The Book of Lights by Chaim Potok

Author:Chaim Potok [Potok, Chaim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2021-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

SIX

He followed a sergeant up the path to one of the terraced areas some yards below the crest of the hill. They were completing the new quarters for the officers, the sergeant said. He would have a private room in four or five weeks. In the meantime, did he mind sharing a Jamesway with one of the lieutenants? He did not mind.

He unpacked and set up his books and desk and clothes. He came out into the hot late afternoon air and walked down a narrow, winding, stone-lined path to the officers club. There were introductions and drinks. The officers were young, smartly dressed. The club had a new bar and new chairs and tables. The battalion commander, a well-built man with flat black hair and sharp gray eyes, stood drinking a martini and talking to a major. He nodded to Gershon and introduced him to the major, who shook Gershon’s hand briskly. They went back to their conversation.

“What’s the movie tonight, Stuart?” a second lieutenant everyone called Skippy asked the orderly behind the bar.

The orderly named a movie.

“How long is the first reel?”

“It’s a two-beer reel, sir.”

“Thank you, Stuart.”

Gershon did not remain for the movie. He returned after dinner to his quarters and sat at his desk. Behind him were the desk and chair of his roommate. Their beds were on the other side of the Jamesway, each bed against a wall. It was not unlike the arrangement he had once had in the seminary with Arthur Leiden, save that here no wall separated desks from beds.

To the left of his desk was a narrow bookcase, its four rows of shelves almost filled with his books. The books were arranged in neat rows. He took down from the top shelf a kabbalistic work by Chaim Vital, a sixteenth-century kabbalist from Safed and Jerusalem. It was a while before he could lose himself in its pages. He was gone deep into the book when the door opened and his roommate entered.

“Awful movie. Awful. A sinful waste of time.”

The text blurred, slipped away. Gershon looked up.

“I can’t stand those dumb Westerns. The horses are smarter than the people. Where did I leave my writing paper? Here we are. Need any writing paper, chaplain? All set up? God, you really brought along some books, didn’t you.” He peered at the English titles, then looked over at Gershon with a grin. He was in his early twenties, an electrical engineer, with short, light-brown hair, a wide smile, and a warm and friendly air. His name was John Meron, and he was from a small town on Long Island not far from New York City. “Kabbalah?” he said. “Wow. Maybe you know some prayers that can speed the time up around here. Were you with the medics?”

“Yes.”

He seemed about to remark something, thought better of it, and said instead, “I’ve got to write my nightly. If you need anything, give a yell. I like to keep on the right side of God.”

“Which side is that?”

Meron laughed.

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