked, as though he

knew me well.

"I don't know," I answered, troubled.

I had never asked myself that question. I cried because

because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all

I knew.

"Why do you pray?" he asked after a moment.

Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did

I breathe?

"I don't know," I told him, even more troubled and ill at ease.

"I don't know."

From that day on, I saw him often. He explained to me, with

great emphasis, that every question possessed a power that was

lost in the answer...

Man comes closer to God through the questions he asks Him,

he liked to say. Therein lies true dialogue. Man asks and God

replies. But we don't understand His replies. We cannot under-

stand them. Because they dwell in the depths of our souls and re-

main there until we die. The real answers, Eliezer, you will find

only within yourself.

"And why do you pray, Moishe?" I asked him.

"I pray to the God within me for the strength to ask Him the

real questions."

We spoke that way almost every evening, remaining in the

synagogue long after all the faithful had gone, sitting in the semi-

darkness where only a few half-burnt candles provided a flicker-

ing light.

One evening, I told him how unhappy I was not to be able to

find in Sighet a master to teach me the Zohar, the Kabbalistic

works, the secrets of Jewish mysticism. He smiled indulgently.

After a long silence, he said, "There are a thousand and one gates

allowing entry into the orchard of mystical truth. Every human

being has his own gate. He must not err and wish to enter the or-

chard through a gate other than his own. That would present a

danger not only for the one entering but also for those who are

already inside."

And Moishe the Beadle, the poorest of the poor of Sighet,

spoke to me for hours on end about the Kabbalah's revelations and

its mysteries. Thus began my initiation. Together we would read,

over and over again, the same page of the Zohar. Not to learn it by

heart but to discover within the very essence of divinity.

And in the course of those evenings I became convinced that

Moishe the Beadle would help me enter eternity, into that time

when question and answer would become ONE.