This story mentions Aleph, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. In Jewish mystical traditions this letter points to the beginning of creation and symbolizes the timeless truth of the universe — and the ultimate truth of oneself. Rabbi Mikhal related the following tale:
One particular night, he found himself in the woods outside of Berditchev by an old, abandoned synagogue. The walls were almost entirely collapsed and little of the building remained except for the principal structure. The iron fence which surrounded the courtyard had fallen down and rusted. Rotted beams and pieces of stone lay hidden in the grass.
The Jew made his way inside through the wreckage and came at last to what remained of the sanctuary. He found a prayer book and stood in the light of the moon and began to pray.
Whenever he came to a word with the letter Aleph, the Aleph rose from the page and hovered about his heart, emitting a droning sound and giving off a light which he had never seen before. Before too long, the Jew stood in the moonlight with a cluster of Alephs about his heart like so many shining bees. It caused him pain, an almost exquisite grief which captivated him entirely.
His meditation was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats. A horse was carrying him into battle. By the scarlet uniform he wore he understood that he was a cavalry officer, and by the ribbons on his breast he understood that he had been in battle before and that he had been brave.
The battle began at dawn, concluded at sunset, and when the moon hung full in the sky he found himself riding alone through a Jewish village. He spent the night at an inn where he was served by a young Jewess, the kind he had been taught to openly despise and secretly covet. That same night she came to his room, and they were lovers.
They stayed together for many years and he lived to be an old man. The woman died, their children died, their grandchildren died, their great-grandchildren died, their great-great-grandchildren died, and he chose to wander again, rather than endure the grief of separation.
One particular night, he found himself in the woods outside of Berditchev by an old abandoned synagogue. The walls were almost entirely collapsed and little of the building remained except for the principal structure. The iron fence which surrounded the courtyard had fallen down and rusted. Rotted beams and pieces of stone lay hidden in the grass.
The Jew made his way inside through the wreckage and came at last to what remained of the sanctuary. He saw before him an old, decrepit Jew who stood in the moonlight. About the old man’s heart he saw and heard a cluster of Alephs like so many shining bees. The sight of a man so old filled him with disgust.
He moved closer and saw that the Alephs were so arranged as to create an archway above a path which led directly into the old man’s heart. Uttering the traveler’s prayer, he set his feet upon the path.
He traveled until he came to the center of the old man’s heart and sat himself down and prepared a glass of tea. There a weariness came upon him which nothing could dispel.
He tried to think of people he had known and loved, but he could not. He tried to conjure up recollections of times and places when he had been happy, but he could not. He tried to laugh or cry, but he could not. He tried to pray, but he could not. Nothing could dispel the weariness which had settled upon him.
In a corner of the old man’s heart he discovered a tattered bag. He lifted it up and a cloud of dust and straw rose up, from which he understood that it had been lying in that particular place for many years. Inside the tattered bag he discovered a bird’s nest.
He looked inside the nest and discovered a bird. He saw that the bird had only one eye. In the center of the eye he discovered an Aleph.
As he drew the bird closer to him, it flew away suddenly, passing through the chambers of the old man’s heart, and past the Alephs, and disappeared at last into the sky. But it left two sounds behind. The first sound was like the clapping of hands. The second sound was like the stamping of feet.
He followed the sounds. The first sound, the sound like the clapping of hands, led him to his own hands, which indeed were clapping. The second sound, the sound like the stamping of feet, led him to his own feet, which indeed were stamping on the old wooden floor of the synagogue.
He understood that he was dancing and that his dance was a joyful one. At the tip of his smallest finger he saw a handkerchief extending seven feet. At the end of the handkerchief he saw the finger of the decrepit Jew who was dancing, like himself, a joyful dance.
Large tears rolled out of their eyes and splashed onto the synagogue floor — tears of the lover and the beloved.
He drew the old man close to him as they danced and he recognized at last that he was that same old man. Laughing and weeping he danced past the Alephs, clapped and stamped, and danced into the center of the old man’s heart, where he toppled over dead.
And that was how the Jew who had been wandering for hundreds of years in search of his death found his death.
— © The Sun magazine, October 2018, from The Mind of Genesis, by David Slabotsky