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CONTENTS
Prologue
1 AMSTERDAM—APRIL 1656
2 REVAL, ESTONIA—MAY 3, 1910
3 AMSTERDAM—1656
4 ESTONIA—MAY 10, 1910
5 AMSTERDAM—1656
6 ESTONIA—1910
7 AMSTERDAM—1656
8 REVAL, ESTONIA—1917–1918
9 AMSTERDAM—1656
10 REVAL, ESTONIA—NOVEMBER 1918
11 AMSTERDAM—1656
12 ESTONIA—1918
13 AMSTERDAM—1656
14 MUNICH—1918–1919
15 AMSTERDAM—JULY 1656
16 MUNICH—1919
17 AMSTERDAM—1656
18 MUNICH—1919
19 AMSTERDAM—JULY 27, 1656
20 MUNICH—MARCH 1922
21 AMSTERDAM—JULY 27, 1656
22 BERLIN—1922
23 AMSTERDAM—JULY 27, 1656
24 BERLIN—1922
25 AMSTERDAM—1658
26 BERLIN—MARCH 26, 1923
27 RIJNSBURG—1662
28 FRIEDRICH’S OFFICE, OLIVAER PLATZ 3,
BERLIN—1925
29 RIJNSBURG AND AMSTERDAM—1662
30 BERLIN—1936
31 VOORBURG—DECEMBER 1666
32 BERLIN, THE NETHERLANDS—1939–1945
33 VOORBURG—DECEMBER 1666
Epilogue
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AMSTERDAM—1656
About 10 o’clock the following morning the Spinoza brothers were hard at work in their shop, Bento
sweeping and Gabriel opening a newly arrived crate of dried figs. They were interrupted when Franco
and Jacob appeared at the door and stood there hesitating until Franco said, “If your offer is still
open, we would like to continue our discussion. Please, we are available any time that is convenient
for you.”
“I am glad to resume,” Bento said, but turning to Jacob, he asked, “You wish this also, Jacob?”
“I wish only what is best for Franco.”
Bento considered that response for a moment and replied, “Wait one minute, please,” and then,
after a whispered conference with his brother in the back of the shop, Bento announced, “I can be at
your service now. Shall we walk to my house and continue our study of the scriptures?”
The massive Bible was on the table and the chairs in place as if Bento had been expecting them.
“Where shall we begin? We touched on many questions last time.”
“You were going to tell us about Moses not writing the Torah,” said Jacob, speaking in a softer,
more conciliatory manner than the day before.
“I’ve studied the matter for many years and believe that a careful and open-minded reading of the
books of Moses provides much internal evidence that Moses could not possibly have been the
author.”
“Internal evidence? Explain to me,” said Franco.
“There are inconsistencies in the story of Moses; some parts of the Torah contradict other parts,
and many passages don’t hold up to simple logic. I’ll give examples and start with an obvious one
that others before me have noted.
“The Torah not only describes the manner of Moses’ death and burial, and the thirty days’
mourning of the Hebrews, but further compares him with all the prophets who came after him and
states that he surpassed them all. A man obviously cannot write about what happens to him after his
death, nor can he compare himself with other prophets yet to be born. So it’s certain that part of the
Torah cannot have been written by him. Not true?”
Franco nodded. Jacob shrugged.
“Or look here.” Bento opened the Bible to a page marked by a thread and pointed to a passage in
Genesis 22. “You see here that Mount Moriah is called the mount of God. And historians inform us it
acquired that name after the building of the Temple, a great many centuries after the death of Moses.
Look at this passage, Jacob: Moses clearly says that God will at some future time choose a spot to
which this name will be given. So earlier it says one thing and later an opposing thing. You see the
internal contradiction, Franco?”
Both Franco and Jacob nodded.
“May I present another example?” Bento asked, still troubled by Jacob’s outbursts of temper at
their last meeting. Confrontations were always uncomfortable for him, but at the same time he was
thrilled to finally share his thoughts with an audience. He steadied himself; he knew what to do—a
temperate delivery and a presentation of undeniable evidence. “The Hebrews in the time of Moses
indisputably knew what territories belonged to the tribe of Judah but absolutely did not know them
under the name of Argob or the Land of the Giants, as cited in the Bible. In other words, the Torah
uses names that did not come into existence until many centuries after Moses.”
Seeing nods from both, Bento continued. “Similarly, in Genesis. Let’s consider this passage.”
Bento turned to another page marked with a red thread and read the Hebrew passage for Jacob: “and
the Canaanite was then in the land.” Now that passage could not have been written by Moses because
the Canaanite were driven out after the death of Moses. It has to have been written by someone else
looking back upon that time, someone who knew that the Canaanite had been driven out.”
After nods from his audience, Bento went on, “Here’s another obvious problem. Moses is
supposed to be the author, and yet the text not only speaks of Moses in the third person but also
bears witness to many details concerning him; for instance, ‘Moses talked with God’; ‘Moses was the
meekest of men’; and that passage I cited yesterday, ‘The Lord spoke with Moses face to face.’”
“This is what I mean by internal inconsistencies. The Torah is so crammed with them that it is
clearer than the sun at noontime that the books of Moses could not have been written by Moses, and
it is irrational to continue claiming Moses himself was the author. Do you follow my argument?”
Again Franco and Jacob nodded.
“The same can be said for the book of Judges. No one can possibly believe that each judge wrote
the book bearing his name. The way the several books are connected one with the other suggests that
they all have the same author.
“If so, then who wrote it, and when?” asked Jacob.
“The dating is helped by such statements as this”—he turned to a page in Kings for Jacob to
read—“‘In those days there was no king.’ You see the wording, Jacob? That means this passage had
to be written after a kingship was established. My best guess is that a major writer-compiler of the
book of Kings was Ibn Ezra.”
“Who is he?” asked Jacob.
“A priestly scribe who lived in the fifth century BC. He was the one who led five thousand Hebrew
exiles from Babylon back to their home city of Jerusalem.”
“And when was the entire Bible compiled?” asked Franco.
“I think we can be certain that before the time of the Maccabees—that is, around 200 BC—there
was no official collection of sacred books called the Bible. It seems to have been compiled from a
multitude of documents by the Pharisees at the time of the restoration of the Temple. So please keep
in mind that what is holy and what is not holy is merely the collected opinion of some very human
rabbis and scribes, some of whom were serious-minded, blessed men while others may have been
struggling for their own personal status, battling upstarts in their own congregation, getting hunger
pangs, thinking about dinner, and worrying about their wives and children. The Bible was put together
by human hands. There is no other possible explanation for the many inconsistencies. No rational
person could imagine that a divine omniscient author deliberately wrote with the object of
contradicting himself freely.”
Jacob, looking confounded, attempted a parry. “Not necessarily. Are there not learned Kabbalists
who suggest that the Torah contains deliberate errors that contain many hidden secrets and that God
has preserved from corruption every word, indeed every letter, of the Bible?”
Bento nodded. “I have studied the Kabbalists and believe they wish to establish that they alone
possess the secrets of God. I find in their writings nothing that has the air of a divine secret, but
instead only childish lucubrations. I wish us to examine the words of the Torah itself, not the
interpretation of triflers.”
After a brief silence he asked, “Have I now made clear to you my thoughts about the authorship of
the scriptures?”
“That you have,” said Jacob. “Perhaps we should move on to other topics. For example, please
address Franco’s questions about miracles. He asked why the Bible is replete with them and yet there
are none to be seen since then. Tell us your thoughts about miracles.”
“Miracles exist only through man’s ignorance. In ancient times any occurrence that could not be
explained through natural causes was considered a miracle, and the greater the ignorance of the
masses about the workings of Nature, the greater the number of miracles.”
“But there are great miracles that were seen by multitudes: the Red Sea parting for Moses, the sun
staying still for Joshua.”
“‘Seen by multitudes’ is solely a manner of speaking, a way of trying to claim the veracity of
unbelievable events. In the case of miracles I am of the opinion that the larger the multitude that
claimed to have seen it, the less believable is the event.”
“Then how can you explain these unusual events that happen at precisely the right moment, when
the Jewish people were in peril?”
“I’ll start by reminding you of the millions of precisely right moments when miracles do not occur,
when the most pious and righteous of individuals are greatly imperiled, cry out for help, and are
answered only with silence. Franco, you spoke of that at our very first meeting, when you asked where
were the miracles when your father was burned to death. Right?”
“Yes,” Franco agreed softly, glancing at Jacob. “I said that, and I say it again—where were the
miracles when the Portuguese Jews were in peril? Why was God silent?”
“Such questions should be asked,” encouraged Bento. “Let me offer a few further thoughts about
miracles. We must keep in mind that there are always attendant natural circumstances that are
omitted in miracle reporting. For example, Exodus tells us, ‘Moses stretched forth his hand and the
seas returned to their strength . . .’ but later in the song of Moses, we read additional material: ‘Thou
didst blow with thy wind and the sea covered them.’ In other words, some descriptions omit the
natural causes, the winds. Thus, we see that the scriptures narrate them in the order that has the
most power to move men, particularly uneducated men, to devotion.”
“And the sun stood still for Joshua’s great victory? That too was fiction?” asked Jacob, straining to
remain calm.
“That miracle is most wobbly. First, remember that the ancients all believed the sun moved and
the Earth stood still. We know now that it is the Earth that revolves around the sun. That error itself is
evidence of the human hands behind the Bible’s construction. What’s more, the particular form of
the miracle was shaped by political motivations. Was not the sun god worshipped by the enemies of
Joshua? Hence, the miracle is a message trumpeting that the Hebrews’ God was more powerful than
the Gentiles’ God.”
“That is wonderfully explained,” said Franco.
“Don’t believe everything you hear from him, Franco,” said Jacob. “So, Bento,” he asked, “is that
the whole explanation of the miracle in Joshua?”
“That’s only part. The rest of the explanation lies in the idioms of the day. Many so-called miracles
are only manners of expression. It’s the way people talked and wrote in those times. What the writer
of Joshua probably meant when he said the sun stood still was simply that the day of the battle
seemed long. When the Bible states that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, it only means that Pharaoh
was obstinate. When it says that God clave the rocks for the Hebrews and water gushed forth, it
merely meant that the Hebrews found springs and quenched their thirst. In the scriptures almost
anything unusual was attributed to an act of God. Even trees of unusual size are called trees of God.”
“And,” Jacob asked, “what about the miracle of the Jews surviving whereas the other nations have
not?”
“I see nothing miraculous in it, nothing that cannot be explained by natural causes. The Jews have
survived since the Diaspora because they have always refused to blend in with other cultures. They
have remained separate by virtue of their complex rites, their dietary rules, and the sign of
circumcision, which they scrupulously observe. Thus they survive, but at a cost: their stubborn
adherence to separateness has drawn down upon them universal hatred.”
Bento paused and, seeing the shocked faces of both Franco and Jacob, said, “Perhaps I give you
indigestion by serving up too many difficult things for you to swallow today?”
“Do not worry about me, Bento Spinoza,” said Jacob. “Surely you know that listening is not the
same as swallowing,”
“I may be mistaken, but I believe you nodded at least thrice to my words. Am I correct?”
“Most of what I hear is arrogance. You believe you know more than countless generations of
rabbis, more than Rashi, Gersonides, more than Maimonides.”
“Yet you nodded.”
“When you show evidence, when you show two statements in Genesis that contradict one another,
that I cannot deny. Yet, even so, I am certain there are explanations for that beyond your knowledge. I
am certain it is you, not the Torah, that is mistaken.”
“Is there no contradiction in your words? On the one hand you respect evidence and at the same
time remain certain of something for which there is no evidence.” Bento turned to Franco. “And you?
You have been unusually silent. Indigestion?”
“No, no indigestion, Baruch—do you mind my calling you by your Hebrew rather than your
Portuguese name? I prefer it. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is because you are unlike any Portuguese
man I ever saw. No indigestion—you give me the reverse. What would that be? Soothing, I think.
Stomach soothing. Soul soothing too.”
“I remember how frightened you were during our first talk. You risked so much by sharing your
reaction to rituals in both the synagogue and the cathedral. You referred to them both as madness.
You remember?”
“How could I forget? But to know that I am not alone, to know that others—especially you—share
them. That is a gift that saves my sanity.”
“Franco, your answer gives me the fortitude to go further and teach you more about ritual. I have
reached the conclusion that rituals of our community have nothing to do with divine law, nothing to
do with blessedness and virtue and love, and everything to do with civic tranquility and perpetuation
of rabbinical authority—”
“Once again,” Jacob interrupted, his voice rising, “you go too far. Is there no limit to your
arrogance? A schoolchild knows that the scriptures teach that observation of ritual is the law of God.”
“We disagree. Again, Jacob, I do not ask you to believe me. I appeal to your reason and simply ask
you to look at the words of the Holy Book with your own eyes. There are many places in the Torah
that tell us to follow your heart and not take ritual too seriously. Let us look at Isaiah, who teaches
most plainly that the divine law signifies a true manner of life, not a life of ceremonial observances.
Isaiah plainly tells us to forego sacrifices and feasts and sums up the whole of divine law in these
simple words”—Bento opened the Bible to a bookmark in Isaiah and read—“Cease to do evil, learn to
do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed.”
“So you’re saying that rabbinical law is not the Torah’s law?” asked Franco.
“What I’m saying is that the Torah contains two kinds of law: there is moral law, and there are laws
designed to keep Israel together as a theocracy separate from its neighbors. Unfortunately the
Pharisees, in their ignorance, failed to understand the difference and thought that the observance of
the state laws was the sum total of morality, whereas such laws were merely intended for the welfare
of the community. They were not meant to instruct the Jews but instead to keep them under control.
There is a fundamental difference in the purpose of each of the two kinds of laws: observation of
ceremonial law leads only to civic tranquility, whereas observation of divine or moral law leads to
blessedness.”
“So,” said Jacob, “do I hear correctly? Do you counsel Franco not to heed ceremonial law? Not to
attend the synagogue, not to pray, not to observe Jewish dietary laws?”
“You misunderstand me,” said Bento, drawing on his recently acquired knowledge of the views of
Epicurus. “I do not negate the importance of civic tranquility, but I do differentiate it from true
blessedness.” Bento turned to Franco. “If you love your community, wish to be a part of it, wish to
raise your family here, wish to live among your own, then you must participate agreeably in
community activities, including religious observances.”
Turning back to Jacob, he asked, “Can I be more clear?”
“I hear that you say we should follow ritual law only for the sake of appearances, and that it really
doesn’t count for much because the only thing that matters is this other divine law that you still have
not defined,” said Jacob.
“By divine law, I mean the highest good, the true knowledge of God and love.”
“That’s a vague answer. What is ‘true knowledge’?”
“True knowledge means the perfection of our intellect that permits us to know God more fully.
Jewish communities have penalties for failing to follow ritual law: public criticism by the congregation
and the rabbi or, in extreme instances, banishment or cherem. Is there a penalty for failing to follow
divine law? Yes, but it is not some particular punishment; it is the absence of the good. I love the
words of Solomon, who says, ‘When wisdom enters into your heart and knowledge is pleasant to thy
soul, then shalt thou understand righteousness, and judgment, and equity, yea, every good path.’”
Jacob shook his head. “These high-sounding phrases do not conceal the fact that you are
challenging basic Jewish law. Maimonides himself teaches that those who follow the commandments
of the Torah are rewarded by God with bliss and happiness in the world to come. With my own ears, I
have heard Rabbi Mortera himself emphatically declare anyone who denies the divinity of the Torah
will be cut off from immortal life with God.”
“And I say his phrases—‘the world to come’ and ‘immortal life with God’—are human words, not
divine words. Moreover, these words are not to be found in the Torah; they are the phrases of rabbis
writing commentaries on commentaries.”
“So,” insisted Jacob, “do I hear you deny the existence of the world to come?”
“The world to come, immortal life, blissful afterlife—I repeat, all such phrases are the inventions of
rabbis.”
“You deny,” Jacob persisted, “that the righteous will find everlasting joy and communion with God
and that the evil will be vilified and doomed to eternal punishment?”
“It is against reason to think that we, as we are today, will persist after death. The body and the
mind are two aspects of the same person. The mind cannot persist after the body dies.”
“But,” Jacob spoke loudly, now visibly agitated, “we know the body will be resurrected. All of our
rabbis teach us that. Maimonides stated this clearly. It is one of the thirteen articles of Jewish faith. It
is the ground of our faith.”
“Jacob, I must be a poor guide. I thought I had fully explained the impossibility of such things, yet
now you’re once more wandering into the land of miracles. Again, I remind you these are all human
opinions; they have nothing to do with the laws of Nature, and nothing can occur contrary to the fixed
laws of Nature. Nature, which is infinite and eternal and encompasses all substance in the universe,
acts according to orderly laws that cannot be superseded by supernatural means. A decayed body,
returned to dust, cannot be reassembled. Genesis tells us this most clearly: ‘You will eat your bread
until you return to the earth, from which you were taken, because earth you are and to earth you shall
return.’”
“Does that mean I will never be reunited with my martyred father?” asked Franco.
“I, like you, yearn to see my blessed father again. But the laws of Nature are what they are. Franco, I
share your longing, and when I was a child, I too believed that all time would come to an end and
someday after death we should be reunited—I with my father and my mother, even though I was so
young when she died that I can hardly remember her. And of course they would be reunited with their
parents and they with theirs, ad infinitum.”
“But now,” Bento continued in a soft, teacherly voice, “I have given up these childish hopes and
have replaced them by the certain knowledge that I hold my father inside me—his face, his love, his
wisdom—and in this manner I am already united with him. Blessed reunion must occur in this life
because this life is all we have. There is no eternal blessedness in the world to come because there is
no world to come. Our task, and I believe the Torah teaches us this, is to attain blessedness in this
life now by living a life of love and of learning to know God. True piety consists in justice, charity, and
love of one’s neighbor.”
Jacob stood and gruffly pushed his chair aside. “Enough! I’ve heard enough heresy for one day.
Enough for one lifetime. We’re leaving. Let’s go, Franco.”
As Jacob grabbed Franco’s hand, Bento said, “No, not yet. Jacob, there’s one remaining important
question that, to my surprise, you have neglected to ask.”
Jacob let go of Franco’s arm and looked warily at Bento. “What question?”
“I have told you that Nature is eternal, infinite, and encompasses all substance.”
“Yes?” Jacob’s face was furrowed and quizzical. “What question?”
“And have I not told you that God is eternal, infinite, and encompasses all substance?”
Jacob nodded, entirely bewildered.
“You say you have been listening, you say you have heard enough, but yet you have not asked me
the most fundamental question.”
“What fundamental question?”
“If God and Nature have the identical properties, then what is the difference between God and
Nature?”
“All right,” said Jacob. “I ask you: what is the difference between God and Nature?”
“And I give you the answer you already know: there is no difference. God is Nature. Nature is
God.”
Both Jacob and Franco stared at Bento, and without another word Jacob yanked Franco to his feet
and dragged him into the street.
When out of sight, Jacob put his arm around Franco and squeezed him. “Good, good, Franco, we
got just exactly what we needed out of him. And you regarded him a wise man? What a fool he is!”
Franco yanked himself away from Jacob’s embrace. “Things are not always what they seem to be.
You may be the fool to think him a fool.”
==
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MUNICH—1918–1919
Character is destiny. The new wave of psychoanalytic thought embraced by Friedrich agreed with
Spinoza that the future is determined by what has gone before, by our physical and psychological
makeup—our passions, fears, goals; our temperament, our love of self, our stances toward others.
But consider Alfred Rosenberg, a pretentious, detached, unloving, unlovable philosopher-manqué
who lacked curiosity about himself and, despite his gerrymandered sense of self, walked the earth
with a smug sense of superiority. Could Friedrich, could any student of human nature, have predicted
the meteoric rise of Alfred Rosenberg? No, character alone is insufficient for prophecy. There is
another core and unpredictable ingredient. What shall we term it? Fortune? Chance? The sheer good
luck of being in the right place at the right time?
The right time? November 1918. The war was ending, and Germany, weeping and staggered by
defeat, was in chaos awaiting a savior. And the right place? Munich. Alfred Rosenberg would soon be
on his way to that chosen spot, whose back alleys and popular beer halls were incubating a
momentous drama and awaiting only the arrival of its preternaturally malignant cast.
Alfred stayed for several weeks longer in Reval, struggling to support himself by teaching art at
German-speaking schools. On one occasion he was astonished by winning a small prize for two of
his drawings—the first and only money his art would ever generate. The following evening, in a
celebratory mood, he wandered into a town meeting and stood rapt in the back of the audience
listening to a debate about the future of Estonia. Suddenly, as in a trance, he impulsively strode to the
front of the hall and delivered a short impassioned speech about the dangers of Jewish Bolshevism
looming in neighboring Russia. Was he perturbed when the Jewish owner of a large warehouse
interrupted and led a large group of Jews to the exit in protest? Not at all. Alfred’s lips curled into a
knowing smile, fully persuaded it was a good thing to have cleansed his audience. He didn’t wish
those Jews evil. He hoped they would be warm and happy in their own kitchens. He just wanted them
gone from Reval. Slowly the seeds of a grand idea germinated: gone not just from Reval, not just from
Estonia, but gone from all of Europe. The Fatherland would only be safe, only be prosperous, when
every Jew had left Europe.
Day by day his resolve grew to emigrate to Germany; he would dwell no more in an insignificant
peripheral country. Estonia, now being emptied of Germans, headed for an unstable future as a weak
independent country or, worse, immediate takeover by the Jewish-Russian Bolshevists. Yet how to
leave? The roads out of Estonia were closed, and all trains had been commandeered by the military
for the dejected army troops returning to Germany. Trapped and directionless, Alfred had his first
visit from the angel of good fortune.
In the working-class café where Alfred often dined, he sipped his beer and ate sausages while
reading The Brothers Karamazov. He read in Russian but had a German copy open on the table and
stopped from time to time to evaluate the accuracy of the translation. Soon, annoyed by the noisy
merriment at an adjoining table, he stood to search for a quieter spot. As he scanned the café, he
chanced to overhear a conversation in German at the other table.
“Yes, yes, I’m leaving Reval,” said a middle-aged baker in a white apron, dusty with flour, that
strained to contain an enormous belly. He smiled broadly as he opened a bottle of celebratory
schnapps for his three companions, poured a glass, raised it over his head, and toasted them. “I
drink a farewell to you, my dear friends, and hope we meet in the Fatherland. For once in my life I did
something smart—baker smart.”
He pointed to his head and then to his belly. “I brought the military commander two loaves of my
German bread and my best apple-raisin strudel, toasty warm, right out of the oven. His military aide
tried to look fierce and take them from me, saying he would deliver them to the commander, but I
stared him down and promised to return later with a strudel for him, which was now baking in my
oven. What’s more, I told him that the commander asked me to deliver it personally—that I made up
on the spot. Then I walked into the commander’s office, showed him my gift, and begged him to let
me go to Berlin. ‘It would go bad for me once the army left,’ I told him. “The Estonians would treat
me as a collaborator because I bake good German bread and pastry for the troops. Here, look at this
bread, heavy and crisp. Smell it. Taste it.’ I broke off a chunk and put it into his open mouth. He
chewed, and his eyes lit up with delight. ‘Now smell the strudel,’ I said as I held it to his nose. Again
and again he inhaled the aroma steaming from it. Soon he was intoxicated: his eyes went in circles,
and he began to weave on his feet. ‘Now, open your mouth for a taste of heaven.’ He opened his
mouth. Like a mother bird I fed him bits of strudel, choosing pieces packed with raisins, and he
began to moan with delight as he chewed. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said and without another word ordered
me a hardship pass to Germany. So I board the train tomorrow morning, and you, my friends, are
welcome to the dough that rises in my oven as we speak.”
Alfred ruminated about what he had heard for three days and then woke up one morning
determined to emulate the baker’s boldness. Arriving at the military headquarters with three of his
best sketches of Reval, he, like the baker, told the aide-de-camp that he wished to deliver his gift
directly to the commander. The aide’s resistance quickly evaporated when Alfred offered him a gift of
one of the sketches. Ushered into the commander’s presence, Alfred presented his sketches and
commented, “Here is a small remembrance of your time in Reval. I have been teaching Germans how
to draw, and now I want nothing more than to teach Berliners my craft.” The commander inspected
Alfred’s work, his lower lip protruding in appreciation of the sketches. When Alfred described his
town meeting speech and the exodus of the Jews from the audience, the commander warmed even
more and volunteered on his own that Alfred might not be safe in Estonia after the German military
evacuation and offered him the last seat on a train to Berlin leaving at midnight that very evening.
Home! Finally heading home to the Fatherland! A home that he had never known. That thought
crowded out all bodily discomfort during the several-day, freezing train trip to Berlin. Once he arrived,
his exuberance was dampened by the sight of the drooping military parade of the returning defeated
German army down the Unter den Linden. Berlin, Alfred learned quickly, was not to his liking, and he
felt more alone than ever. He spoke to no one at the immigrants’ relief station where he boarded, but
he listened hungrily to conversations. “Munich” was on everyone’s lips. Avant-garde artists were
there, anti-Semitic political groups as well, and Munich was the meeting place for radical White
Russian anti-Bolshevistic agitators. The pull to Munich was irresistible and, convinced that his
destiny lay there, Alfred within a week had hitched a ride on a cattle truck to Munich.
His funds running low, Alfred took his free lunch and supper at the Munich emigrants’ center,
which offered decent food but required the indignity of bringing one’s own spoon. Munich was open,
sunny, bustling, crammed with galleries and street artists. To his chagrin, he examined the
watercolors of the street artists—their work was far better than his, and they weren’t selling. At times,
anxiety set in: how would he live? Where would he find work? But for the most part, he felt
unconcerned; confident that he was in the right place, he knew that sooner or later his future would
be revealed to him. While he waited, he spent his days in art galleries and in libraries reading all he
could find on Jewish history and literature and began sketching an outline for a book, The Trace of the
Jew.
Again and again, Spinoza’s name appeared in his readings of Jewish history. Even though he had
left Reval with all his belongings in only one suitcase, he still retained his copy of Spinoza’s Ethics
but, recalling Friedrich’s advice, did not try to read it again. Instead he placed his name on the library
waiting list for Spinoza’s other book, Theological-Political Treatise.
As he strolled the streets of Munich trying unsuccessfully to peddle some sketches, good fortune
struck once again when he looked up at a building that bore a placard: Edith Schrenk: Dancing
Instruction. Edith Schrenk—he knew that name. Years ago his estranged wife, Hilda, and Edith had
been dancing students in the same class in Moscow. Though he was shy by nature and had only
spoken with Edith once or twice, he longed for a familiar face and tapped meekly on her door. Edith,
dressed in a black leotard with a stylish aqua foulard around her neck, greeted him cordially, asked
him to sit, offered him coffee, and inquired about Hilda, whom she had always liked. During the
course of a long conversation Alfred described his uncertainty about his future, his interests in the
Jewish question, and his experience during the Russian Revolution. When he mentioned he had been
writing a personal account of the dangers of Jewish Bolshevism, Edith put her hand on his.
“Why, then, Alfred, you must pay a visit to my friend Dietrich Eckart, the editor of the weekly
newspaper Auf gut Deutsch. He has similar views and might be interested in your observations about
the Russian Revolution. Here’s his address. Be sure to use my name when you see him.”
Without delay Alfred rushed out and headed to a life-changing meeting. On the way to Eckart’s
office, he searched for Auf gut Deutsch at two newsstands but was told they had sold out. As he
climbed the stairs to Eckart’s third-floor office, he recalled how Friedrich had warned him that
impulsive fanatical actions could be his undoing. But throwing that advice to the wind, Alfred opened
the door, introduced himself to Dietrich Eckart, mentioned Edith’s name, and impulsively blurted out,
“Can you use a fighter against Jerusalem? I am dedicated, and I will fight until I drop.”
==
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AMSTERDAM—JULY 1656
Two days later, as Bento and Gabriel were opening the store for business, a young boy wearing a
skullcap ran up to them, stopped to catch his breath, and said, “Bento, the rabbi wants to talk to you.
Right now. He is waiting at the synagogue.”
Bento was not surprised: he had been expecting this summons. He took his time putting his
broom away, drank the last sip of coffee in his cup, nodded farewell to Gabriel, and silently followed
the young boy toward the synagogue. With a look of grave concern on his face, Gabriel stepped
outside and watched the two recede into the distance.
In his study on the second floor of the synagogue, Rabbi Saul Levi Mortera, dressed in the style of
a prosperous Dutch burgher with camel-hair trousers and jacket and silver-buckled leather shoes,
irritably tapped his pen on his desk awaiting Baruch Spinoza. A tall, imposing sixty-year-old man with
a razor sharp nose, frightening eyes, stern lips, and a well-trimmed gray goatee, Rabbi Mortera was
many things—an honored scholar, a prolific author, a fierce intellectual warrior, a survivor of bitter
battles with competing rabbis, a gallant defender of the sanctity of the Torah—but he was not a
patient man. It had been almost thirty minutes since he had sent his messenger, a lad in bar mitzvah
training, to fetch his wayward former student.
Saul Mortera had presided majestically over the Amsterdam Jewish community for thirty-seven
years. In 1619 he had been appointed to his first post as the rabbi of Beth Jacob, one of the three
small Sephardic synagogues in the city. When his congregation merged with Neve Shalom and Beth
Israel in 1639, Saul Mortera was chosen over other candidates to take the post of head rabbi of the
new Talmud Torah Synagogue. A mighty bulwark of traditional Jewish law, he had for decades
protected his community from the skepticism and secularism of the wave of Portuguese immigrants,
many of whom had been forced to convert to Christianity and few of whom had had early traditional
Jewish instruction. He was weary—indoctrinating adults into the old ways is hard work. He
appreciated all too well the lesson all religious teachers ultimately grasp: it is essential to capture
students when they are very young.
A tireless educator, he developed a comprehensive curriculum, hired many teachers, personally
offered daily Hebrew, Torah, and Talmud classes to the older students, and endlessly dueled with
other rabbis in order to uphold his interpretations of the laws of the Torah. One of his bitterest
struggles had taken place fourteen years earlier with his assistant and rival, Rabbi Isaac Aboab de
Fonseca, over the question of whether unrepentant Jewish sinners, even Jews forced under pain of
death from the Inquisition to convert to Christianity, would live eternally in the world to come. Rabbi
Aboab, who, like many members of the congregation, had converso family members remaining in
Portugal, held that a Jew always remained a Jew and that all Jews would ultimately enter the blessed
world to come. Jewish blood persevered, he insisted, and could be erased by nothing, not even
conversion to another religion. Paradoxically, he supported his claim by citing Queen Isabella of
Spain, the great enemy of the Jews, who acknowledged the indelibility of Jewish blood when she
instituted the Estatutos de Limpieza de Sangre, blood laws that prevented “New Christians”—that is,
Jewish conversos—from holding important civic and military positions.
Rabbi Mortera’s hard-line position was consonant with his physique—unyielding,
uncompromising, oppositional—and he insisted that all unrepentant Jews who broke Jewish law
would be forever barred from the blissful world to come and would instead face eternal punishment.
The law was the law, and there were no exceptions, even for those Jews who yielded under threat of
death from the Portuguese and Spanish Inquisition. All Jews who were uncircumcised or violated
dietary laws or failed to observe the Sabbath, or any of the myriad religious laws, were doomed for all
eternity.
Mortera’s unforgiving declaration infuriated Amsterdam Jews, who had converso relatives still
dwelling in Portugal and Spain, but he would not budge. So acrimonious and divisive was the
ensuing debate that the elders of the synagogue petitioned the rabbinate of Venice to intervene and
provide a definitive interpretation of the law. The Venetian rabbis reluctantly agreed and listened to
the delegates’ arguments, often offered in shrill voices, for each side of the knotty controversy. For
two hours they pondered their response. Stomachs churned. Dinner was delayed, and finally they
reached a unanimous decision not to decide: they wanted no part of this thorny controversy and ruled
that the problem must be solved by the Amsterdam congregation itself.
But the Amsterdam community could not reach resolution and, to prevent a descent into
irreparable schism, sent an emergency second delegation to Venice pleading even more strongly for
outside intervention. Ultimately the Venetian rabbinate reached a decision and supported the view of
Saul Mortera (who, by the by, had been educated in the yeshiva of Venice). The delegation bearing the
rabbinical decision rushed back to Amsterdam, and four weeks later many members of the
congregation somberly stood at the harbor and waved farewell to the downcast Rabbi Aboab and his
family, as their goods were loaded onto a ship headed for Brazil, where he would assume rabbinical
duties in the distant seaside city of Recife. From that point on, no rabbi in Amsterdam would ever
again challenge Rabbi Mortera.
Today Saul Mortera faced a far more personally painful crisis. The synagogue parnassim had met
the evening before, reached a decision on the Spinoza problem, and instructed their rabbi to inform
Baruch of his excommunication—to take place at the Talmud Torah synagogue two days hence. For
forty years Baruch’s father, Michael Spinoza, had been one of Saul Mortera’s closest friends and
supporters. Michael’s name had appeared on the deed of trust for the original purchase of Beth
Jacob, and throughout the decades he had generously supported the synagogue fund (which paid the
rabbi’s salary) as well as other synagogue charities. During that time Michael rarely missed a meeting
of the Crown of the Law, Rabbi Mortera’s adult study group that met in the rabbi’s home, and, more
times than he could count, Michael, sometimes accompanied by his prodigy son, Baruch, had eaten
dinner at his table, along with as many as forty others. Moreover Michael, and also Michael’s older
brother, Abraham, had often served as a parnas, a member of the governing board, the ultimate
authority for synagogue governance.
But now the rabbi brooded. Today, any minute . . . Where was Baruch anyway? He would have to
tell his dear friend’s son of the calamity awaiting him. Saul Mortera had said prayers over Baruch at
his circumcision, supervised his flawless bar mitzvah performance, and watched him develop
through the years. What prodigious talents the boy possessed, talents like no other! He absorbed
information like a sponge. Every course of instruction seemed so elementary for him that each
teacher assigned him advanced texts while the rest of the class struggled with the class assignment.
Sometimes Rabbi Mortera worried that other students’ envy would result in enmity toward Baruch.
That never happened: his abilities were so evident, so far out of range, that he was much esteemed
and befriended by other students, who often consulted him, rather than the teachers, for instruction
on some knotty problem of translation or interpretation. Rabbi Mortera remembered how he, too,
held Baruch in awe, and on many occasions asked Michael to bring Baruch for dinner in order to
delight a celebrated guest. But now, Saul Mortera sighed, Baruch’s golden period, from years four to
fourteen, had long passed. The lad had changed, taken a wrong turn; now the entire community faced
the danger of the prodigy turning into a monster that would devour its own.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Baruch was approaching. Rabbi Mortera remained seated, and when
Baruch appeared at his door, he did not turn to greet him but instead pointed to a low and
uncomfortable seat by his desk and said sharply, “Sit there. I have catastrophic news to deliver, news
that will alter your life forever.” He spoke in a slightly halting but passable Portuguese. Though Rabbi
Mortera’s background was Ashkenazi, not Sephardic, and though he had been born and educated in
Italy, he had married a Marrano and learned to speak Portuguese well enough to deliver hundreds of
Sabbath sermons to a congregation that was primarily Portuguese in origin.
Baruch replied in an unruffled tone, “No doubt what has happened is that the parnassim has
decided to excommunicate me and instructed you to deliver the cherem at a public synagogue
ceremony almost immediately?”
“As insolent as ever, I see. I should be accustomed to it by now, but I continue to be astounded by
the transformation of a wise child into a foolish adult. You are correct in your assumptions,
Baruch—that is precisely their instruction to me. Tomorrow you shall indeed be placed under cherem
and be excommunicated forever from this community. But I object to your sloppy use of the verb
‘happened.’ Do not fall sway to the sentiment that the cherem is merely something that has happened
to you. Instead it is you that have brought the cherem upon yourself with your own actions.”
Baruch opened his mouth to answer, but the rabbi hurried on. “However, all may not yet be lost. I
am a loyal man, and my long friendship with your blessed father mandates that I do everything in my
power to offer you protection and guidance. What I want now is for you, at this moment, to simply sit
and listen. I’ve instructed you since you were five, and you’re not too old for additional instruction. I
want to give you a particular type of history lesson.
“Let’s go back,” Saul Mortera began in his most rabbinical voice, “to ancient Spain, the land of
your ancestors. You know that Jews first came to Spain perhaps a thousand years ago, and they lived
in peace with the Moors and Christians for centuries despite the fact that Jews met with hostility
elsewhere?”
Baruch nodded wearily while rolling his eyes.
Rabbi Mortera noted the gesture but let it pass. “In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we
were driven out of country after country, first from England, the source of the accursed blood libel
that accused us of making matzo with the blood of Gentile children; then France ejected us, then the
cities of Germany, Italy, and Sicily—all of Western Europe, in fact—except for Spain, where La
Convivencia persisted and the Jews, Christians, and Moors mingled amicably with one another. But
the gradual Christian reconquest of Spain from the Moors signaled the tarnishing of this golden
period. And you know about the end of La Convivencia in 1391?”
“Yes, I know about the expulsions and about the 1391 pogroms at Castile and Aragon. I know all of
this. And you know I know it. Why are you telling me this today?”
“I know you think you know it. But there is knowing, and there is true knowing, knowing in your
heart, and you have not yet reached that stage. All I ask now is that you listen. Nothing else. All will
become clear in time.”
“What was truly different about 1391,” the rabbi continued, “was that, after the pogrom, Jews, for
the very first time in history, began to convert to Christianity—and convert in droves, by the thousands,
by the tens of thousands. The Spanish Jews gave up. They were weak. They decided our Torah—the
direct word of God—and our three-thousand-year-old heritage were not worth the price of continued
harassment.
“Such massive Jewish conversions were of world-shaking significance; never before in history had
we Jews given up our faith. Compare this with the response of the Jews in 1096. You know that date?
You know what I’m referring to, Baruch?”
“No doubt you mean the Jews who were slaughtered in the pogroms during the crusades—the
1096 pogrom in Mainz.”
“Mainz and elsewhere throughout the Rhineland. Yes, slaughtered, and you know who led the
slaughterers? The monks! Whenever Jews are slaughtered, the men of the cross are to be found at the
head of the pack. Yes, those fine Jews of Mainz, those magnificent martyrs, chose death over
conversion—many held out their necks to the murderers, and many others slaughtered their own
families rather than let them be defiled by the Gentiles’ swords. They preferred death to conversion.”
Baruch looked at him incredulously. “And you applaud that? You consider it praiseworthy to end
you own existence and, incidentally, to murder your children in order to—”
“Baruch, you have much still to learn if you consider no cause worthy of laying down your own
insignificant life, but there is too little time to educate you about such matters now. Today you are not
here to display your insolence. There will be time enough for that later. Whether you appreciate it or
not, you are at the great crossroads of your life, and I am trying to help you choose your way. I want
you to listen attentively and silently to my account of how our entire Jewish civilization is now
imperiled.”
Bento held his head high, breathed easily, and took note of how the rabbi’s fierce voice once
terrified him and how little dread it held for him today.
Rabbi Mortera took a deep breath and continued. “In the fifteenth century there continued to be
tens of thousands of new conversions in Spain, including members of your own family. But the
Catholic Church’s appetite for blood was still not satisfied. They claimed that conversos were not
Christian enough, that some still harbored Jewish sentiments, and decided to send the inquisitors to
sniff out everything Jewish. They asked, ‘What did you do on Friday, on Saturday?’ ‘Do you light
candles?’ ‘What day do you change the sheets?’ ‘How do you make your soups?’ And if inquisitors
found any traces of Jewish traits or Jewish customs or Jewish cooking, the kindly priests burned them
alive at the stake. Even then they were not convinced of the cleanliness of the conversos. Every trace
of the Jew had to be scrubbed out. They did not want the eyes of the conversos to light upon a true
practicing Jew for fear of awakening the old ways, and so in 1492 they expelled all the Jews, every
single one, from Spain. Many, including your own ancestors, went to Portugal but enjoyed only a brief
respite there. Five years later the king of Portugal insisted that every Jew choose between conversion
or expulsion. And, once again, tens of thousands chose conversion and were lost to our faith. This
was the low point of Judaism in history, such a low point that many, and I among them, believe that
the coming of the Messiah is imminent. You remember that I lent you the great three-volume
Messianic trilogy by Isaac Abrabanel positing that very thing?”
“I remember that Abrabanel makes no rational case for why the Jews have to be at their lowest
point for that mythical event to occur. Nor any explanation for an omnipotent God being unable to
protect his chosen people and allowing them to get to that point, nor why—”
“Quiet. Just listen today, Baruch,” the rabbi barked. “For once, maybe for the last time, do exactly
what I tell you. When I ask a question, just reply yes or no. I have only a few more things to say to you.
I was talking about the lowest point in Jewish history. Where could the Jews of the late fifteenth and
the sixteenth century seek shelter? Where in all the world was there a safe haven? Some went east to
the Ottoman Empire or to Livorno, in Italy, which tolerated them because of their valuable
international trade network. And then, after 1579, when the northern provinces of the Netherlands
proclaimed their independence from Catholic Spain, some Jews found their way here to Amsterdam.
“How did the Dutch greet us? Like no other people in the world. They were entirely tolerant about
religion. No one inquired about religious beliefs. They were Calvinists but granted everyone the right
to worship in their own manner—except for the Catholics. Toward them there was not much
tolerance. But that is not our affair. Not only were we not harassed here, but we were welcomed,
because the Netherlands wanted to become an important commercial center and they knew that
Marrano traders could help build that commerce. Soon more and more immigrants from Portugal
arrived, enjoying a tolerance not seen elsewhere in centuries. And other Jews came too: waves of poor
Ashkenazi Jews also poured in from Germany and Eastern Europe to escape the mad violence against
Jews there. Of course these Ashkenazi Jews lacked the culture of the Sephardic Jews: they had no
education nor skills, and most became peddlers, old clothes traders, and shopkeepers, but still we
welcomed them and offered charity. Did you know that your father made regular and generous
donations to the Ashkenazi charity box in our synagogue?”
Baruch, remaining silent, nodded.
“And then,” Rabbi Mortera continued, “after a few years, the Amsterdam authorities, in
consultation with the great jurist Grotius, officially recognized our right to live in Amsterdam. At first
we were meek and followed our old ways of remaining inconspicuous. Thus we did not mark our four
synagogues outwardly but instead held our prayer services in buildings that resembled private
homes. Only the passage of many harassment-free years allowed us to truly realize that we could
practice our faith openly and be assured that the state would protect our lives and property. We Jews
in Amsterdam have had the extraordinary good fortune to be living in the one spot in the entire world
where Jews could be free. Do you appreciate that—the one spot in the entire world?”
Baruch stirred uncomfortably on his wooden seat and gave a perfunctory nod.
“Patience, patience, Baruch. Listen only a little longer—I am now veering very close to matters of
urgent relevance to you. Our remarkable freedom comes with certain obligations that the Amsterdam
city council has stated explicitly. No doubt you know what these obligations are?”
“That we do not defame the Christian faith and do not try to convert or marry Christians,”
answered Baruch.
“There was more. Your memory is prodigious, but you do not remember the other obligations.
Why? Perhaps because they are inconvenient for you. Let me remind you of them. Grotius also
decreed that all Jews over fourteen years of age must state their faith in God, Moses, the Prophets, the
afterlife, and that our religious and civil authorities must guarantee, at the risk of losing our freedom,
that none of our congregation said or did anything that would challenge or undermine any aspect of
the Christian religious dogma.”
Rabbi Mortera paused, shook his forefinger while speaking slowly and emphatically. “Let me stress
this last point to you, Baruch—it is a crucial point for you to grasp. Atheism or flouting of religious law
and authority—either Jewish or Christian—is expressly forbidden. If we show the Dutch civil authorities
that we cannot govern ourselves, then we lose our precious freedom and once again submit to rule by
Christian authorities.”
Rabbi Mortera paused again. “I have finished my history lesson. My major hope is that you will
understand that we are still a people apart, that though we have some limited freedom today, we can
never be fully autonomous. Even today it is not easy to support ourselves as free men because so many
professions are closed to us. Keep that in mind, Baruch, when you contemplate life without this
community. It may be that you are choosing starvation.”
Baruch started to respond, but the rabbi silenced him with a wag of his right forefinger. “There’s
another point I want to stress. Today, the very foundation of our religious culture is under attack. The
waves of immigrants continuing to flow in from Portugal are Jews without any Jewish education. They
have been forbidden to learn Hebrew; they have been forced to learn the Catholic dogma and practice
as Catholics. They are between two worlds with shaky faith in both Catholic dogma and Jewish
beliefs. It is my mission to reclaim them, to bring them back home, back to their Jewish roots. Our
community is prospering and evolving: we are already producing scholars, poets, playwrights,
Kabbalists, physicians, and printers. We are on the brink of a great renaissance, and there is a place
for you here. Your learning, your nimble mind, and your gifts as a teacher would be of tremendous
help. If you taught by my side, if you took over my work when I am no longer here, you would fulfill
your father’s dreams for you—and my dreams as well.”
Astonished, Baruch looked into the rabbi’s eyes. “What do you mean ‘work with you’? Your words
mystify me. Keep in mind I am a shopkeeper, and I am under cherem.”
“The cherem is pending. It is not reality until I have pronounced it publicly at the synagogue. Yes,
the parnassim holds ultimate authority, but I have great influence with them. Two newly arrived
Marranos, Franco Benitez and Jacob Mendoza, gave witness, highly damaging witness, yesterday to
the parnassim. They reported that you believe God is nothing more than Nature and that there is no
world to come. Yes, that was damaging, but between you and me, I distrust their testimony, and I
know they distorted your words. They are the nephews of Duarte Rodriguez, who remains incensed at
you for turning to the Dutch court to avoid your debt to him, and I am persuaded that he has ordered
them to lie. And, trust me, I am not the only one who believes that.”
“They did not lie, Rabbi.”
“Baruch, come to your senses. I’ve known you since your birth, and I know that from time to time
you, like anyone else, can harbor foolish thoughts. I beseech you: study with me; let me purify your
mind. Now listen to me. I will make you an offer that I would make to no one else on earth. I am
certain I can grant you a lifelong pension that will permanently take you out of the import-export business
and into a life as a scholar. You hear that? I offer you the gift of a life of scholarship, a life of reading
and thinking. You can even think forbidden thoughts while you seek the confirmatory or negating
evidence from rabbinical scholarship. Think about that offer: a lifetime of total freedom. It comes with
only one stipulation: silence. You must agree to keep to yourself all thoughts that are injurious to our
people.”
Baruch seemed frozen in thought. After a long silence, the rabbi said, “What do you say, Baruch?
Now, when it is time for you to speak, you remain silent.”
“More times than I can remember,” Baruch responded in a calm voice, “my father spoke of his
friendship with you and his high regard for you. He also told me of your high opinion of my
mind—‘limitless intelligence’ were the words he attributed to you. Were these indeed your words?
Did he cite you correctly?”
“Those were my words.”
“I believe the world and everything in it operate according to natural law and that I can use my
intelligence, provided I employ it in a rational mode, to discover the nature of God and reality and the
path to a blessed life. I’ve said this to you before, have I not?”
Rabbi Mortera placed his head in his hands and nodded.
“And yet today you suggest that I spend my life confirming or negating my views by consulting
rabbinical scholarship. That is not and will not be my way. Rabbinical authority is not based on purity
of truth. It rests only on the expressed opinions of generations of superstitious scholars, scholars
who believed the world was flat, circled by the sun, and that one man named Adam suddenly
appeared and fathered the human race.”
“You deny the divinity of Genesis?”
“Do you deny the evidence showing that there were civilizations long predating the Israelites? In
China? In Egypt?”
“Such blasphemy. Do you not realize how you jeopardize your place in the world to come?”
“There is no rational evidence for the existence of a world to come.”
Rabbi Mortera looked thunderstruck. “This is exactly what Duarte Rodriquez’s nephews quoted you
as saying. I had thought they were lying at the orders of their uncle.”
“I believe you did not hear me, or did not want to hear me, when I said earlier, ‘They did not lie,
Rabbi.’”
“And the other charges they made? That you deny the divine source of the Torah, that Moses did
not write the Torah, that God exists only philosophically, and that ceremonial law is not sacred?”
“The nephews did not lie, Rabbi.”
Rabbi Mortera glared at Baruch, his anguish turning to anger. “Any single one of these charges is
cause for cherem; together they deserve the harshest cherem ever issued.”
“You have been my Hebrew teacher, and you have taught me well. Allow me to repay you by
composing the cherem for you. You once showed me some of the most brutal cherems issued by the
Venetian community, and I remember every word of them.”
“I said earlier you would have time enough for insolence. Now, I see, it already begins.” Rabbi
Mortera paused to collect himself. “You want to kill me. You want to destroy my work utterly. You
know that my life work has been the vital role of the afterlife in Jewish thought and culture. You know
about my book, The Survival of the Soul, which I placed into your hands at your bar mitzvah. You
know of my great debate with Rabbi Aboab about that matter and my victory?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You shrug that off lightly. Do you have any idea of the stakes involved? If I had lost that debate, if
it were decreed that all Jews have an equal status in the world to come and that virtue would be
unrewarded and transgression would have no penalty, can you not foresee the repercussions upon
the community? If they are insured a place in the world to come, then what is the incentive to convert
back to Judaism? If there is no penalty for wrongdoing, can you imagine how the Dutch Calvinists
would regard us? How long would our freedom last? Do you think I was playing a child’s game?
Think of the implications.”
“Yes, that great debate—your words have just demonstrated that it was not a debate about spiritual
truth. No doubt that is why the Venetian rabbinate was confounded. Both of you argued for different
versions of the afterlife for reasons that have nothing to do with the reality of the afterlife. You attempt
to control the populace through the power of fear and hope—the traditional cudgels of religious
leaders throughout history. You, the rabbinical authorities everywhere, claim to hold the keys to the
afterlife, and you use those keys for political control. Rabbi Aboab, on the other hand, took his stand
to minister to the anguish of his congregation who wanted to offer help for their converso families.
This was not a spiritual disagreement. It was a political debate masquerading as a religious debate.
Neither of you offered any proof for the existence of the world to come, either a proof from reason or
even proof from the words of the Torah. I assure you it is not to be found in the Torah, and you know
that.”
“You obviously did not assimilate what I’ve been telling you about my responsibility to God and to
the persistence of our people,” Rabbi Mortera said.
“Much of what religious leaders do has little to do with God,” Baruch replied. “Last year you gave a
cherem to a man who bought meat from a kosher Ashkenazi butcher rather than a Sephardic butcher.
You think that was relevant to God?”
“It was a short cherem highly instructive about the importance of community cohesion.”
“And I learned last month that you told a woman who came from a small village without a Jewish
baker that she could buy bread from a Gentile baker provided she tossed a wood chip into his oven
so as to participate in the baking.”
“She came to me distressed and left my presence relieved and a happy woman.”
“She left a woman with a mind more stunted than before, a woman even less able to think for
herself and to develop her rational faculties. This is exactly my point: religious authorities of all hues
seek to impede the development of our rational faculties.”
“If you think our people can survive without control and authority, you are a fool.”
“I think that religious leaders lose their own spiritual direction by meddling into the business of
the political state. Your authority or consul should be confined to counsel about inward piety.”
“The business of the political state? Have you not understood what happened in Spain and
Portugal?”
“That is precisely my point: they were religious states. Religion and statehood must be separated.
The best imaginable ruler would be a freely elected leader who is limited in his powers by an
independently elected council and who would act in accord with public peace and safety and social
well-being.”
“Baruch, you have now succeeded in persuading me that you shall live a lonely life and that your
future will include not only blasphemy but treason as well. Be gone.”
As he listened to Baruch’s footsteps clattering down the stairs, Rabbi Mortera looked upward and
muttered, “Michael, my friend, I have done what I could for your son. I have too many other souls to
protect.”
==
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MUNICH—1919
Imagine the scene: a shabbily dressed, unemployed, unpublished immigrant youth, soup kitchen
spoon in shirt pocket, barges into the office of a well-known journalist, poet, and politician and blurts
out, “Can you use a fighter against Jerusalem?”
Surely an ill-fated beginning of a job interview! Any responsible, well-bred, sophisticated editor in
chief would be quick to dismiss the intruder as puerile, bizarre, and possibly dangerous. But no—the
time was 1919, the place was Munich, and Dietrich Eckart was intrigued by the youth’s beautiful
words.
“Well, well, young warrior, show me your weapons.”
“My mind is my bow, and my words are—” Taking a pencil from his pocket and waving it aloft,
Alfred exclaimed, “My words are my arrows!”
“Well said, young warrior. And tell me of your exploits, your assaults against Jerusalem.”
Alfred trembled with excitement as he recounted his anti-Jerusalem exploits: his
near-memorization of Houston Stewart Chamberlain’s book, his anti-Semitic election speech at age
sixteen, his confrontation with the suspected Jew Headmaster Epstein (he omitted the Spinoza part),
his revulsion at the sight of the Jewish-Bolshevist revolution, his recent, rousing anti-Jew speech at
the Reval town meeting, his plan to write an eyewitness account of the Jewish Bolshevists in revolt,
his historical research into the menace of Jewish blood.
“An excellent beginning. But only a beginning. Next we must inspect the caliber of your weapons.
In twenty-four hours, bring me a thousand words of your eyewitness account of the Bolshevist
revolution, and we’ll see if it merits publication.”
Alfred made no move to leave. He glanced again at Dietrich Eckart, an imposing man with a
shaved head, dark-rimmed glasses shielding blue eyes, short fleshy nose, and a broad, rather brutal
chin.
“Twenty-four hours, young man. Time to begin.”
Alfred looked about him, obviously reluctant to leave Eckart’s office. Then, timidly: “Is there a desk,
a corner, and some paper I might use? I have only the library, which is now crammed with illiterate
refugees trying to stay warm.”
Dietrich Eckart signaled to his secretary. “Show this applicant to the back office. And give him
some paper and a key.” To Alfred, he said, “It’s poorly heated but quiet and has a separate entrance,
so you may work though the night, if necessary. Auf Wiedersehen, until tomorrow at precisely this
time.”
Dietrich Eckart put his feet on his desk, tamped out his cigar in the ashtray, and leaned back in his
chair for a catnap. Though only in his early fifties, he had been unkind to his body, and his flesh hung
heavily upon him. Born into a wealthy family, the son of a royal notary and attorney, he had lost his
mother in childhood, his father a few years later, and in his late teens had drifted into a
drug-immersed Bohemian life, which soon dissipated the fortune left by his father. After a series of
false starts in the arts and radical political movements, and a year of medical school, he slipped into
serious morphine addiction, which necessitated psychiatric hospitalization for several months. He
then became a playwright, but none of his work ever saw the stage. Fully convinced of his literary
merit, he placed the blame for his failure on the Jews, who he believed controlled German theaters
and were offended by his political views. His desire for revenge gave birth to a career as a
professional anti-Semite: born again as a journalist, he launched Auf gut Deutsch as the latest of a
series of publications intended to combat the power of the Jews. In 1919 the time was propitious, his
journalistic style compelling, and soon his paper became required reading for those interested in
nefarious Jewish machinations.
Though Dietrich’s health was poor and his energy level low, his thirst for change was huge, and he
avidly awaited the arrival of the German savior—a man of extraordinary force and charisma who
would lead Germany to its rightful position of glory. He saw immediately that this young handsome
Rosenberg was not that man: Rosenberg’s pitiful craving for approval stuck out too obviously from
behind his brash presentation. But perhaps there might be a role for him in preparing the way for the
one yet to come.
————
The following day Alfred sat in Eckart’s office, nervously crossing and uncrossing his legs, as he
watched the publisher read his thousand words.
Eckart removed his glasses and looked up at Alfred. “For someone who has a degree in
architecture and has never written such prose before, I would say this work is not without promise.
It’s true that these thousand words contain not a single grammatically correct sentence, but despite
that inconvenient fact your work has some power. There is tension, there is intelligence and
complexity, and there are even a few, not enough, graphic images. I hereby announce that your
journalistic virginity is at an end. I will publish this article. But there is work ahead: Every sentence
shrieks for help. Pull your chair over here, Alfred, and we’ll go over it line by line.”
Alfred eagerly moved his chair next to Eckart.
“Here’s your first lesson in journalism,” Eckart continued. “The writer’s job is to communicate.
Alas, many of your sentences are unaware of that simple dictum and instead attempt to obfuscate or
to convey that the author knows far more than he chooses to say. To the guillotine with every one of
those sentences. Look here and here and here.” Dietrich Eckart’s red pencil started its work in a blur,
and Alfred Rosenberg’s apprenticeship began.
Alfred’s revised piece was published as part of a series, “Jewry Within Us and Without,” and he
soon wrote several other eyewitness accounts of Bolshevist mayhem, each one showing gradual
stylistic improvement. Within weeks, he was on the regular payroll as Eckart’s assistant, and within
months Eckart was so satisfied that he asked Alfred to write the introduction to his book, Russia’s
Gravedigger, which described in lurid detail how Jews had undermined the Russian tsarist regime.
These were Alfred’s halcyon days, and to the end of his life he would glow with pleasure when he
recalled working side by side with Eckart and accompanying him by taxi when they distributed
Eckart’s fiery pamphlet, To All Workingmen, all over Munich. Alfred, finally, had a home, a father, a
purpose.
With Eckart’s encouragement, he completed his historical research on the Jews and within a year
published his first book, The Trace of the Jew Through Changing Times. It contained the seeds of what
would become the major motifs of Nazi anti-Semitism: the Jew as the source of destructive
materialism, anarchy, and Communism, the dangers of Jewish Freemasonry, the malignant dreams of
Jewish philosophers from Ezra and Ezekiel to Marx and Trotsky, and, most of all, the threat to higher
civilization posed by contamination with Jewish blood.
Under Eckart’s tutelage, Alfred grew more aware that the German working man, oppressed by
Jewish financial pressures, was yoked and trussed even further by Christian ideology. Eckart grew to
rely on Alfred for the historical context not only for anti-Semitism but, by tracing the development of
Jesuitism from the Judaism of the Talmud, for powerful anti-Christian sentiments as well.
Eckart took his young protégé to radical political rallies, introduced him to influential political
figures, and soon sponsored Alfred for membership in the Thule Society and accompanied him to his
first meeting of this august secret society.
At the Thule meeting, Eckart, after introducing Alfred to several members, left him on his own as
he conferred privately with several colleagues. Alfred looked about him. This was a new world—not a
beer hall but rather a meeting room in the magnificent Munich Four Seasons Hotel. Never before had
he been in such a room. He tested the thick pile of the red carpet under his scuffed shoes and looked
upward to an ornate ceiling depicting fleecy clouds and fleshy cherubs. There was no beer in sight, so
he walked to the central table and helped himself to a glass of sweet German wine. Looking about at
the other members, perhaps one hundred fifty, all obviously affluent, well-dressed, and overfed men,
Alfred grew self-conscious about his clothes, each item purchased at a secondhand shop.
Aware that he was obviously the poorest and shabbiest man in the room, he tried his best to blend
in with the Thule fellows and even tried to claim some distinction, referring to himself, whenever
possible, as a philosopher-writer. When standing alone he busied himself practicing a new facial
expression that combined a tiny curl of his lips with a minuscule nod and closing of his eyelids, by
which he hoped to convey, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean—I am not only in the know, but I
know even more than you think.” Later in the evening, he checked out the expression in the mirror in
the men’s room and was pleased. It soon would become his trademark smirk.
“Hello! You’re Dietrich Eckart’s guest?” asked an intense-looking man with a long face, mustache,
and black-rimmed glasses. “I’m Anton Drexler, part of the welcoming committee.”
“Yes, Rosenberg, Alfred Rosenberg. I’m a writer and philosopher for Auf gut Deutsch, and yes, I’m
Dietrich Eckart’s guest.”
“He has told me good things about you. It’s your first visit, and you must have questions. What
can I tell you about our organization?”
“Many things. First, I’m interested in the name, ‘Thule.’”
“To answer that I should start by telling you that our original name was ‘Study Group for German
Antiquity.’ Thule, many believe, was a land mass, now vanished, thought to be in the vicinity of
Iceland or Greenland and to be the original home of the Aryan race.”
“Thule . . . I know my Aryan history well from Houston Stewart Chamberlain, and I remember
nothing about Thule.”
“Ah, Chamberlain is a historian and one of our finest, but this is pre-Chamberlain and prehistory.
The realm of myth. Our organization wishes to pay reverence to our noble ancestors whom we know
only through oral history.”
“So, then, all these impressive men are meeting here tonight because of their interest in myth, in
ancient history? I’m not questioning it—in fact I think it admirable to see such calmness and
scholarly devotion in a time so volatile that Germany may blast apart at any minute.”
“The meeting has not yet begun, Herr Rosenberg. You’ll see soon enough why the Thule Society
holds your writings in Auf gut Deutsche in high regard. Yes, yes, we are keenly interested in ancient
history. But even more interested in our postwar history, a history in the making that our children and
grandchildren will one day read about.”
Alfred was exhilarated by the public addresses. Speaker after speaker warned about the grave
danger facing Germany from Bolshevists and Jews. Each speaker emphasized the pressing need for
action. Toward the end of the evening, Eckart, tipsy from an uninterrupted stream of German wine,
put his arm on Alfred’s shoulder and exclaimed, “An exciting time, eh, Rosenberg! And it’s going to
get more exciting. Writing the news, changing attitudes, steering public opinion—all noble
endeavors. Who can deny it? Yet making the news, yes, making the news—therein lies the true glory!
And you’ll be with us, Alfred. You’ll see, you’ll see. Trust me, I know what’s coming.”
Something momentous was in the air. Alfred sensed it keenly, and, too agitated to sleep, he
continued pacing the streets of Munich for an hour after parting from Eckart. Recalling his new friend
Friedrich Pfister’s advice for the relief of tension, he inhaled deeply and quickly through his nostrils,
held his breath for a few seconds, and then exhaled slowly from his mouth. After only a few cycles he
felt better and also surprised at the effectiveness of such a simple maneuver. No doubt about
it—Friedrich was a bit of a wizard. He had not liked the turn their conversation had taken about a
possible Jewish strain in his grandmother’s family but nonetheless felt positive toward Friedrich. He
wanted their paths to cross again. He would make it happen.
Upon returning home he found a note on the floor dropped in through the mail slot; it read, “The
Munich Public Library will hold Theological-Political Treatise by Spinoza for you for one week at the
checkout desk.” Alfred read it again several times. How oddly comforting was this little frail library
notice that had found its way through the roiling, dangerous streets of Munich to his tiny apartment.
==
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AMSTERDAM—1656
Bento wandered through the streets of Vlooyenburg, the section of Amsterdam where most of the
Sephardic Jews lived, viewing everything with poignancy. He stared at each image for a long time, as
if to imbue it with permanence, so it might be called back again in the future, even though the voice
of reason murmured that all will evaporate and life must be lived in the present.
Upon Bento’s return to the shop, Gabriel, eyes full of alarm, dropped his broom and rushed over
to him. “Bento, where have you been? All this time you’ve been talking to the rabbi?”
“We had a long, unfriendly talk, and since then I’ve been walking all over the city trying to settle
myself. I’ll tell you everything that happened, but I want to tell both you and Rebekah together.”
“She won’t come, Bento. And now it’s more than just her anger at you—now it’s her husband’s
anger. Ever since Samuel finished his rabbinical studies last year, he has taken a stronger and
stronger stance. Now he forbids Rebekah to see you at all.”
“She’ll come if you tell her how serious it is.” Bento clasped Gabriel’s shoulders with both hands
and looked into his eyes. “I know she will. Invoke the memory of our blessed family. Remind her
we’re the only ones still alive. She’ll come if you tell her this will be the last talk we will ever have.”
Gabriel was visibly alarmed. “What’s happened? You’re frightening me, Bento.”
“Please, Gabriel. I cannot describe this twice—it’s too hard. Please, get Rebekah here. You can find
a way to do it. It is my last request to you.”
Gabriel ripped off his apron, flung it on the back counter, and raced out of the shop. He returned
in twenty minutes with a sullen Rebekah in tow. Unable to refuse Gabriel’s plea—after all, she had
raised Bento during the three years between the death of their mother, Hana, and their father’s
remarriage to Esther—Rebekah dripped with anger as she entered the shop. She greeted Bento with a
frosty nod and splayed palms. “Well?”
Bento, who had already tacked a note on the door in both Portuguese and Dutch stating that the
shop would reopen shortly, replied, “Let’s go home, where we can talk privately.”
Once home, Bento closed the front door and motioned to Gabriel and Rebekah to sit while he
stood and paced about. “Much as I want this to be a private matter, I know it is not. Gabriel has made
it clear how my affairs affect the whole family. I’m afraid that what I’m going to say will shock you. It
is hard, but I must tell you everything. I want no one, absolutely no one in the community, to know
more than you about what is going to happen.”
Bento stopped. He had the full attention of his brother and sister, sitting still as granite. Bento took
a deep breath. “I’ll come right to the point. This morning Rabbi Mortera told me that the parnassim
has met and that a cherem is imminent. I will be excommunicated tomorrow.”
“A cherem?” exclaimed Gabriel and Rebekah simultaneously. Both were ashen-faced.
“There’s no way to stop it?” asked Rebekah. “Rabbi Mortera will not stand up for you? Our father
was his best friend!”
“I just spoke to Rabbi Mortera for an hour, and he told me it was not in his hands—the parnassim
is elected by the community and holds all the power. He has no choice but to do as they bid. But then
he also said he agreed with their decision.”
Bento hesitated. “I must hold nothing back.” Looking into the eyes of his sister and brother, he
acknowledged, “He did say there might be a chance. He said that if I were to reverse all my views, if I
were to publicly recant and proclaim that I would from this point forth embrace Maimonides’ thirteen
articles of faith, then he would petition the parnassim with all his strength to reconsider the cherem.
In fact—and I’m not certain he wishes this to be known because he whispered it to me—he offered
me a lifetime pension from synagogue funds if I vowed to devote my life to the respectful, and silent,
study of Torah and Talmud.”
“And?” Rebekah looked straight into Bento’s eyes.
“And . . .” Bento looked at the floor. “I declined. For me, freedom is beyond price.”
“You fool! Think what you are doing.” Rebekah’s voice was shrill. “My God, Brother, what is wrong
with you? Have you lost your senses?” She leaned forward as though she meant to bolt from the
room.
“Rebekah—” Bento strained to keep his voice calm. “This is the last time, the very last time, we
shall be with one another. The cherem means absolute exile. It will forbid you to speak to me or
contact me in any way ever again. Ever again. Think of how you, how all three of us, will feel if our last
meeting is bitter and devoid of love.”
Gabriel, too agitated to remain seated, also stood and paced about. “Bento, why do you keep
saying ‘last’? Last time we will see you, last request, last meeting? How long is the cherem? When will
it end? I’ve heard of one-day cherems or one-week cherems.”
Bento swallowed and looked into the eyes of his brother and sister. “This will be a different type of
cherem. I know about cherems, and if they do it properly, this cherem will have no end. It will be for a
lifetime, and it will be irreversible.”
“Go back to the rabbi,” said Rebekah. “Take his offer, Bento, please. We all make mistakes when
we are young. Rejoin us. Honor God. Be the Jew you are. Be your father’s son. Rabbi Mortera will pay
you for life. You can read, study, do anything you want, think anything you want. Just keep it to
yourself. Take his offer, Bento. Don’t you see that for the sake of our father he is paying you not to
commit suicide?”
“Please,” Gabriel clasped Bento’s hand, “take his offer. Make a new start.”
“He would be paying me to do something I cannot do. I intend to pursue truth and to devote my
life to knowing God, whereas the rabbi’s offer demands I live dishonestly and thus dishonor God. I
shall never do that. I shall follow no power on earth other than my own conscience.”
Rebekah began to sob. She put her hands behind her head and rocked as she said, “I don’t
understand you, don’t understand, don’t understand.”
Bento went to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away, then raised her head
and turned to Gabriel. “You were too young, but I remember, as if it were yesterday, our blessed
father bragging that Rabbi Mortera called Bento the best student he’d ever seen.”
She looked at Bento, tears cascading down her face. “The cleverest and the deepest, he said. How
our father beamed when he heard you might be the next great scholar, perhaps the next Gersonides.
That you would write the great seventeenth-century Torah commentary! The rabbi believed in you. He
said that your mind retained everything and that none of the synagogue elders could stand up to you
in debate. And yet now, despite this, despite your God-given gifts, look at what you’ve done. How
could you throw everything away?” Rebekah took the handkerchief Gabriel held out.
Bending to look directly into her eyes, Bento said, “Rebekah, please try to understand. Maybe not
now but perhaps sometime in the future you will understand these words: I took my own path because
of my gifts, not despite them. Do you understand? Because of my gifts, not despite them.”
“No, I do not understand it, and I shall never understand you, even though I have known you since
birth, even though the three of us slept in the same bed for so many years after mother died.”
“I remember,” said Gabriel. “I remember us sleeping together and you reading us stories from the
Bible, Bento. And secretly teaching both Rebekah and Miriam to read. I remember how you said it was
so unfair that girls weren’t taught to read.”
“I told my husband that,” said Rebekah. “I tell him everything: I told him how you taught us, and
read to us, and questioned everything, all the miracles. And how you used to run to father and ask,
‘Father, father, did that really happen?’ I remember your reading to us about Noah and the flood and
asking father whether God could really be so cruel. You asked, ‘Why did he drown everyone? And how
did the human race start again?’ And ‘Who could Noah’s children marry?’—the same question you
asked about Cain and Abel. Samuel believes those were the first signs of your malady. A curse from
birth. Sometimes I think I’m to blame. I confessed to my husband that I used to giggle at everything
you said, all your blasphemous remarks. Maybe I encouraged you to think that way.”
Bento shook his head. “No, Rebekah, take no blame for my curiosity. It is my nature. Why do we
seek to take blame for something happening for reasons outside of ourselves? Remember how father
blamed himself for our brother’s death? How many times did we hear him say that if he hadn’t sent
Isaac to make deliveries of coffee beans into other neighborhoods, he would never have caught the
plague. It’s Nature’s course. We can’t control it. Taking blame is just a way of deceiving ourselves
into thinking we are powerful enough to control Nature. And, Rebekah, please know that I respect
your husband. Samuel is a fine man. It’s just that we disagree about the source of knowledge. I don’t
believe that questioning is a malady. Blind obedience without questioning is the malady.”
Rebekah had no reply. The three lapsed into silence until Gabriel asked, “Bento, a forever cherem?
Is there such a thing? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I’m sure that’s what they will do, Gabriel. Rabbi Mortera says they must do this to show the Dutch
we can govern ourselves. Perhaps it’s best for everyone. It will reunite you and Rebekah with your
community. You will have to join with the others and obey the cherem. You must be a part of the
shunning. You, like everyone else, must obey the law and avoid me.”
“Best for everyone, Bento?” asked Gabriel. “How can you speak like that? How can it be best for
you? How is it best to live among people who despise you?”
“I will not stay here; I’ll live elsewhere.”
“Where could you live?” asked Rebekah. “Are you planning to convert to Christianity?”
“No. Rest easy about that. I find much wisdom in the words of Jesus. They are similar to the
central message in our Bible. But I shall never ascribe to any superstitious views about a God who,
like any human, has a son and sends him on a mission to save us. Like all religions, including our
own, the Christians imagine a God who has human attributes and human desires and needs.”
“But where will you live, if you’re going to remain a Jew?” asked Rebekah. “A Jew can live only with
Jews.”
“I’ll find a way to live without a Jewish community.”
“Bento, you may be gifted, but you’re also a simple-minded child,” Rebekah said. “Have you really
thought it through? Have you forgotten Uriel da Costa?”
“Who?” asked Gabriel.
“Da Costa was a heretic who got a cherem from Rabbi Modena, Rabbi Mortera’s teacher,” said
Rebekah. “You were still an infant, Gabriel. Da Costa challenged all our laws—the Torah, the skullcap,
the tefillin, circumcision, even the mezuzahs on our doors—just like your brother. Worst of all he
denied the immortality of our soul and the resurrection of the body. One by one other Jewish
communities in Germany and Italy also expelled him by cherem. No one here wanted him, but he kept
pleading to come back. Finally we accepted him. Then he started his lunacy again. And once again he
begged for forgiveness, and the synagogue held a ceremony of penance. You were far too young,
Gabriel, but Bento and I saw that ceremony together. Do you remember?”
Bento nodded, and Rebekah continued, “In the synagogue he had to strip, and he received
thirty-nine terrible lashes to his back and then after the ceremony ended had to lie down in the
doorway while everyone in the entire congregation stepped on him as they left, and all the children
chased him and spit on him. We didn’t join them—father wouldn’t permit it. A short time after that
he took a gun and shot himself in the head.”
“That’s what happens,” she said, turning to Bento. “There is no life outside of the community. He
couldn’t do it, and you won’t either. How will you live? You will have no money—you won’t be
permitted to run a business in this community—and Gabriel and I will be forbidden to help you.
Miriam and I took an oath to our mother that we’d take care of you, and when Miriam was dying, she
asked me to look out for you and Gabriel. But now I can do nothing more. How will you live?”
“I don’t know, Rebekah. My needs are few. You know that. Look around.” He swept his arm around
the room. “I can do with little.”
“But answer me, how will you live? Without money. Without friends?”
“I am thinking of working with glass for a living. Grinding lenses. I think I’ll be good at that.”
“Glass for what?”
“Spectacles. Magnifying glasses. Maybe even telescopes.”
Rebekah looked at her brother in amazement. “A Jew grinding glass. What has happened to you,
Bento? Why are you so bizarre? You have no interest in real life. Not in a woman, a wife, a family. You
used to say all the time when we were children that you wanted to marry me, but for years—ever since
your bar mitzvah—you’ve never mentioned marriage again, and I’ve never heard you take any interest
in any woman. It’s unnatural. You know what I think? I think you never recovered from our mother’s
death. You watched her die, wheezing and struggling to breathe. It was awful. I remember how you
held my hand on the funeral barge taking her body to Beth Haim burial ground at Ouderkerk. You
would not speak a word that whole day—you just fixated on the horse pulling the barge along the
canal. The neighbors and friends were wailing and keening so loud that the Dutch bailiffs boarded
and hushed us. And then, all through the burial ceremony, you had your eyes closed as though you
were sleeping standing up. You didn’t see how they circled mother’s body seven times. I pinched you
when she was placed in the ground, and you opened your eyes and were terrified and tried to run
away when everyone started throwing handfuls of dirt on her. Maybe it was too much—maybe you
were scorched too badly by her death. You hardly talked for weeks after that. Maybe you never got
over it, and you won’t risk loving another woman, won’t risk another loss, another death like that.
Maybe that’s why you won’t let anyone matter to you.”
Bento shook his head. “That’s not right, Rebekah. You matter to me. And Gabriel matters to me.
Never seeing you again will be painful. You speak as though I’m not human.”
Rebekah continued as though she hadn’t heard him, “I believe you haven’t recovered from all the
deaths. At our brother Isaac’s death you showed so little feeling, as though you weren’t even
comprehending it. And then when Father told you that you had to stop your rabbinical studies to take
over the shop, you simply nodded. In one instant your whole life was changed, and yet you just
nodded. As though it were of little matter.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Gabriel. “Losing our parents is not the explanation. I’ve lived in
this same family, suffered the same deaths, and I don’t think like Bento. I want to be a Jew. I want a
wife and family.”
“And,” said Bento, “when did you hear me say a family was unimportant? I am full of happiness for
you, Gabriel. I love the idea of you starting your family. It deeply pains me to think I shall never see
your children.”
“But you love ideas, not people,” interjected Rebekah. “Maybe it comes from the way Father raised
you. You remember the honey board?”
Bento nodded.
“What?” asked Gabriel.
“When Bento was very young, maybe three or four—I don’t remember—Father taught him how to
read with a strange method. Later he told me it was common teaching practice hundreds of years ago.
He gave Bento a board on which was painted the entire aleph, bet, gimmel and covered it with honey.
He told Bento to lick off all the honey. Father thought it would help Bento love the Hebrew letters and
love language.
“Maybe it worked too well,” Rebekah continued. “Maybe that’s why you care more about books and
ideas than you care for people.”
Bento hesitated. Anything he might say would make matters worse. Neither his sister nor his
brother could open their minds to his ideas, and perhaps that was best after all. If he succeeded in
helping them see the problems of blind obedience to the authority of the rabbi, then their hopes of
contentment in their marriages and their community would be jeopardized. He would have to leave
them without their blessing.
“I know you’re angry, Rebekah, and you, too, Gabriel. And when I see this from your viewpoint, I
can understand why. But you cannot see it from mine, and it saddens me that we must part without
understanding. Small comfort that it may be, my parting words are these: I promise you that I shall
live a holy life and follow the words of the Torah by loving others, doing no harm, following the path
of virtue, and directing my thoughts upon our infinite and eternal God.”
But Rebekah was not listening. She had more to say. “Think of your father, Bento. He does not lie
next to his wives, neither our mother nor Esther. He lies in hallowed ground next to the holiest of
men. He lies in his eternal sleep, honored for his devotion to the synagogue and to our law. Our
father knew about the imminent arrival of the Messiah, and he knew about the immortality of the
soul. Think—think how he would feel about his son Baruch. Think how he does feel, because his
spirit does not die. It hovers, it sees, it knows the heresy of his chosen son. He curses you at this
moment!”
Bento could not restrain himself. “You are doing precisely what the rabbis and scholars do. And
this is precisely where they and I part company. You all proclaim with such certainty that our father’s
spirit watches me and curses me. Whence cometh your certainty? Not from the Torah! I know it by
heart, and it doesn’t contain a word of this. There is no evidence whatsoever for your claims about
Father’s spirit. I know you hear such fairy tales from our rabbis, but don’t you see how it serves their
purposes? They control us by fear and hope: fear of what will happen after death and hope that if we
live in some particular fashion—one that is good for the congregation and for the continued authority
of the rabbis—we will enjoy a blissful life in the world to come.”
Rebekah had put her hands over her ears, but Bento merely spoke louder, “I say to you that when
the body dies, the soul dies. There is no world to come. I shall not permit the rabbis or anyone else to
forbid me to reason, for it is only through reason that we can know God, and this quest is the only
true source of blessedness in this life.”
Rebekah stood and prepared to leave. She moved close to Bento and looked into his eyes. “I love
you as you once were in our family,” and she hugged him. “And now”—she slapped him hard in the
face—“I hate you.” She grabbed Gabriel’s hand and tugged him out of the room.
==
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MUNICH—1919
The next morning, while Alfred waited for Spinoza’s book in the library line, a dream from the night
before drifted into his mind: I’m walking and talking with Friedrich in the forest. Suddenly he vanishes,
and I’m alone and pass other people who seem not to see me. I feel invisible. I am unseen. Then the forest
darkens. I feel frightened. That was all he could recall. There was more, he knew, but he could not
retrieve it. Strange, he thought, how fleeting dreams could be. In fact he had not even remembered
having a dream at all until this snippet simply popped into his mind. The recollection must have been
prompted by a linkage between Spinoza and Friedrich. Here he was in line to get Spinoza’s
Theological-Political Treatise, the book that Friedrich had suggested he read before attempting to read
the Ethics. How odd that Friedrich came to mind so often—after all, they had only met twice. No, that
wasn’t entirely true. Friedrich knew him as a child. Perhaps it was simply the singular, oddly personal
nature of their conversation.
When Alfred arrived in the office, Eckart had not yet put in an appearance. That was not unusual, as
Eckart drank heavily every evening and his morning working hours were irregular. Alfred began
browsing through the preface of Spinoza’s book, which described what he intended to prove. No
problem reading this book—the prose was crystal clear. Friedrich was right, it was a mistake to have
started with the Ethics. The very first page riveted Alfred’s attention. “Fear breeds superstition,” he
read. And: “Weak and greedy people in adversity use prayers and womanish tears to implore help
from God.” How could a seventeenth-century Jew have written that? Those were the words of a
twentieth-century German!
The next page described how the “pomp and ceremony invested in religion clogs the mind of men
with dogmatism, crowds out sound reason leaving not enough room for even a modicum of doubt.”
Amazing! And it didn’t stop there! Spinoza went on to speak of religion as “a tissue of ridiculous
mysteries” that attracts men “who flatly despise reason.” Alfred gasped. His eyes grew wider.
The Hebrews as God’s “chosen people”? “Nonsense,” said Spinoza. An informed and honest
reading of Mosaic law, Spinoza insisted, revealed that God favored the Jews only by selecting for
them a thin strip of territory where they could live in peace.
And scripture the “word of God”? Spinoza’s powerful prose scattered that idea to the winds as he
claimed that the Bible contains only spiritual truth—namely, the practice of justice and charity—not
terrestrial truths. All those who find terrestrial laws and truths in the Bible are mistaken or
self-interested, Spinoza insisted.
The preface ended with a warning, “I ask the multitude not to read my book,” and went on to
explain that the “superstitious, unlearned populace, who hold that reason is nothing but a handmaid
to theology, will gain nothing from this work. Indeed their faith may be disturbingly unsettled.”
Stunned by these words, Alfred could not help marveling at Spinoza’s audacity. The short,
biographical introduction stated that though the book was published anonymously in 1670 (when
Spinoza was thirty-eight) the identity of the author was widely known. To state these words in 1670
took courage: 1670 was only two generations after Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy
and only a single generation after Galileo’s trial by the Vatican. The introduction noted that the book
was quickly banned by the state, by the Catholic Church, by the Jews, and soon after, by the
Calvinists. All that spoke well for it.
There could be no denying the extraordinary intelligence of the author. Now, finally, finally, he
understood why the great Goethe and all the other Germans he loved so much—Schelling, Schiller,
Hegel, Lessing, Nietzsche—revered this man. How could they not admire a mind like this? But, of
course, they lived in another century and knew nothing about the new science of race, nothing of the
dangers of poisoned blood—they simply admired this mutation, this extraordinary blossom emerging
from slime. Alfred looked at the title page: “Benedictus Spinoza”—hmm, Benedictus, a name with the
greatest possible distance from a Semitic name. The biographical sketch noted that he was
excommunicated by the Jews in his twenties and never again had contact with a Jew. So he was not
truly a Jew. He was a mutation—the Jews recognized he was not a Jew, and, in taking this name, he
must have realized it too.
Dietrich appeared by eleven and spent much of the day teaching Alfred how to be a more effective
editor. Soon he was given the responsibility of editing most of the work submitted to the paper.
Within weeks, Alfred’s red pencil moved lightning fast as he skillfully elevated the style and intensity
of others’ work. Alfred felt blessed; not only did he have a superb teacher, but he was Dietrich’s only
“child.” However, soon that was to change. A littermate for Alfred was on his way—a littermate who
would take up all the room.
The change was set into motion several weeks later, in September 1919, when Anton Drexler, the
man who had welcomed Alfred to the Thule Society, appeared at the office in an excited state. Dietrich
was about to close his door for a private talk when Drexler, with Dietrich’s approval, beckoned Alfred
to enter.
“Alfred, let me orient you,” Drexler said. “You know, I am sure, that not long after your first
meeting at the Thule Society, several of us started a new political party—the German Workers Party? I
recall you attended one of the first meetings, a small one. But now we’re ready to expand. Dietrich
and I want to invite you to attend our next meeting and write a lead article on the party. We’re one
among a legion of parties and need to make ourselves more prominent.”
Alfred, after glancing at Eckart, whose sharp nod suggested that the invitation was more than an
invitation, replied, “I shall make it a point of attending the very next meeting.”
Drexler seemed satisfied. He closed the door and gestured to Alfred to take a seat. “So, Dietrich, I
think we’ve found the one you’ve been waiting for. Let me tell you what’s happened. You remember,
of course, that when we decided to turn the party from a Thule members’ debating society into an
active political party with open meetings, we had to apply to the army for permission? And we were
notified that military observers would periodically attend our meetings?”
“I remember and fully approve of that regulation. It’s necessary to keep the Communists in line.”
“Well,” Drexler continued, “at a meeting last week with about twenty-five or thirty attendees, this
rather coarse-looking, poorly dressed man arrived late and sat in the last row. Carl, our bodyguard
and bouncer, whispered to me that he’s an army observer in civilian clothes and has been seen at
other political meetings, and at theaters and clubs, looking for dangerous agitators.”
“So this observer—his name is Hitler, a corporal in the army, but to be discharged in a few
months—remained entirely silent as he listened to the main speaker giving a dull talk on the
elimination of capitalism. But then, in the ensuing discussion period, things got lively. Someone in
the audience made a long statement favoring that stupid plan that’s floating around for Bavaria to
break away from Germany and merge with Austria into a South German state. Well, instantaneously,
this Hitler got enraged, bolted to his feet, strode to the front of the room, and delivered a blistering
attack on that idea or any proposal that deliberately weakened Germany. He continued for a few
minutes excoriating enemies of Germany—those allied with the Versailles criminals who are trying to
murder our country, fragment us, deprive of our glorious destiny—and so on.
“It was a wild tantrum, and he looked like a madman on the brink of losing all control. The
audience was stirring uneasily, and I was about to ask Carl to remove him—I hesitated only because,
well, he’s from the army. But just then, as though he knew what I was thinking, he took hold of
himself, regained restraint, and delivered a stunning fifteen-minute, far-ranging, impromptu speech.
Nothing original in the content. His views—anti-Jews, pro-military, anti-Communist—parallel our
own. But his delivery was astounding. After a few minutes, everyone, and I mean everyone, was
transfixed, their attention riveted to his blazing blue eyes and to his every word. This man has a gift. I
knew it instantaneously, and after the meeting I ran after him and gave him my pamphlet, My Political
Awakening. I also handed him my card and invited him to contact me to learn more about the party.”
“And?” Eckart asked.
“Well, he visited me last night. We talked at length about the aims and goals of the party, and he is
now member number 555 and will address the party at the next meeting.”
“Five hundred fifty-five?” interjected Alfred. “Amazing! You’re grown that large already?”
“Between us, and only between us, Alfred, it’s 55,” Drexler whispered. “For publication we want you
to add a digit and make it 555. We’ll be taken more seriously if we’re thought to be larger.”
A few nights later, Eckart and Alfred went together to hear Corporal Hitler speak. Afterward, they
were to dine at Eckart’s home. Hitler strode confidently to the front of the audience of forty and with
no introduction launched quickly into an impassioned warning of the danger posed to Germany by
the Jews. “I have come,” he spat out, “to warn you about the Jews and to urge a new kind of
anti-Semitism. I urge an anti-Semitism based on fact, not emotions. Emotional anti-Semitism leads
only to ineffective pogroms. That is not the solution. We need more, far more, than that. We need a
rational anti-Semitism. Rationality leads us to only one absolutely unshakeable conclusion: the
elimination of Jews from Germany altogether.”
Then he issued another warning. “The revolution that swept the crowned head of Germany from
power must not open the door for Judeo-Bolshevism.”
Alfred was startled by Hitler’s term “Judeo-Bolshevism.” He had been using that exact phrase for
some time, and here this corporal was thinking in the same way—using the same words. That was
both bad and good. Bad because he felt proprietary about the term, but good because he realized he
had a forceful ally.
“Let me tell you more about the Jewish danger,” Hitler continued. “Let me tell you more about
rational anti-Semitism. It’s not because of the Jews’ religion. Their religion is no worse than the
others—they’re all part of the same great religious swindle. And it’s not because of their history or
abominable parasitic culture—though their sins against Germany through the centuries are legion.
No, these things are not the reason. The real issue is their race, their tainted blood that is every day,
every hour, every minute, weakening and threatening Germany.
“The tainted blood can never become pure. Let me tell you about the Jews that choose baptism,
the converted Christian Jews. They are the worst kind. They pose the greatest danger. They will
insidiously infect and destroy our great country, just as they have destroyed every great civilization.”
Alfred jerked his head at this statement. He’s right, he’s right, he thought. This Hitler reminded
him of what he knew. The blood cannot be changed. Once a Jew, always a Jew. Alfred needed to
rethink his whole approach to the Spinoza problem.
“And now, today”—Hitler continued and began to pound on his chest with each point—“you must
realize you cannot turn a blind eye to this problem. Nor can small steps solve this problem—this
problem of whether our nation can ever recover its health. The Jewish germ must be eradicated. Don’t
be misled into thinking you can fight a disease without killing the carrier, without destroying the
bacillus. Do not think you can fight racial tuberculosis without taking care to rid the nation of the
carrier of that racial tuberculosis.”
Hitler made each point with a voice that grew more and more shrill, each sentence at a higher
pitch, until it seemed certain his voice would crack into slivers—but it never did. When he ended by
screaming, “This Jewish contamination will not subside, this poisoning of the nation will not end until the
carrier himself, the Jew, has been banished from our midst,” the entire audience leapt to its feet,
applauding wildly.
Dinner that evening at Eckart’s home was intimate—only four were present: Alfred, Drexler, Eckart,
and Hitler. But this was a different Hitler—not the chest-pounding, angry Hitler but a polite, gracious
Hitler.
Eckart’s wife, Rosa, a refined woman, escorted them into the parlor but after a few minutes
discreetly retired, leaving the four men to their private conversation. Eckart, with an affable flourish,
brought up one of his best wines from his cellar, but his exuberance was dashed to find that Hitler
was a teetotaler and Alfred a one-glass man. He was dashed even more to learn that Hitler was a
vegetarian and would not partake of the steaming roasted goose that the housekeeper proudly carried
into the dining room. After the housekeeper quickly prepared some scrambled eggs and potato for
Hitler, the four ate and talked for over three hours.
“So, Herr Hitler, tell us about your current assignment and your future in the army,” Eckart
prompted.
“There is not much future for the army since the Versailles Treaty—may it be cursed forever—has
set a limit of one hundred thousand soldiers and no limits at all for our enemies. This shrinkage
means I’ll be mustered out in about six months. Currently I have few duties aside from observing
meetings of the most threatening of our fifty political parties now operating in Munich.”
“And why is the German Workers Party considered threatening?” asked Eckart.
“Because of your word ‘workers.’ That arouses suspicions of Communist influence. But, Herr
Eckart, I assure you that after my report, the army shall offer you nothing but support. It is a
dangerous situation for us all. The Bolsheviks were responsible for the Russian surrender in the war,
and now they are dedicated to infiltrating Germany and turning us into a Bolshevist state.”
“You and I spoke yesterday,” said Drexler, “about the recent wave of assassinations of leftist
leaders. Would you mind repeating to Herr Eckart and Herr Rosenberg how you think the army and
the police should respond?”
“I believe there are far too few assassinations, and if it were left to me, I’d supply more bullets to
the assassins.”
Eckart and Drexler both smiled broadly at that answer, and Eckart inquired, “And your view of our
party thus far?”
“I like what I see. I agree entirely with the party platform, and after thinking the matter through, I
have no misgivings whatsoever about casting my lot with your party.”
“And our small size?” asked Drexler. “Alfred, our journalist here, was a trifle startled to learn that
our first five hundred soldiers were of the mythic variety.”
“Ah, as a journalist,” Hitler turned to Alfred, “I hope you will come to agree that the truth is
whatever the public believes. To speak frankly, Herr Drexler, our small size is, for me, an advantage,
not a disadvantage. I have my military pay, few demands from my commanding officer, and for the
next six months I plan to work unceasingly for the party and hope soon to put my imprint upon it.”
“May I take the liberty of asking for more information about your army service, Herr Hitler?” Eckart
asked. “What particularly interests me is your rank. You have so much obvious leadership potential.
You should be of high rank, and yet you are a corporal?”
“You must pose that question to my superior officers. I suspect they would say I was potentially a
great leader but that I too strongly resisted being a follower. But what is more pertinent are the facts.”
He turned to Alfred to make sure that he was taking notes. “I was awarded two Iron Crosses for
bravery. Check that with the army, Herr Rosenberg. A good journalist needs to check the facts, even
though there are times he may not choose to use them. And I was wounded twice in front-line action.
The first time was shrapnel wounds to my leg. But rather than enjoy a long convalescence, I insisted
on returning immediately to my regiment. The second was a gift from our British friends—mustard
gas. Several of us were blinded temporarily and survived only because one was merely half-blinded.
He led us, each holding on to the next in a chain of hands, from the front to medical care. I was
treated at Pasewalk Hospital and discharged about a year ago, with some damage to my vocal
chords.”
Alfred, busily taking notes, looked up to say, “Your vocal cords sounded hale and hearty tonight.”
“Yes, I thought so. It’s strange, but those who knew me before the injury say that the chlorine gas
seemed to have made my voice stronger. Trust me, I shall not fail to use it against the French and
British criminals.”
“You’re an excellent speaker, Herr Hitler,” said Eckart, “and I think you’ll become invaluable to our
party. Tell me: have you had any professional training in public speaking?”
“Only briefly, in the army. On the basis of a few impromptu speeches to other soldiers I was given
a couple of hours’ training and assigned to lecture returning German prisoners of war on the major
dangers to Germany: Communism, the Jews, and pacifism. My army record contains a report from
my commanding officer calling me a ‘born orator.’ I believe that. I have a gift, and I intend to use it in
the service of our party.”
Eckart continued asking questions about Hitler’s education and reading. Alfred was surprised to
hear he had been a painter and sympathized with his outrage at Jews controlling the Viennese Art
Academy and denying him entry to the painting school. They agreed to sketch together sometime. At
the end of the evening, as the guests were preparing to leave, Eckart asked Alfred to remain a bit
longer to discuss some work issues. When they were alone, Eckart poured some brandy for the two of
them, ignoring Alfred’s refusal, and said, “Well, Alfred, he’s arrived. I believe tonight we’ve seen the
future of Germany. He’s coarse and rough-hewn—many deficits, I know. But there is power, much
power! And all the right sentiments. Do you not agree?”
Alfred was hesitant. “I see what you see. But when I think about elections, I envision large
segments of Germany who might not agree. Can they embrace a man who has not spent a single day
at university?”
“One vote per man. The great majority, like Hitler, have had their schooling on the streets.”
Alfred ventured yet further: “Yet I believe the greatness of Germany emanates from our great
souls—Goethe, Kant, Hegel, Schiller, Leibniz. Don’t you agree?”
“That is precisely why I’ve asked you to stay. He needs . . . what shall I say? Polishing. Completion.
He’s a reader but a highly selective one, and we need to fill in the gaps. That, Rosenberg, will be our
job—yours and mine. But we must be deft and subtle. I sense great pride in him, and the herculean
task lying before us is to educate him without his knowing it.”
Alfred walked home with a heaviness to his step. The future had grown clearer. A new drama was
opening upon the stage, and though he was now certain he would be a cast member, his assigned
role was not the one he had dreamed of.
==
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AMSTERDAM—JULY 27, 1656
The exterior of the Talmud Torah Synagogue, the major synagogue of the Sephardic Jews, resembled
the exterior of any other house on the Houtgracht, a large and busy boulevard where many of
Amsterdam’s Sephardic Jews lived. But with its lavish Moorish furnishings, the synagogue’s interior
belonged to another world. Against the side wall—the wall closest to Jerusalem—stood an elaborately
carved Holy Ark containing the Sifrei Torah hidden behind a dark red velvet, embroidered curtain. In
front of the Ark a wooden bimah served as a platform on which the rabbi, the cantor, the reader of the
day, and other dignitaries stood. All windows were covered with heavy drapes embroidered with birds
and vines, preventing any passerby from seeing the synagogue interior.
The synagogue served as a Jewish community center, Hebrew school, and house of prayer for
simple morning services, lengthier Sabbath ceremonies, and the festive celebrations of the High
Holidays.
Not many people regularly attended the short, weekday prayer services; often there were only ten
men—the required minyan—and if ten were not present, then an urgent street search was launched
for additional men. Women, of course, could not be part of the minyan. On the morning of Thursday,
July 27, 1656, however, there were not ten quiet pious worshippers but nearly three hundred
clamoring congregation members occupying every seat and every inch of standing room. Present
were not only regular, weekday worshippers and Sabbath Jews but even the rarely seen “High Holiday
Jews.”
The reason for the hubbub and momentous turnout? The frenzy was fueled by the same thrill, the
same horror and dark fascination that, through the ages, had inflamed crowds rushing to witness
crucifixions, hangings, beheadings, and autos-da-fé. Throughout the Jewish community of
Amsterdam word had spread swiftly that Baruch Spinoza was to be excommunicated.
Cherems were commonplace in Amsterdam’s seventeenth-century Jewish community. A cherem
was issued every several months, and every adult Jew had witnessed many. But the enormous crowd
of July 27 anticipated no ordinary cherem. The Spinoza family was well-known to every Amsterdam
Jew. Baruch’s father and his uncle, Abraham, often had served on the mahamad, the governing board
of the synagogue, and both men lay buried in the cemetery’s most hallowed ground. Yet it is the fall
from grace of the most highly placed that has always most excited crowds: the dark side of
admiration is envy combined with disgruntlement at one’s own ordinariness.
Of ancient lineage, cherems were first described in the second century BCE, in the Mishnah, the
earliest written compilation of oral rabbinical traditions. A systematic compendium of offenses
warranting cherem was compiled in the fifteenth century by Rabbi Joseph Caro in his influential book
The Prepared Table (Shulchan Arukh), which was widely printed and well-known to
seventeenth-century Amsterdam Jews. Rabbi Caro listed a large number of offenses warranting
cherem, including gambling, behaving lewdly, failing to pay one’s taxes, publicly insulting fellow
community members, marrying without parental consent, committing bigamy or adultery, disobeying
a decision of the mahamad, disrespecting a rabbi, engaging in theological discussion with Gentiles,
denying the validity of oral rabbinic law, and questioning the immortality of the soul or the divine
nature of the Torah.
It was not only the who and the why of the impending cherem that incited curiosity among the
crowd at Talmud Torah Synagogue: rumors presaged extreme severity. Most cherems were mild,
public rebukes, resulting in a fine or being shunned for days or weeks. In more serious cases
involving blasphemy, the sentence typically was longer—in one case, eleven years. Yet reinstatement
always was possible if the individual was willing to repent and to accept some prescribed
penalty—generally, a large fine or, as in the case of the infamous Uriel da Costa, public lashing. But
in the days leading to July 27, 1656, rumors had circulated about a cherem of unprecedented severity.
According to custom for cherem, the synagogue interior was lit only by candles of black wax, seven
resting on a large, hanging chandelier and twelve in surrounding wall niches. Rabbi Mortera and his
assistant, Rabbi Aboab, who had returned from thirteen years in Brazil, stood side by side on the
bimah in front of the Holy Ark, flanked by the six members of the parnassim. Waiting solemnly until
the congregation grew quiet, Rabbi Mortera held aloft a Hebrew document and, without greeting or
opening statement, read the Hebrew proclamation in his booming voice. Most of the congregation
listened in silence. The few who understood spoken Hebrew whispered in Portuguese to their
neighbors, who in turn passed the information along the rows. By the time Rabbi Mortera had
finished reading, the congregation’s mood had grown sober, almost grim.
Rabbi Mortera took two steps back as Rabbi Aboab stepped forward and began to translate the
Hebrew cherem, word for word, into Portuguese.
The Lords of the Parnassim announce that, having long known of the evil opinions and acts of
Baruch de Spinoza, they have endeavored by various means and promises to turn him from his
evil ways. But having failed to make him mend his wicked ways, and, on the contrary, daily
receiving more and more serious information about the abominable heresies that he practiced and
taught and about his monstrous deeds, and having for this numerous trustworthy witnesses who
have deposed and born witness to this effect in the presence of the said Spinoza, they became
convinced of the truth of this matter; and after all of this has been investigated in the presence of
the honorable rabbis, they have decided that the said Spinoza should be excommunicated and
expelled from the people of Israel.
“Abominable heresies”? “Evil acts”? “Monstrous deeds”? Murmuring arose from the congregation.
Astonished members searched one another’s faces. Many had known Baruch Spinoza for his entire
life. Most admired him, and none knew of any involvement with wickedness, monstrous deeds, or
abominable heresies. Rabbi Aboab continued:
By decree of the angels and by the command of the holy men, we excommunicate, expel, curse,
and damn Baruch Spinoza with the consent of God, Blessed be He, and with the consent of the
entire holy congregation, and in front of these holy scrolls with the 613 precepts which are written
therein; cursing him with the excommunication with which Joshua banned Jericho and with the
curse which Elisha cursed the boys and with all the castigations which are written in the Book of
the Law.
From the men’s section of the congregation, Gabriel searched the women’s area for Rebekah,
trying to gauge her reaction to this violent cursing of their brother. Gabriel had witnessed cherems
before but never one with such vehemence. And it immediately got worse. Rabbi Aboab continued:
Cursed be Baruch Spinoza by day, and cursed be he by night; cursed be he when he lies down, and
cursed be he when he rises up. Cursed be he when he goes out, and cursed be he when he comes
in. The Lord will not spare him, but then the anger of the Lord and his jealousy shall lie upon him,
and the Lord shall blot out his name from under heaven. And the Lord shall separate him unto evil
out of all the tribes of Israel, according to all the curses of the covenant that are written in this
Book of the Law. But you that cleave unto the Lord your God are alive every one of you this day.
As Rabbi Aboab retreated, Rabbi Mortera stepped forward and glared at the congregation, as if to
make eye contact with every member, then slowly, laying emphasis upon each syllable, he
pronounced the shunning:
We order that no one should communicate with Baruch Spinoza, neither in writing nor accord him
any favor nor stay with him under the same roof nor within four cubits in his vicinity, nor read any
treatise composed or written by him.
Rabbi Mortera nodded to Rabbi Aboab. Without a word, the men locked arms and descended in
unison from the bimah. Then, followed by the six members of the parnassim, they strode down the
aisle and out of the synagogue. The congregation broke into raucous clamor. Not even the eldest of
members could recall a cherem so harsh. There had been no mention of repentance or reinstatement.
Everyone in the congregation appeared to understand the implications of the rabbi’s words. This
cherem was forever.
==
==
==
