The Tale of a Niggun

A ghetto,
somewhere in the East,
during the reign of night,
under skies of copper
and fire.

The leaders of the community,
good people all,
courageous all,
fearing God and loving His Law,
came to see
the rabbi
who has cried and cried,
and has searched
darkness
for an answer
with such passion
that he no longer
can see.

It’s urgent,
they tell him,
it’s more than urgent;
it’s a matter
of life or death
for some Jews
and perhaps
all Jews.

Speak,
says the rabbi,
tell me all:
I wish not to be spared.

This is what the enemy demands,
says the oldest
of the old Jews
to the rabbi,
who listens
breathlessly.
The enemy demands
ten Jews,
chosen by us
and handed over to him
before tomorrow evening.
Tomorrow is Purim,
and the enemy,
planning to avenge
Haman’s ten sons,
will hang ten of our own,
says the oldest
of the old Jews.
And he asks:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

And his colleagues,
brave people
though frightened,
repeat after him:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.

We are afraid,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
afraid to make a decision—
afraid to make the wrong decision:
Help us, rabbi,
decide for us—and
in our place.

And the rabbi,
their guide,
feels his knees weakening,
the blood rushing to his face,
his chest is ready to burst,
and the room is turning,
turning,
turning around him,
and so is the earth,
and so are the skies,
and soon,
he feels,
he will fall
as falls the blind man,
a victim of night
and its prowlers.

He demands an answer,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
the enemy demands an answer;
tell us what it must be,
our duty is to guide
just as ours is to follow.

What should we do
or say?
ask the leaders
of the ghetto
somewhere in the East
under forbidden
and cursed skies;
what can we do
so as not to be doomed?