Barabbas (6 page)

Though of course he was not the son of God, that was obvious.

He had used his power in the most extraordinary way. Used it by not using it, as it were; allowed others to decide exactly as they liked; refrained from interfering and yet had got his own way all the same: to be crucified instead of Barabbas.

They spoke of his having died for them. That might be. But he really had died for Barabbas, no one could deny it! In actual fact, he was closer to him than they were, closer than anyone else, was bound up with him in quite another way. Although they didn’t want to have anything to
do with him. He was chosen, one might say, chosen to escape suffering, to be let off. He was the real chosen one, acquitted instead of the son of God himself—at his command, because he wished it. Though they suspected nothing!

But he didn’t care for their “brotherhood” and their “love feasts” and their “love one another.” He was himself. In his relationship to that crucified man they called the son of God he was also himself, as always. He was no serf under him as they were. Not one of those who went around sighing and praying to him.

How can one
want
to suffer, when there’s no need, when one’s not forced to? That sort of thing is beyond belief and the mere thought of it almost enough to turn the stomach. When he thought of it, he could see before him the lean, miserable body with arms hardly strong enough to hang by and the mouth that was so parched that it was all it could do to ask for a little water. No, he didn’t like anyone who sought out suffering in that way, one who hung himself up on a cross. He didn’t like him at all! But they adored their crucified one and his suffering, his pitiable death, which could probably never be pitiable enough for them. They adored death itself. It was horrid, it filled him with disgust. It put him right off both them and their doctrine and the one they said they believed in.

No, he didn’t like death, not one bit. He loathed it and would much rather never die. Perhaps that was why he didn’t have to? Why he had been chosen to be let off it? Supposing the crucified man really was the son of God, why, then he knew everything and was quite well aware that he, Barabbas, did not want to die, either suffer or die.

And so he had done so in his stead! And all Barabbas had had to do was to go with him up to Golgotha and see him crucified. That was all that was asked of him and even that he had thought difficult, disliking death as he did and everything connected with it.

Yes, he was indeed the one the son of God had died for! It was to him and no other that it had been said:—Release this man and crucify me!

Such were Barabbas’s thoughts as he walked away after trying to be one of them, as he strode away from the potter’s workshop in Potters’ Lane, where they had so plainly shown that they did not want him among them.

And he decided to go and see them no more.

But next day, when he turned up again notwithstanding, they asked what it was in their faith that he didn’t understand; showing clearly that they felt sorry and reproached themselves for not having welcomed him properly and been glad to give him the knowledge for which he was thirsting. What was it he wanted to ask them about? That he didn’t understand?

Barabbas was on the point of shrugging his shoulders and replying that the whole thing was a mystery to him and, in fact, he couldn’t be bothered with it. But then he mentioned that a thing like the resurrection, for instance, he found hard to grasp. He didn’t believe that there was anyone who had risen from the dead.

Glancing up from their potters’ wheels, they looked first at him and then at each other. And, after whispering amongst themselves, the eldest among them asked if he would like to meet a man whom their Master had raised from the
dead? If so, they could arrange it, but not before the evening after work, as he lived some little way outside Jerusalem.

Barabbas was afraid. This was not what he had expected. He had imagined they would argue about it and put forward their point of view, not try and prove it in such a pushing way. True, he was convinced that the whole thing was some queer fancy, a pious swindle, and that actually the man had not been dead. He was afraid all the same. He was not a bit keen on meeting the man. But he couldn’t very well say so. He must pretend he was grateful for the chance of convincing himself of their Lord and Master’s power.

He put in time by walking about the streets in a state of mounting agitation. When he returned to the workshop at closing-time, a young man accompanied him out through the city gates and up towards the Mount of Olives.

The man they sought lived on the outskirts of a little village on the slopes of the mountain. When the young potter drew aside the straw mat over the doorway they saw him sitting inside with his arms in front of him on the table and gazing straight out into the room. He seemed not to notice them until the young man greeted him in his clear voice. Then he slowly turned his head towards the door and returned their greeting in a curiously flat tone. The young man having given him a message from the brethren in Potters’ Lane and stated their errand, they were invited with a movement of the hand to sit down at the table.

Barabbas sat opposite to him and was drawn to examine his face. It was sallow and seemed as hard as bone. The skin was completely parched. Barabbas had
never thought a face could look like that and he had never seen anything so desolate. It was like a desert.

To the young man’s question the man replied that it was quite true that he had been dead and brought back to life by the rabbi from Galilee, their Master. He had lain in the grave for four days and nights, but his physical and mental powers were the same as before, nothing had altered as far as they were concerned. And because of this the Master had proved his power and glory and that he was the son of God. He spoke slowly in a monotone, looking at Barabbas the whole time with his pale, lack-lustre eyes.

When he had finished, they continued talking for a while about the Master and his great deeds. Barabbas took no part in the conversation. Then the young man got up and left them to go and see his parents, who lived in the same village.

Barabbas had no wish to be left alone with the man, but he could think of no pretext for abruptly taking his leave. The man looked steadily at him with the queer opaque eyes that expressed nothing at all, least of all any interest in him, but which nevertheless pulled Barabbas towards him in some inexplicable way. He would have liked to make his escape, tear himself away and escape, but he could not.

The man sat for some time without speaking. Then he asked Barabbas if he believed in their rabbi, that he was the son of God. Barabbas hesitated, then answered no, for it felt so odd to lie to those vacant eyes which didn’t seem to mind in the least whether one lied or not. The man took no offence, merely said with a nod:

—No, there are many who don’t. His mother, who was here yesterday, doesn’t believe either. But he raised me from the dead because I am to witness for him.

Barabbas said that in that case it was only natural he should believe in him, and that he must be eternally grateful to him for the great miracle he had wrought. The man said, yes, he was, he thanked him every day for having brought him back to life, for the fact that he belonged to the realm of the dead no longer.

—The realm of the dead? Barabbas exclaimed, noticing that his voice trembled slightly. The realm of the dead?… What is it like there? You who have been there! Tell me what it’s like!

—What it’s like? the man said, looking at him questioningly. He clearly didn’t quite understand what the other meant.

—Yes! What
is
it? This thing you have experienced?

—I have experienced nothing, the man answered, as though disapproving of the other’s violence. I have merely been dead. And death is nothing.

—Nothing?

—No. What should it be?

Barabbas stared at him.

—Do you mean you want me to tell you something about the realm of the dead? I cannot. The realm of the dead isn’t anything. It exists, but it isn’t anything.

Barabbas could only stare at him. The desolate face frightened him, but he could not tear his eyes away from it.

—No, the man said, looking past him with his empty
gaze, the realm of the dead isn’t anything. But to those who have been there, nothing else is anything either.

—It is strange your asking such a thing, he went on. Why did you? They don’t usually.

And he told him that the brethren in Jerusalem often sent people there to be converted, and indeed many had been. In that way he served the Master and repaid something of his great debt for having been restored to life. Almost every day someone was brought by this young man or one of the others and he testified to his resurrection. But of the realm of the dead he never spoke. It was the first time anyone had wanted to hear about it.

It was growing dark in the room, and, getting up, he lighted an oil lamp that hung from the low ceiling. Then he got out bread and salt, which he placed on the table between them. He broke the bread and passed some to Barabbas, dipping his own piece in the salt and inviting Barabbas to do the same. Barabbas had to do likewise, though he felt his hand shaking. They sat there in silence in the feeble light from the oil lamp, eating together.

This man had nothing against eating a love feast with him! He was not so particular as the brethren in Potters’ Lane, and made but little distinction between one man and another. But when the dry, yellow fingers passed him the broken bread and he had to eat it, he imagined his mouth was filled with the taste of corpse.

Anyway, what did it mean, his eating with him like this? What was the hidden significance of this strange meal?

When they had finished, the man went with him to
the door and bade him go in peace. Barabbas mumbled something and hastily took his leave. He strode rapidly out into the darkness and down the mountainside, thoughts pounding in his head.

The fat woman was joyously surprised at his violence as he took her; it was with no little zest he did it this evening. What caused it, she didn’t know, but tonight it seemed as if he really needed something to hold on to. And if anyone could give that to him, she could. She lay dreaming she was young again, and that someone loved her …

Next day he kept clear of the lower part of the city and Potters’ Lane, but one of them from the workshop there ran into him up in Solomon’s colonnade and immediately asked how it was yesterday, whether it was not true what they had said? He answered that he did not doubt that the man he had visited had been dead and then resurrected, but that to his way of thinking their Master had had no right to raise him from the dead. The potter was dumbfounded, his face turning almost ashen at this insult to their Lord, but Barabbas merely turned his back and let him go.

It must have become known not only in Potters’ Lane, but in the oil-pressers’, the tanners’, the weavers’ lanes, and all the others; for when Barabbas, as time went on, went there again as usual, he noticed that the believers he usually talked to were not at all as before. They were taciturn, and looked at him suspiciously the whole time out of the corners of their eyes. There had never been any
intimacy between them, but now they openly showed their mistrust. In fact a wizened little man whom he didn’t even know tugged at him and asked why he was forever mixing with them, what he wanted of them, whether he was sent by the temple guard or the high priest’s guard or perhaps by the Sadducees? Barabbas stood there speechless, looking at the little old man, whose bald head was quite red with rage. He had never seen him before and had no idea who he was, except that he was obviously a dyer, judging from the red and blue strands of wool stuck through holes in his ears.

Barabbas realized that he had offended them and that their feelings towards him were quite changed. He was met with snubs and stony faces wherever he went, and some stared hard at him as if to make clear to him that they intended finding out who he was. But he pretended to take no notice.

Then one day it happened. It ran like wildfire through all the lanes where the faithful lived, suddenly there was not one who didn’t know it. It is he! It is he! He who was released in the Master’s stead! In the Saviour’s, in God’s son’s stead! It is Barabbas! It’s Barabbas the acquitted!

Hostile glances pursued him, hate gleamed from smouldering eyes. It was a frenzy which did not even abate after he had vanished from their sight, never to show himself there again.

—Barabbas the acquitted! Barabbas the acquitted!

H
e crept into his shell now and didn’t speak to a soul. For that matter, he hardly ever went out; just lay inside the curtain at the fat woman’s or in the arbour up on the roof when there was too much of a hubbub in the house. Day after day he would spend in this manner, without occupying himself in any way whatsoever. He scarcely bothered about eating, at least he wouldn’t have done if food had not been put before him and his attention drawn to it. He seemed utterly indifferent to everything.

The fat woman could not make out what was wrong with him; it was beyond her. Nor did she dare ask, either. It was best to leave him in peace, which was what he seemed to want. He barely answered when spoken to, and if one peeped cautiously inside the curtain now and again, he merely lay there staring up at the ceiling. No, it was
quite beyond her. Was he going off his head? Losing his reason? It was more than she could say.

Then she hit on it. It was when she overheard that he had been mixing with those lunatics who believed in the fellow who had been crucified when Barabbas himself should have been! Then it dawned on her! No wonder he had grown a bit queer. They were the cause of it. They, of course, had been filling his head with their crazy notions. It was enough to make anyone touched, going about with half-wits like them. They thought that that crucified man was some sort of saviour or whatever it was, who was to help them in some way and give them everything they asked for, and wasn’t he to be king in Jerusalem too and send the beardless devils packing? Oh, she didn’t really know what it was they taught and she didn’t care either, but they were soft in the head, everyone knew that. How, in heaven’s name, could he go and get tied up with them? What had he to do with them? Yes! Now she had it! He himself was to have been crucified, but then he hadn’t been, their saviour had been instead, and that was terrible, of course; he had to try and explain it, and so on, that it wasn’t his fault, and so on, and then they had kept on talking of how remarkable that fellow was that they believed in, how pure and innocent and what an important person, if you please, and how awful it was to treat such a great king and lord in that way, had in fact filled his head with all sorts of stuff and nonsense, until he had gone quite daft because he wasn’t dead, because it wasn’t he who was dead. That was it, of course, that’s what had happened, of course!