Sacred Music
David Barukh was born January 27, 1756, the same day as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. But David Barukh never heard of Mozart, never even heard a note of Mozart’s music.
David Barukh was born to poor parents in the tiny Jewish community of the Island of Rhodes. The “Rhodeslies” (as the Jews of Rhodes were known in the Judeo-Spanish civilization of the Ottoman Empire) were a proud group of 300 or so families, many tracing themselves back to ancestors from the golden age of medieval Spanish Jewry. The Rhodeslies had a respectable number of rabbinic scholars and prosperous merchants; and an excessively large number of indigent Jews who eked out their livelihoods as peddlers, shopkeepers, and hamalim (stevedores) on the docks of Rhodes. David’s father was a ne’er do well, who supported his wife and six children primarily by receiving stipends from the communal charity fund.
It is not likely that any of the Jews of the Island of Rhodes had heard of Mozart or would have appreciated his music. They lived in their own world, with their own Judeo-Spanish language, their own traditions and way of life. They were enclosed by the walls of the old city of Rhodes; Rhodes was an island not only physically, but also culturally.
David was the youngest of the six Barukh children—20 years younger than his oldest brother Mushon and 12 years younger than his next older sibling, his sister Sarina. By all accounts, he was a surprise to his parents; the more malicious gossips said he was a mistake. He was given the name David, after a long deceased uncle who had lived an unfortunate life and who had died childless.
For most of his childhood, David Barukh felt quite alone. His father stayed out of the house long hours, pretending to be at work. His mother, a morose woman who looked far older than her 38 years, had little patience for her youngest child. She thought she had been done with the rigors of childbirth and child-rearing, and now she was stuck with a new mouth to feed, a new source of noise in the already raucous household. She never overcame her feelings of antipathy toward her youngest child. David’s siblings were much older than he, and spent little time with him.
Perhaps if David had been a cute, loveable child, things would have been different. But he was not blessed with charm. He was homely, even as a baby. He had a screeching high-pitched voice. He was moody. As he grew up, these negative features became harsher and more annoying. When he was sent to the meldar, the elementary school for Jewish boys, he antagonized teachers and fellow students alike. He sank deeper and deeper into isolation. The only time he seemed to be happy was when he was left alone.
By age 13, David had dropped out of school. Although he had learned to read the prayers in Hebrew and had gained a smattering of knowledge relating to the Bible and rabbinic lore, he could barely write or make the simplest mathematical calculations. His parents had little hope for his future; his teachers had given up on him; everyone assumed he would end up as an unskilled, indigent worker—or as a beggar.
But David knew deep in his soul that the Lord was his Rock, that God had not forgotten or abandoned him. He felt the warmth of God’s love, especially when he wandered alone along the sandy shoreline of the Aegean Sea, just outside the walls of the Old City and its Jewish Quarter. God had given David a profound, mysterious power.
This power was music.
From a very early age, David could hear music in his mind, he could hear incredible harmonies. He would start humming a melody, become entranced by it, create variations on it; he could imagine a chorus of a thousand voices singing the melody; he could hear the high voices and the low voices; he could feel the overwhelming power, the overwhelming joy, the sheer transcendence of the music. When David heard this inner music, he knew he was in God’s presence. He may have been an insignificant pauper in an isolated island—but God had not forgotten him.
As he grew older, David spent more and more time with his inner music. He became increasingly alienated from those few people who still cared about him. He slept in a small corner of his parent’s home; he ate meager rations of food; he dressed in old, tattered clothing. But these things did not bother him. As long as he had his music, he was happy. God was his Rock and Redeemer. He did not need anything else.
When David turned 18, his parents decided it was time for him to be married. But who would give their daughter in marriage to David, this strange young man with such poor prospects for supporting a wife and family? They sent David to their rabbi, Hakham Ezra, for guidance.
Hakham Ezra was an elderly and stern sage who had been spiritual leader of the Jews of Rhodes for many years. Hakham Ezra knew David from infancy; he knew the family; he knew the difficulties. When David came to see him, Hakham Ezra came right to the point.
“David, you are now 18 years old. It is time for you to think of marrying. We need to find you a suitable wife, but you first need to prepare yourself for the new responsibilities. You need to find work; you need to be focused. You live in a dream-world, David; but it’s time for you to grow up.”
David was not listening to Hakham Ezra. Instead, he was entranced by a mysterious new melody that had engulfed his mind. It was so exquisite: soft, lilting, filled with love, filled with sweetness. David closed his eyes so as to better concentrate on this inner music.
Hakham Ezra saw that David had not heard a word that had been said to him. He coughed, to get David’s attention; but David was lost in his own inner world of music. At last, Hakham Ezra spoke again to David: “David, listen to me. I am speaking with you and I expect you to pay attention.”
An indescribable sadness filled David’s face. Hakham Ezra’s voice had driven out the music. The spell had been broken, and David felt robbed and betrayed. Hakham Ezra saw that something had snapped within David. “What’s the matter with you, David? Why do you suddenly look so sad? Are you upset that I brought up the issue of your getting married?”
“No, Hakham Ezra. I did not even hear you speaking of marriage. You don’t understand me. No one understands me.”
“Explain yourself. Help me to understand you. I am your rabbi. I want to help you.”
“I have a special power within me. I hear music, beautiful, unimaginably beautiful music. I wish I could share it with you, with others—but I cannot. The music is locked in my head, and it has no way out. I can hum the melodies, but my humming is only a faint reflection of what I actually hear in my mind.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, David. This is exactly your problem: you imagine music in your head, and therefore you don’t concentrate on what is really important. Push this music out of your mind; it is the evil inclination trying to deflect you from your responsibilities. You need a job. You need to marry and start a family of your own. You need to outgrow your childhood fantasies.”
David heard the words of Hakham Ezra and felt as though daggers were piercing through his heart. “My music is not nonsense,” he said quietly but forcefully. “It is a gift that God has given to me. Please, Hakham Ezra, please help me. You are a sage, a great scholar. You know many things. Tell me how I can bring this music out of my mind, how I can share it with others, how this music can bring greater glory to God.”
“Take my advice, David, and drive this music from your mind. Try to find work. Let us seek to find you a good wife. Perhaps you can hope to live a normal life, and not be condemned to be a vagabond.”
“I cannot drive the music from my mind, and I don’t wish to drive it away. It brings me great happiness. I want to share this music, I want to release it from my mind and let others enjoy it. I want to sing a new song in praise of God.”
Hakham Ezra tossed up his hands in despair. “If you keep speaking of your music, David, there isn’t much I can do to help you. You are going on a bad path. You will end up a broken man. You need to come to your senses.”
David arose, nodded his head gently, and left the presence of Hakham Ezra. A thick, nagging sadness filled his soul. But then a melody flashed into his mind, and he started to hum. Happiness and calmness returned..
Realizing that Hakham Ezra did not make headway with David, his parents sent him to see Hazzan Eliezer, the leader of prayers at the Kahal Shalom synagogue. Hazzan Eliezer was a heavy-set, plodding middle-aged man of mediocre intellect. He was blessed, though, with a pleasant voice, so that he was appointed as the hazzan (cantor) of the synagogue. He chanted the prayers clearly; he read the Torah with remarkable accuracy. David’s parents hoped that perhaps Hazzan Eliezer would talk some sense into David, and maybe even consider training him to be an assistant reader of services. This would enable David to earn a salary, however small, and put him on the right path for a responsible life.
“Please help me, Hazzan Eliezer,” David began. “I hear wonderful music in my mind, so powerful that it overwhelms me. I do not know how to get others to hear this music. I can hum a tune, but is only a frail echo of what I hear. I hear hundreds, thousands of voices. I hear tremendous harmonies. I want this music to bring glory to God.”
Hazzan Eliezer was skeptical. “Well, David, please hum one of the melodies for me. Maybe I’ll have a better idea of how to help you if I first hear your music.”
David’s eyes lit up. “I’ll hum a tune that is just right for the Nishmath (the opening prayer of the Sabbath morning service).” As he hummed in his high-pitched squeaky voice, David’s eyes closed, he stood on his tiptoes, he lifted his arms and waved them as though he were conducting a vast choir. He hummed until tears came to his eyes, tears of ineffable joy. When he completed his rendition of Nishmath, he slowly came back to consciousness. As he opened his eyes, he saw Hazzan Eliezer’s disapproving face.
“First,” said Hazzan Eliezer, “the tune is no good. It wanders here and there, and is painful to follow. No one will be able to sing it. We are not accustomed to such music. Second, we don’t need new tunes for the Nishmath—or for any other part of our prayers. We have traditional melodies that everyone loves; everyone is happy and comfortable with them. No one wants new tunes, especially tunes like yours which have neither beginning nor end. We have our musical traditions, our makams, and these are the essence of beautiful music. What you have hummed is outlandish. It doesn’t fit. It is no good.”
David sat silently, with tears in his eyes. He knew he had a special gift from the Almighty, but he also knew that Hazzan Eliezer did not know how to help him.
David was determined to find someone who would understand, who would listen to his music, who would show him find a way to release his inner music for the benefit of others and for the glory of God. He stopped people in the market place and hummed his melodies; people walked away from him, pitying him as a hopeless fool. He stood in the center of the broad square in the middle of the Jewish Quarter, the calle ancha, and sang loudly. The passersby rushed right past him. They did not hear him, or did not want to hear him.
His parents gave up on him. His siblings had no use for him. The members of the community thought he was a lunatic. He had no future. He was a lost soul. He was destined to be a beggar, an outcast.
But David stayed faithful to his inner music. In his mind, he composed music, sacred music set to biblical and liturgical texts. He sang a new melody, which became his favorite, to the words of the Psalmist: “Lord, what is man that You take knowledge of him, the child of mortals that You take thought of him? Man is like a breath, his days are as a passing shadow.” He sang this new song again and again as he walked the narrow streets of the Jewish Quarter, as he stood by the statue of seahorses in the calle ancha, as he begged for alms, as he cried himself to sleep at night in a corner of his parent’s home. The new melody was haunting, powerful beyond words; if only others would listen to it, if only they would take the music into their souls. But no one listened, and no one cared, and no one’s soul was touched by the beauty of David’s music.
Years passed. David’s parents died. His siblings maintained the parents’ home, so that David would have a place to sleep, a place to call home. They were ashamed of him—but he was their brother and they felt obliged to help him as best they could. He tried to make his siblings understand him, hear his music—but they were not interested. David was an unfortunate case, a madman. He was their burden.
David continued to hear and to create music in his mind. He wanted the music—a gift of God—to be devoted to the glory of God. He composed a massive repertoire of religious music. Although he could only sing the compositions in his feeble voice, in his mind he heard it being sung by a choir of angelic beauty and solemnity. Within himself, he was blessed and happy. The Lord was his Rock and Redeemer. Yet, he was infinitely sad that his greatest treasure—his God-given music—was trapped within himself alone, and that not a single soul listened to it or understood it or was moved by it.
One day, for no apparent reason, the music stopped within David’s mind. He listened intently, he strained with all his concentration—but there was only silence. His entire life had been infused with this divine music; the music had been his sustenance, his only joy and fulfillment. He sang many of the songs that he had composed in the past, to see if his singing would re-ignite his inner music. But nothing happened. He sang his old songs, over and over; but they were frail and uninspired. When he had sung these songs previously, he could hear a glorious choir in his mind singing along with him. Now, his voice was a thin reed, without choral accompaniment.
“Lord,” David cried, “send forth Your hands from on high; rescue me, deliver me from the great flood.” But there was no response; there was no rescue. The music was gone.
Without his music, David’s life became empty, frightening, ugly. His homely countenance was constantly downcast. He no longer stopped passersby to sing for them; he no longer stood in the calle ancha chanting his compositions in praise of the Almighty. He ambled aimlessly through the streets; he sought solace walking along the sea shore. His eyes filled with tears; his Rock and Redeemer had taken away the music. David had failed. He had received the most precious of gifts, but he had not known how to communicate it. No one had listened, no one had cared, no one could help him bring his music into the hearts and souls of others.
Without his inner music, life was not worth living. Alone and abandoned, David prayed for his death.
One winter day, he walked through the gate of the walls surrounding the Old City of Rhodes, outside the Jewish Quarter. He strolled along the sandy seashore, and stared out at the rhythmic ocean waves. A deep serenity set in. And then, miraculously, his head filled with music, the most powerful music he had ever experienced. He heard thousands and thousands of voices, incredible harmonies; his soul leaped with joy; his heart filled with rapture. The Lord was his Rock and Redeemer; the Lord had not forgotten him. Not only had the Lord given him back his inner music, but He had given it back on a level beyond compare, more beautiful, more enigmatic, more entrancing than anything David had ever heard or imagined before.
David Barukh had never felt happier or more blessed in his entire life. This was the crescendo, the climax of his inner music. He stared into the sea, intoxicated by the ethereal music, music that was beyond what a human soul could bear; it was the music of angels. David Barukh felt his heart and soul surge. He fell to the sand, dead.
David Barukh died on December 5, 1791, the same day that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died.
