Who We Become At Night

*This is a work of satire, with serious themes of dehumanization. It parodies multiple written works which are highly controversial. Discretion advised.*

Night had fallen, and most of the city had gone to sleep, but not Otto Katz. He sat at his writing desk as moonlight flooded through his window, rippling across the literature he was given at the synagogue during a recent trip to Venice. He knew he should be sleeping like everyone else, but that was impossible when he had a story in his mind, which had taken seed when he read the literature and was coming to form in his mind this night. Night was the only time he had to write. Day was the domain of work, of other people, but at night he could be alone with his story. He began to write.

***

It was Simchat Torah, and the synagogue was full of life. Men danced with the Torah as women threw sweets onto them from the balcony, and children ran around to pick up the sweets. Yet Yaakov Saporta stood alone in the corner of the room. He was a man in his early twenties, and the only adult male in the congregation to shave his face.

After dancing with the Torah, the congregation gathered in a great hall for a kiddush. There was plenty to eat, and bottles of kosher wine, freshly imported to Venice, flowed freely. They drank a lot of wine, the men, women and children, but not Yaakov. He ate in silence, sober.

As the festivities were winding down, Rachel Levi, an older woman from the congregation, approached Yaakov and asked, “Why are you here with us?”

He looked at her with furrowed brows. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“You’re different from the rest. You’re not welcome here.”

“What do you mean, different?”

The chief rabbi’s three sons, who were around Yaakov’s age, approached him. The oldest son, Avraham, said, “We know what you say in Torah study. You’re a heretic.”

“Doesn’t everybody have unorthodox interpretations of the Torah?”

The second son, Isaac, lifted a knife used for cutting bread and echoed, “You’re not welcome here.” He slashed at Yaakov for emphasis, but Yaakov jumped away, unscathed except for a tear in the nice clothes he was wearing for the occasion.

At this time the congregation decided it was time to go home. Everybody walked out of the synagogue and into the ghetto. As they were walking, Yaakov fell into step alongside Rachel Levi’s daughter Bracha. She was nineteen and had a radiant face. Braids of hair wrapped around the top of her head like a crown. She wore her best jewellery for the occasion, and it clanked as she walked like the metal ornaments on a Torah scroll. She said, “Sorry for what my mother said. You’re always welcome here.”

Another congregant fell into formation alongside them and said to Yaakov, “See you at Arvit tonight?”

Yaakov said, “Of course” and disappeared into his house.

That night, after sunset burned out, the congregation returned to the synagogue for the nighttime prayer Arvit. The sky was overcast; not a single star illuminated the path as they walked to the synagogue, and when they entered, it was dark inside save for the black candles burning. The entire congregation gathered in the synagogue, not just the men as usual, but also the women and children.

When the prayer ended, Yaakov rose from his seat to leave, but they were calling him by his Hebrew name. He turned to face the room, and saw that everyone else was standing before the Torah scrolls in an open ark. The cantor, standing on the Bima, intoned, “The rabbis have long known of the intolerable thoughts and actions of Yaakov Saporta, and have attempted to change him. Unable to change him, and indeed becoming increasingly aware that he is a teacher of heresy and he is monstrous vermin, and with witnesses to confirm the truth about the aforementioned Saporta, they have decided he is to be expelled from the people of Israel.”

Someone turned the candles upside down such that they began to drip into a vessel filled with blood. The cantor continued, “By the laws of the angels and the rabbis, we damn Yaakov Saporta in front of God, Blessed be He, the entire congregation, and the 613 commandments in the Torah. Cursed are you in the field, and cursed are you in the city. Cursed are you when you go out, and cursed are you when you come in. The Lord shall spare you no curse. The Lord will separate you from all the tribes of Israel, and from all of humanity, but those who cleave to the Lord your God shall remain.”

Another cantor rose to the Bima and blew a shofar, while the congregation turned their backs to Yaakov. He disappeared into the night, and the congregation cleared the synagogue as if nothing had happened.

***

Two weeks later, a small group left the Venice ghetto, consisting of the rabbis, the cantors, Rachel Levi, and a few other congregants. They ventured far beyond the ghetto walls, farther from home than many of them had ever travelled before, searching for a house in an unfamiliar part of Venice. As they walked, they felt the stares of the people in the city, looking upon the men in the distinctive hats that they were made to wear to distinguish them as Jews, and they wondered if they would make it back to the ghetto before curfew, but they had to keep going. They were seeking the house of Francesco Esposito, a Venetian writer who was friends with Yaakov.

They came to the house and knocked on the door. Francesco opened the door, took one look at the group, and turned his back to them.

The chief rabbi snapped, “Is that what you think of Jews? Don’t you know we’re humans, too? Don’t you know we have the same bodies, the same thoughts and feelings, as everyone else?”

Francesco turned to face the crowd and said, “I have nothing against Jews. But you have no reason to come here.”

The chief rabbi said, “We’re here to see Yaakov Saporta.”

“After what you said to him?”

Rachel Levi blurted, “I’m sorry! I was drunk! I didn’t mean what I said!”

“I think the rabbis believed in what they did.”

The chief rabbi said, “We were all very drunk that day. We didn’t mean anything we said.”

“You think you can change what you said and did?”

“We want him back. My son is going to marry Bracha Levi next week, and he’s invited to join us.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“He really is a heretic.”

“Everybody has some unorthodox interpretations of the Torah.”

Francesco lowered his voice and confessed, “It was late at night when he came to live with me and I needed to find him a bed to sleep in. He awoke the next morning a changed man.”

“We welcome him as a changed man.”

The conversation stopped as the group looked beyond Francesco and saw that a human-sized insect was approaching the door. They looked into his compound eyes, and saw the soul of the rejected man. The group jumped away from the door. Taking stock of the group, the chief rabbi turned to the others and said, “Let that be a lesson in how what we say becomes our reality.”

***

Laughing, Otto put down his pen. In the morning he would most likely burn his writing and give away the Venetian literature to prevent himself from writing more about the topic, but until then, the story would exist, outside of his mind as well as within it. He went to bed ruminating about his story, but determined to forget it come morning. He fell asleep like everyone else and the story disappeared from his mind. All that remained in the city was the night.