The Way Back: Chapters 7–10

And in addition to all these, there was a large contingent that came to Zubinsk solely to see the holy Rebbe, grandfather of the bride:
His Hasidim.

It was a very auspicious occasion, the wedding, and it was said that the Rebbe himself would be officiating, stretching up his holy hand from beneath the wedding canopy in order to draw down the heavenly cord that would bind the bride and groom together in marriage.

The Dark One was acquainted with this word, friend, but never before had it been spread around with such profligacy in his presence.
"And where do you come to us from, my friend?” said Mendl.

When he sits for meditation, he traverses the distance between Zubinsk and the Palace of Heaven in less than an hour's time.

But do not be deceived: far and away his greatest gift is the revelation of people to themselves. It is impossible to spend even five minutes in conversation with the holy Rebbe without learning something about yourself, and that something can be so fundamental that it changes everything in your life.

For a moment, the cold gloom of the night seemed insuperably heavy.

“What's this dirge you're singing, Velvl? Let's have a dance, a real dance!"

“Nearly as generous as you are with other people's money.”
A titillated buzz ran through the crowd.

Belial began to chuckle exultantly, but he was cut short when Mammon continued:
“I shall beat him to the Rebbe tonight.”

A living mortal was a precious thing—perhaps the most precious thing a demon could ever acquire—and immediately, the onlooking fiends and devils began to speculate, craning their necks to see: Who was it?

...the gate was just ahead, she could see it, and if she could only make her way through, then they could not follow, but she was slowing, the strength sapping from her legs, encumbered, weighted down by the sheer number of grabbing hands...

On and on Bluma ran, deeper and deeper into sleeping Zubinsk, the scream ebbing away behind.

Zubinsk was much larger than Tupik, all high brick row houses and glassy-eyed storefronts, and in no time at all, Bluma had thoroughly lost her bearings.

“Unbelievable! You completely ruined the effect. Foolish boy. Now all they'll be talking about is that girl.”
His petulant little voice bounced and jostled with every bump and cobble they went over.

“We are in Zubinsk. And you are to take me to this miracle-working Rebbe so that I may claim him before any of those pompous fiends in the cemetery manage a way through.”

Now imagine that you are a sublimely talented musician.

Each of these sounds in each of its constituent parts—the rhythm of the engines, the pitch of the squealing wheels, the timbre of the voice of each of the waiting passengers, not to mention its words and intonation—each of these is perfectly clear, perfectly distinguishable, and entirely inescapable to you.

Each of these sounds in each of its constituent parts—the rhythm of the engines, the pitch of the squealing wheels, the timbre of the voice of each of the waiting passengers, not to mention its words and intonation—each of these is perfectly clear, perfectly distinguishable, and entirely inescapable to you.

Now, once the darkness fell, the Rebbe would retire to his private chamber, don his kittel, a long white robe worn for holy occasions, and, enclosing himself beneath the cowl of his prayer shawl, sit and meditate.

Shrewd as ever, Bluma. And you are correct, of course.

“You saw them, Bluma—all grasping for advantage, desperate to be the richest, the strongest, the most powerful. They clamor for the Rebbe, but only because the others desire him. No, I have no time for such nonsense."

“What they were," said Lilith, “was mortal women. Just like you. And when their time came to die, they looked back on their lives and saw how they had been compelled to live: subservient, second, Sisterless. And so, one by one, they joined me, in the hope that things might change..."

But as it is, in the morning, they mean to bind her to some blundering fool of a groom for all eternity. It is a crime, Bluma, a waste, like binding a soaring eagle to a plodding rhinoceros.

Inside his mittens, the grit had begun to sting, abrading his fingers.

“We must approach slowly, decorously, as if we were only out to take the night air and happened upon him by chance.”

For this reason, he heard before he could see: stamping, shuffling feet coming up from behind, a pair of thin, bony hands clapping along in time, and, high above it all, a single voice, singing a wistful, stumbling melody.

In the center of the circle, the Rebbe of Zubinsk saw him: long, thick beard blacker than the night, caftan blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes.

Gradually, his tenuous steps slowed and then stopped.

Until this moment, the wind, as a mark of respect, had observed the custom of parting on either side of the holy Rebbe, but now, as if crying out in grief, the full force of its strength went tearing indiscriminately through Zubinsk, and as the five young Hasidim dashed forward, forward to catch their Rebbe, the gale tore screaming past them on every side.

Bluma slept beside the Rebbe’s granddaughter on the rostrum of the Great Synagogue of Zubinsk, and even the Messenger of Death, accustomed as it was to remaining awake for millennia, stumbled into the cemetery and passed out in an empty grave, scattering imps and goblins in its wake.

Softly, as if loath to disturb the thick silence of the sanctuary, Bluma crept out the front door.

Yehuda Leib was not so sure, but Bluma was adamant.

The light in the street was cold and gray as Yehuda Leib made his way behind the backs of the fervently praying Hasidim toward the entrance of the general store.

At first he thought the room was empty, the warm lamplight spilling out over a sturdy desk strewn with ledgers and account books.

At first he thought the room was empty, the warm lamplight spilling out over a sturdy desk strewn with ledgers and account books.

Her face was caked with rouge, and the rivulets of black that dripped from her eyes showed that she had been crying.

Some men chattered, whispering about everything and nothing to tamp down their fear, but Pasternak didn't say a word; Pasternak checked and double-checked.

As far as Pasternak knew, he woke again in the aftermath of the battle, rising up from the morass of corpses into an empty ravine.

“You're not a deserter, are you?”
At this dangerous and insulting insinuation, Pasternak let out a percussive “No, sir!”

And it was in this capacity that, years and years after his death, Pasternak would emerge from the gates of the cemetery of Zubinsk, still wearing the tawny overcoat and black spiked helmet in which he had died, the wound that had killed him still leaking turbid brown blood.