This Man of Kerioth

One

When I was a boy, I remember that my next door neighbor died suddenly. There was much talk in my village about his death. He was skilled at making shoes and was valued by everyone because of this. I remember that he was quiet but often very kind to me. Kind to my sister as well. He and his wife had no children. There was always a movement within the community to include him in the things that we did. If there was a meal for Purim or Passover, he was always invited. You see it was because of his wife. She was ill. My mother once told my father that she was told that his wife heard voices. I didn't understand. I hear voices. People talk in the village all the time. You can hear people talking even when you try to fall asleep at night. It wasn't until I was much older that I understood what she meant. There were spirits that operated inside of her that were not something that her husband could fix as easily as he could add a new leather strap to a sandal. There was no leather strap that would hold her together.

They say this is why they didn't have children. I said it was God. God protected them. Hashem kept them safe because the few times that I encountered his wife I definitely did not feel safe. She was snarling at me like a dog. In fact I think a snarling dog would have been afraid of her, too. Maybe a lion could stand up to her, but I'm not sold on that. As a boy, I remember thinking that she was a demon. A witch. And I felt bad for the cobbler. I felt horrible for his life. He would come to shabbos on some Friday nights, but over the years he came less and less. His wife was worse. She was difficult to deal with. Some say she slept with restraints at night. Otherwise she might crawl through the town and terrify everyone. And then there was that dreadful day when I discovered that someone had murdered her. My father said there had been a struggle in their home. A criminal had entered and she was confused. She attacked him, and he was much stronger and he killed her. The Romans eventually caught him and he was put to death for his crime. But the cobbler was never the same.

You would have thought that he would approach Temple with a shrinking burden, but his wife's murder actually seemed to make him sink deeper with each step. His business doubled as people flocked to his shop to help support him. Everything else about him crumbled. Years went by, and as I grew older I never forgot his fondness and kindness when my sister and I were little. That's why it was so awful to hear the second tragedy that struck his home. He had hanged himself. The women of the village would often gossip and cackle about the tragedies of our community but for him they did not. This business was private and it stayed that way.

I have always understood how the burdens of life can sometimes do much to keep us alive. This does not seem true for me today. It is so many years after the cobbler’s death, and I am now at the lowest point in my life. I stand here with these silver pieces in my hand. I look down at them and think of how each piece could represent the many moments when he stopped working and looked over at me and gave me a smile. It was a warm embrace without even a single movement towards me. This man had a heart to rival any star. It burned bright for everyone but brightest of all for his wife.

I think that when she was gone, he lost his reason to live. I understand that. I had a reason to live and these silver pieces are not it. I was paid to do what had to be done, and still I stand here and think of the cobbler and the tree behind his house. How many times did he toss the rope up into the night before it crossed a strong limb? He was strong from his job. He must have tossed the rope high. I have a rope. And there are trees everywhere. I am the cobbler today. But there will be no little boy to remember me smiling at him on a hot summer day. No one will remember me. I have not yet lost the love of my life, but soon we all will.

Two

"This is blood money. This money might as well have been soaked in blood. I will wash my hands in the river after I have rid myself of this blood. We cannot return this money to the coffers. It should be buried like the dead. Because this money is dead. It is the death of he who would be the son of God."

And a small group of priests took the silver pieces to the graveyard where the people of this community would bury strangers.

Three

The day was hot as the two brothers worked together in Potter's field. “For whom are we digging this hole my brother?” “We dig it for the traitor.” “And what made him a traitor?” “He sold his brother.” “And for how much did he sell him?” “30 pieces of silver.” “30 pieces of silver?” “Yes.”

There was a pause in the brother’s digging. He looked up and said,

“How much could I get for you?” And then the two laughed and kept digging.

And when the pieces of silver melted they became blood and soaked the earth where Judas was buried. And the graveyard for strangers became forever known as the field of blood.

Four

The tree that held the traitor was incensed to be his gallows. Years earlier, it was the cobbler who swung from his strongest limb. That broke the tree’s heart. How cruel is fate? That this good man would make such a sin as killing himself. And now, like some distorted shadow, another man’s neck is cracking from his own weight. The tree regretted his deep roots and broad shoulders. Had he been smaller, weaker, he might not have had to live to see this misery. He would rather be chopped down to make lean-to homes or wood for kindling. Noble deaths for a tree. Even to be the heavy board that crushed the back of the savior before he climbed the hill to his death would have been more bearable for the tree. But as it is, it was the betrayer. At least he was dead, thought the tree. And I must live to be a twisted memorial to this man of Kerioth. This monster. This father of the death of hope. It had been a tree about which the first man was warned. But no one warned the tree. We, he thought, must always bear the weight of it all. What else was there for us to do?