The Rabbi Who Tricked Stalin Read online

Rabbi Aaron entered the Gallery’s front door. He called loudly: ‘Master-artist Mendelavitch’, as he had not been in his regular seat, at the desk opposite to the door.

  “I am here, in Studio!” said painter Mendelevitch. He was arranging a apainter’s studio in a far corner. It was a place that in the past had a wooden small shutter, turning to the Jewish ex-Butchery courtyard. But since the hut’s confiscation - that shutter had been closed up with boards, that avoided to look outside. However, Mendelevitch had set there two high wooden partitions at that corner, that would separate it from the large Gallery Hall. So he could work there alone, undisturbed and quite isolated from the Gallery’s commercial tumult- especially in warm evenings. At such a time – many culture starved people would visit his business and enjoy the artistic atmosphere and nice productions. Some of the visitors were really physically starved in those days, but the spiritual enjoyment from the ’fruitful culture’ – would satiete their souls, and that was very important to the painter and his government.

  “The real type of food,” Medelevitch used to tell Rabbi Aaron with a smile,“the physical one, could be supplied nowadays only to few people: to high ranked Political Party ‘Apparatchiks’ and to propagandists like Elya, or to Gepaus active teeth breakers. So, it’s natural that most of the towns’ people come here, pay their cheap entry fee, and enable us to keep moving on.”

  Rabbi walked slowly toward Mendelevich’s Studio. He peeped in through the narrow opening, and looked at his manager’s smearing, by fingers and by a narrow brush, some oil colors on a canvass. It was set up on a Painter’s Stand (‘Stative Tripod’ he would call it, maybe a French phrase). Then Mendelevich was carefully inspecting this current painting - a Tundra in winter: It showed two men, wrapped with furs, in snow-sledges driven by horses and having dogs strolling beside them. Yes, Mendelevitch had been very creative in reproducing a picture of one of the productions of Repin.

  “Good morning, Mendel,” groaned Rabbi Aaron, after waiting long, having respect to the painter’s activity, “I’ve come to work. Though I still feel sick.”

  “I know about your clash with Gepau,” said the painter. “Your beard hides blue stains, from the blows you’ve gotten, eh?”

  the painter continued to smear his oil colors, without looking at his colleague.

  “How can I address our Greatest Leader?” asked Rabbi Aaron, “I would like to beg him to save me: let me go out from Russia.”

  “Can you find a reason to leave paradise?”

  “The Show Trial of yesterday - made me crazy. Gepau might blame everybody, and do with him whatever they want.”

  Mendelevich left his painting. He got out of the studio, took two framed pictures leaning on the wall and began to hang them over.

  “A reason to leave Russia,” he said ironically, “might be only a proven evidence of an ex-tre-me humanitarian case!

  “To-where shall I write about such a case?” asked the Rabbi.

  “To Father Stalin in the Kremlin, of course. He’s full of Humanity.” He stepped close to Rabbi Aaron and pointed on Stalin’s picture hanging on the wall thereby. “Look at his face.”

  “Can he be really graceful?” asked Rabbi Aaron.

  “Who knows? You can try, if you want it strongly,” answered the painter quite indifferently.

  Excited Rabbi Aaron walked to the tub, placed in another corner of the Gallery. He drank a cup of water.

  “You know that I haven’t studied writing Russian. So, please...” he murmred.

  “Don’t mix me with writing letters! If Gepau finds out, that I have done it - I am damned. A request to leave Russia- is an anti-regime propaganda.”

  “Look at my broken teeth,” said Rabbi Aaron and opened his mouth. “You, Mendelevitch- see my cripple child almost every day... You listen to mockeries at my religion. You know how they had confiscated this hut, to avoid Kosher butchery, and made it a store of so called arts. These are not fine arts - but profane, and partly aimed for personality worship of our leaders.”

  “Find somebody else to write for you, dearest Rabbi.”

  “I will pay you. . .And don’t worry: I shall find a good man to replace me here, - if Stalin does let me go out.”

  “Don’t delude yourself. . . But- Well... let me think about it.”

  Mendelevich pulled a vodka small bottle out of his coat and drank quickly. Rabbi walked to his Cash Desk..

  Mendelevich returned to his studio corner, put off the oil painting from the stand, replacing it by a board – which he quickly covered with a neat white flat paper. He was promptly drawing Rabbi Aaron with a thick pencil. Then turned his head to the portray and was as talking to it:

  “Rabbi, I have an artist’s heart. It’s merciful.”

  He walked to the Cash Desk, taking the drawing with him, and offered it to the Rabbi, who refused to take it.

  “Well,” said the painter, “I’ll write the letter. Before people arrive.”

  Mendelevich found his fountain pen in his pocket. He picked up a lined piece of paper from Rabbi Aaron’s notebook, and wrote while standing near Rabbi’s desk. It was a very short letter about “the pitiable condition of Rabbi Aaron Hittin, living in Minsk Belarus - father of a maimed child…”

  Next day Rabbi Aaron sent the letter, but it did not reach anyone.

  CHAPTER 20