Shemariah’s Last Word

Long before anyone can remember, a small plot of land was enclosed by a fence. Along the length of this fence, which has long been rusted, sour plum trees were planted here and there. At some point, a wag from the upper class mockingly named the place the Boulevard, and the moniker stuck. Two telegraph poles connected by a jumble of wires stood as sentinels at both ends of the Boulevard, marking its boundaries.

Lining the Boulevard were people of various “professions,” whose shouts were heard even before dawn:

“Shoeshine! Get your shoes shined!” 

“Churchkhela! Churchkhela!” *

“Ice cold, straight from the mountains!”

“Mineral water, right here!”

“Shoelaces! Strong shoelaces!”

“Chestnuts, hot roasted chestnuts!”

“Plums, damsons, wild plums, fruit candies!”

And so on, endlessly. Their voices blended into one another, often making it difficult to distinguish any meaning. Yet the shouting continued. The small town had few customers, making their cries even more desperate and frenzied.

Two people were particularly interested in the fate of these voices: Sergo Iashvili and Shemariah Shaptoshvili. These two men had nothing in common. At the beginning of the story, they did not even know of each other. Sergo Iashvili had recently been sent from the center as the chairman of the Raikom, the local administrative body of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, while Shemariah Shaptoshvili was a well-known, longtime resident and a very wealthy man.

Shemariah was still tossing in his bed and imagined that the shouting outside was weaker than usual. Sergo, on his way to work, could not help but stop. The shouts struck his heart like a sharp dagger. “Wretched creatures,”Sergo thought, observing the impoverished figures who wove all their pain, misfortune, and deep sorrow into their cries. Was this merely shouting? No—it was the fear of starvation, the wild and desperate cry of those unable to adapt to a new world order, the last convulsions of the dying. 

With an aching heart, Sergo saw that all three generations were present: children, young people, and the elderly. They were all shouting, pleading: “Buy from me!”

Sergo noticed that one young man among them was silent. He had blue eyes and wore a black cap. Holding a small bundle of churchkhelas in his hands, he did not utter a word. He stood motionless in one spot, lost in thought.

Shemariah, too, knew what was happening outside. Lying in his soft bed, he could make out the familiar voices. But one voice was missing, and this displeased him.

Oh, just you wait, Mishael Tetruashvili. I’ll make you pay, he thought.

Mishael did not move; he just stared blankly at his churchkhelas. The young man’s blue eyes left an impression on Sergo and he decided to have a conversation with him when the time was right.

*

What was this new force that made the silent and contemplative Mishael speak? Even Mishael himself had yet to understand it. He was not even twenty years old, yet he carried on his back the burden of forty years’ worth of sorrow and misfortune.

It was not difficult for Sergo to see this. That very evening, they sat together by the river. Mishael found the whole thing strange. What did this city man want from him? But he was also moved—no one in his life had ever spoken to him so warmly and sincerely.

Mishael did not want Sergo to notice his toes peeking through his torn slippers. He hurriedly took off his socks and dipped his feet into the river. Sergo sat beside him, observing with deep curiosity. Mishael’s black cap and slightly unkempt dark curls created a certain dissonance in Sergo’s impression of him, but his blue eyes were filled with such honesty and simplicity that Sergo could not think poorly of the young man.

Mishael was still holding his unsold churchkhelas. He pulled a scrap of old paper from his pocket and quickly wrapped them up with an expression of distaste, as if he were trying to rid himself of something unpleasant and set them aside. Then he let out a deep sigh, looked over at Sergo, and began:

“My father died young. At the time of his death, we were just little kids. My mother worked as a washerwoman and provided for us while she had the strength, but she soon broke down and took to her bed. She is still bedridden. My older sister got married, but her husband turned out to be a drunkard. He beat her day and night, so she had no choice but to return home with her two small children, preferring to share our hunger and hardship rather than endure that torment. If that were all, we could have managed somehow. But then two things happened that completely upended our lives and made them unbearable.

“Our only provider was my older brother. He was two years older than me. He used to sell shoelaces in the city. One day, he jumped onto a tram to sell a pair to someone. The conductor whistled, and the tram stopped. A policeman appeared. My brother got scared—he thought he would take his shoelaces, and we would starve. So, he jumped off and ran across the street. He didn’t see that another tram was speeding toward him from the other direction. When my sister heard what had happened, she lost her mind. Since then, she has been in a psychiatric hospital.

“There was no one left to take care of the house. My widowed mother and my sister’s little children looked to me as their only hope. What else could I do? I had to take my dead brother’s place. But my mother, terrified of the trams, wouldn’t let me go to the city. She forbade me from selling shoelaces, so I had to find another trade—”

“Don’t keep your feet in the water too long. You might catch a cold,” Sergo interrupted.

Mishael obeyed but still said, “Often, this cold water washes away my sorrow, makes me forget the whole world, and lulls me to sleep. But I sleep so little—only three or four hours a day.”

“Why do you sleep so little?”

“It just happens that way,” Mishael replied vaguely.

Sergo continued listening to his story.

“Have you heard of Shemariah Shaptoshvili? He is a very rich man in our town. It’s true, he is a wicked and shameless person, but our people survive because of him. Shemariah owns vineyards, taverns, fine houses, and has plenty of money. He gives goods to people on credit and has them sell them at the market. He took pity on our family, so he lets me sell churchkhelas.

“I’ve been selling them for a long time now, and whatever I make beyond Shemariah’s quota, I bring home. It’s a tough business—not much profit in it. If I sell five a day, I barely make a few kopeks for myself. What else can I do? People always get used to misery, and we’ve grown used to ours.”

“So you don’t like selling churchkhelas?”

“For years, I’ve had them in my hands. I’ve grown to despise them so much that I don’t even know what they taste like anymore.”

“Do you like trade in general?”

“I don’t know. . . What other profession has God given the Jews?” Mishael answered with a sigh.

“Do you believe in God?”

“How could one live without God?”

“Does Shemariah believe in God, too?”

“I don’t inhabit his soul, so how should I know? But he always arrives late to prayers. Sometimes, he doesn’t come at all for Selichot.”

“What is Selichot?”

“We pray three times a day, but during the month of Elul, there is an extra one at three in the morning.”

“Shemariah doesn’t trouble himself to wake up in the middle of the night?”

“Apparently not.”

Mishael fell into deep thought. This strange man had touched the deep wound in his heart, one he had kept tightly bandaged until now. Never had this question stood so clearly before him: If God exists, why does He not punish Shemariah?

But he was afraid to pose the second question: If God does not exist. . .

He did not know what lay on the other side. He preferred not to know, yet he feared falling into despair. He recalled a phrase he had learned in the Talmud Torah: “Ashrei hama’amin.” [Blessed is the believer.]

His heart trembled: Indeed, how miserable must an unbelieving man be. But which one is more unfortunate—the believer or the unbeliever?

Mishael was troubled with this thought. He suddenly noticed that twilight had come. He got up in a hurry, put on his shoes, gathered up his churchkhelas and, as if apologizing, said to Sergo in a slow voice: “It is time for the evening prayers. I must go. Then I must give Shemariah his churchkhela. Then even more chores. Ughh. . .” Mishael finished with a sigh.

“How many churchkhelas do you have left?”

“Four pieces. I only sold one today.”

“How much for the four?”

“Two maneti.”

Sergo gave Mishael two maneti and told him to keep the churchkhela for himself. Mishael refused: “Since now I have money to shove into Shemariah’s hand, I no longer care about these churchkhelas.” And with these words, he flung them into the river.

Sergo was convinced of how much Mishael hated Shemariah. He could not wait, and the question that he was going to ask a few days later, he asked now instead: “If I found you another job, would you give up peddling?”

Mishael’s eyes lit up. He bit his tongue and nodded his head slightly in agreement.

“If that’s really the case, then come see me tomorrow at the District Council,” Sergo Iashvili said.

They bid farewell and parted ways—one on his way to the District Council, the other to the house of prayer.

*

Mishael’s mother, Sipori, was sick, and the children were hungry. For three days, the old woman had been suffering from acute liver pain. The prescription still sat on the pharmacy shelf due to lack of money; Mishael had yet to gather enough cash. His mother usually endured the pain, but this evening, she could no longer bear it.

“Oh, children, I am dying. . . Soon, very soon, I will free you from my hand. . . Oohh, Mishael, you must look after Chaim and Zilpha. . . Oh God, what have I done to deserve a life without happiness?”

Mishael sat by the sooty fireplace, his mother’s every breath, every word, piercing his heart like a needle. It is hard to be the eldest, he thought, but Chaim and Zilpha have it worse. They are little and cannot fend for themselves. Mom is sick, and our older sister is far away, in a hospital in the city. I must take on this burden.

When he snapped out of his thoughts, he surveyed his surroundings. The room was cramped, the ceiling so low that he struggled to stand upright. Soot covered the doors and walls. The windows were half-boarded up and patched with paper. A single wooden bench served as a bed for Sipori. The children lay on the floor atop ragged bedding. Chaim’s face was blotchy, and little Zilpha drooled in her sleep. Their shirts, torn and unwashed for who knew how long, clung to their frail bodies. Two broken chairs, a table, and a rusty washbasin, where the neighbor’s cat had curled up, completed their meager possessions.

Such was the Tetruashvili household. Once a storage room, it had since become their shelter. The entrance had been converted into a makeshift balcony, where firewood was stored. In the summer, Mishael slept there, using a log as a pillow, his thoughts keeping him awake until sleep finally overtook him near dawn.

Now he stepped out onto the balcony, lay down, and breathed in the night air. In the distance, the river rushed along the embankment. The street was dark, as always, but across the way, light streamed from a house filled with warmth and laughter: the home of Shemariah.

Shemariah! No one could measure the depths of his wealth—or his greed.

Earlier that day, after evening prayers, Mishael had brought Shemariah the money from selling churchkhela. Shemariah had not expected this “dolt”, as he called Mishael, to actually deliver. Mishael pleaded, “Leave me just one maneti, so I can buy my mother’s medicine.” But Shemariah merely scowled and snatched the coin away.

Laughter rang from Shemariah’s house that night. Meanwhile, in Mishael’s home, his mother moaned in pain and the children cried. God loves the rich and despises the poor, Mishael thought bitterly.

God hates the poor, Mishael thought once again. Then his racing mind halted on a single bright spot: Sergo Iashvili. He was not a Jew, but what a good man he was. If he truly gave Mishael some new work, then surely he could bring medicine to his mother, buy shoes for the children, and pass by Shemariah without even offering a greeting.  

The pain and hunger had long been forgotten by those in the room. Sleep had overcome them. Shemariah and his wife were asleep as well. But Mishael’s mind was still turning, and he was tormented by terrifying thoughts:

Could it be that God is merely an invention of the rich? They say that the government now belongs to the poor, that is, to the workers and peasants. . . But what about us? We are merchants, aren’t we? Could Sergo Iashvili explain to the government that although we are called merchants, we are still poor?

Mishael was completely confused. It was around three in the morning, yet he felt no need for  sleep. The street was empty and a slight breeze blew across the balcony. But within Mishael, there was turmoil and a blaze of thoughts. All around, an eerie silence reigned.

Suddenly, the deep voice of old Jonah pierced the stillness:

“Selichot, prayer! Selichot, prayer! Simanah, come to pray! Chaim, prayer! Mordechai, prayer! Hananiah, prayer! Shemariah, prayer! Mishael, prayer! Selichot, prayer!”

Mishael had the impression that old Jonah called Shemariah more softly than he had called him. Jonah’s deep voice continued to echo for a long time, making its way through the entire Jewish quarter, waking people for the Selichot prayers.

That night, for the first time, Mishael felt an unpleasant sensation upon hearing Jonah’s call and decided not to get up. But then, from inside the home, he heard his sick mother’s voice:

“My son Mishael, wake up, do not sleep. . . Jonah has passed by. Do not be late for Selichot.”

“I’m getting up, Mother,” Mishael replied, and rose.

Reluctantly, he took his siddur, tallit, and tefillin, and set off toward the synagogue.

Along the way, he encountered believers—men and women, young and old—all heading in the same direction. Mishael was still plagued by terrible doubts and silently begged God to forgive him for the sinful thought: Why does that blessed God need our prayers in the middle of the night?

From the synagogue, a loud wailing and lamentation could already be heard, merging into a monotonous, rhythmic cry:

“Elohei Avraham aneinu, Elohei Itzhak aneinu, Elohei Yaacov aneinu.” [God of Abraham answer us; God of Isaac, answer us; God of Jacob, answer us!]

Mishael involuntarily glanced at Shemariah’s seat. It was empty. Unexpectedly, he reproached God: “Shemariah has wealth and sleep. Mishael—poverty, prayer, and tears. Elohei Avraham aneinu.”

*Churchkhela is a candle-shaped treat made from grape must, flour, and nuts.