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Lies and Consequences Yehuda Amichai’s
"A Song of Deceit on Erev Shabbat"
By Joseph Lowin
Yehuda Amichai, who grew up in a religious
household, writes often of his own abandonment of religious
practice and of what appears to be a strained relationship
with his father. But contrary to what he writes in his
poetry, he insists that his rebellion was not a cause
for a rupture between him and his observant father. "I
grew up in a household filled with love," he says.
"And even though my father was disappointed that
I left religious practice, love won over condemnation."
In the poem reproduced here, "A Song
of Falsehood on Sabbath Eve," the poet presents himself
as the Wicked Son par excellence. But what are we to make
of the following? The son is a poet, a creator a creator
of melodic lies. In addition, he incorporates traditional
Jewish poetry–Sabbath hymns–into his poem. And,
finally, the son gives his father the last word.
The first three lines of the poem strike
a note of sensual reassurance, evoking the heat and light
of summer and the sounds and smells of a traditional Sabbath.
One can even hear the flutter of the wings of the Sabbath
angels as they make their way to a traditional Jewish
neighborhood. These angels, it should be noted, come from
the Sabbath hymn Shalom Aleikhem, sung as the father and
son return home from the synagogue.
(1) One Sabbath eve, at twilight time
on a summer’s day, (2) As the odor of food and
prayer floated up from all the houses (3) And the sound
of the wings of the Sabbath angels was in the air, .
. .
The third verse itself hangs in the air, like the odors
and the angels. Abruptly, however, a false note is sounded–the
note of youthful rebellion and adolescent lying. Not only
does the poet as a young boy skip Sabbath eve services,
he also lies about it to his father, baldly.
(4) I began, in my childhood, to lie to my
father: (5) "I went to a different synagogue."
The father’s reaction is not recorded in the poem,
but we are led to believe that he does not react at all.
The meaning of the silence here is ambiguous. Does the father
believe the lie? Traditionally, in Judaism, sheker, lying,
to maintain peace in the home is not only not frowned upon
but is recommended. The father knows this and keeps quiet
about his son’s lie. The young boy doesn’t know
and doesn’t ask. Nor does he feel guilty about the
lie, which seems to give him some sort of oedipal power
over his peace-loving father.
(6) I have no idea whether he believed me
or not, (7) But the taste of falsehood was good and sweet
in my mouth.
Does this declaration tell us something banal about the
wickedness of a young boy, or does it tell us rather something
profound about a poet in his maturity?
It all turns on whether sheker means "lie" or
"poetry. The ostensible tastes of Shabbat are described
in the Sabbath hymn Ma Yedidut ("How Beloved"),
a list of Shabbat laws–made lyrical–attributed
to 11th-century Hebrew poet Menahem ben Makhir
of Ratisbonne. Amichai’s technique here is to take
two words from the refrain of that poem, le-hit’aneg
be-ta’anugim ("delight in pleasures"), and
to incorporate them without attribution in his own work.
He is seemingly counting on his readers to supply the rest
of the refrain about the poetic pleasures of Shabbat. By
inducing his readers to extend the range of his poem by
entering into another poem, Amichai multiplies the effects
of artfulness and artifice. A lie is created after all.
The poem says that the hymn is a religious lie and that
life is a social lie.
(8) And at night in all the houses (9) Falsehood-filled
Sabbath hymns floated up, (10) Delight in pleasures, (11)
And in all the houses at night, (12) The Sabbath angels
died like flies at the candlestick. (13) And lovers put
mouth to mouth (14) And filled each other until they floated
up, (15) Or burst.
The poet sees falsehood everywhere, not only in the religion,
in the interpersonal relationships of his society, and in
his own relationship with his father, but also in his adult
life as a poet.
(16) And since then falsehood has been good
and sweet in my mouth (17) And since then I have always
gone to a different synagogue. (18) And my father handed
a lie right back to me when he died: (19) "I went to
a different life."
The poet who has abandoned religious life goes to "a
different synagogue," not a synagogue of palpable truth,
but a synagogue of poetry, where the lie is the essence
of metaphysical truth. In the end, Amichai receives this
metaphysical truth as an inheritance from father to son.
Certainly, the father’s lie is "good and sweet"
in his mouth too. By telling his son that he is going to
a "different life," the father proclaims his faith
in an afterlife. Subtly and poetically, by handing a lie
back to his lying son, the father creates a place where
the poetic mode reigns. And the son, what has he created?
One might say with some justification that in this shir
sheker, Amichai has added a new hymn to the Sabbath liturgy.
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