The Forgotten Commandment

By Anson Hugh Laytner

Locked in a vacuum-sealed glass tube, stowed away for centuries in the Vatican Secret Archives, is a manuscript appearing to be an animal rights fable but containing a dire prophetic message about humanity's destruction of the world's environment. Will it help humans to finally wake up and save life on the earth? The Forgotten Commandment is a work of historical eco-fiction. It braids together a genuine thousand-year-old fable, written first in Arabic by Muslim Sufis and, in this story, protected by the Jewish Aboab clan beginning at the time of the First Crusade in Jerusalem, traveling to twentieth century Europe and surviving the deadly perils of World War II, then reappearing in the present, when a pair of young scholars rediscover the manuscript and succeed in revealing it to the world. A story for our times, The Forgotten Commandment is deeply researched and enriched with true historical events and the lives of actual people. The characters contend with the many challenges and evils that humanity has created: tyranny, anti-Semitism, prejudice, enslavement and destruction of animals, and the apathy of the majority. In the end, this book shines with hope as humanity begins to change the path we have been treading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Dec 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666772791

Anson Hugh Laytner

Anson Hugh Laytner is a retired liberal rabbi, living in Seattle, whose career in nonprofit and academic settings focused on fostering positive interfaith and interethnic relations. He is the author of Arguing with God (1990), The Mystery of Suffering and Meaning of God (2019), and Choosing Life after Tragedy (2023); coauthor of The Animals’ Lawsuit Against Humanity (2005); and coeditor of The Chinese Jews of Kaifeng (2017). To learn more, visit his website: www.ansonlaytner.com.

Book preview

The Forgotten Commandment

Anson Hugh Laytner

The Forgotten Commandment

Copyright ©

2023

Anson Hugh Laytner. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers,

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Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199

W.

8

th Ave., Suite

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97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-6667-7277-7

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-7278-4

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-7279-1

version number 090921

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Part I: The Chain of Transmission

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

Part II: The Tale of the Animals’ Complaint

Part III: Benjamin Aboab’s Wartime Diary

Part IV: The Forgotten Commandment

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

Notes

We are creatures of violence toward one another, and savage plunderers of kindred beings. Might we instead become the wisest of creatures? The most generous? Truly human? Drawing upon deep reservoirs of religious tradition, Anson Laytner creatively and deftly draws the straight lines between our contempt for human life and for the lives of our beyond-human kin. All this in a compact book that reads like a good mystery you don’t want to put down. I didn’t.

—Carla V. Pryne

Episcopal priest

Anson Laytner’s engaging tale leads the reader on a journey through Jewish history to explore questions about humanity’s capacities for both evil and righteousness. As our world teeters on the edge of ecological disaster, we are all like the young couple at the center of this story—challenged to balance personal desires and responsibilities with the call to action at the speed and scale demanded by the climate crisis.

—Mirele B. Goldsmith,

Co-founder, Jewish Earth Alliance

"In this era of religious misunderstanding, The Forgotten Commandment, a beautiful tale of harmonious relationships among the peoples of the Abrahamic faiths, comes as a balm for the soul. A riveting story filled with drama and intrigue, Anson Laytner weaves together tidbits of little-known Jewish history with psychological insight and pearls of the Bible’s universal wisdom. Laytner accomplishes all this while bringing forth an authentic spiritual ecological message in a compelling and accessible way—so needed in the world at this time."

—Ellen Bernstein

Founder, Shomrei Adamah

"The Forgotten Commandments reads like a suspense novel that kept me interested from beginning to end. It has a challenging, hopeful message that can raise environmental awareness during this critical time and help shift our imperiled planet onto a sustainable path."

—Richard H. Schwartz,

President emeritus, Jewish Vegetarians of North America

We can choose to forgive prior generations for the way they lived, and we can only hope that future generations will live more wisely, but for us in the present there is little excuse for how we continue to treat our planet and its diverse inhabitants.

In memory of my parents

With love to Richelle: Mishlei/Proverbs 31:10‒11

In honor of my daughters and grandchildren

Who teacheth vs more then the beasts of the earth, and maketh vs wiser then the foules of heauen? ... But aske now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the foules of the aire, and they shall tell thee. Or speake to the earth, and it shall teach thee; and the fishes of the sea shall declare vnto thee.

Job 35:11 and 12:7–8, from the frontispiece of Iggeret Ba’alei Ḥayyim (Warsaw: D. Blosser, 1879)

Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don’t harass them, don’t deprive them of their happiness, don’t work against God’s intent. Man, do not pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin, and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it, and leave the traces of your foulness after you — alas, it is true of almost every one of us!

The Brothers Karamazov, Book 6:3
Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Acknowledgements

I owe so much gratitude to three friends for their invaluable input. To my dear friend, Richard Gordon, who taught me some essential features of a good novel, offered me sound editorial advice, and most importantly, urged me to include the entire animals’ tale in this book; to Mary Potter, who signed on as my copyeditor and ended up contributing so much more in terms of invaluable editorial guidance; and to Mary Jane Francis, for her eagle eye and editorial wisdom.

My thanks also to Alberta Weinberg for gently suggesting that the concluding section need more of a punch, and to Deborah Cohen, Mindi Katzman, and my siblings, Ruth Morris and Frank Laytner, for their comments and suggestions to improve this story. And thanks as well to Mary Fields for her cartography.

Part I

The Chain of Transmission

chapter 1

Montréal, Canada, The Present

Sophie! Anschel and Raizel exclaimed in unison when they opened the door to their apartment.

It’s so wonderful to see you again! Anschel almost shouted.

And you know, after that terrible COVID, Raizel said, we can never get enough of seeing you! The two of them hugged the young woman ferociously.

Bubbie, Zaide, I feel exactly the same! I can’t get over the fact that you’ve managed to survive the pandemic. At your age! It’s like a miracle.

Anyway, she said, moving aside to reveal a thirty-something year-old man with a shock of red hair who was attempting to hide behind her slight frame, I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine in graduate school. Adrian Ballyntyne. Adrian, these are my grandparents, Anschel and Raizel Frankel.

After welcoming Sophie’s friend with handshakes and smiles, the elder couple led the younger pair down the hall towards the living room.

Sophie, Adrian murmured as they followed her grandparents. What did you call them? Boobie and Sadie?

She giggled at his pronunciation. It’s Yiddish for grandma and grandpa. Now, please, just relax and be yourself, okay?

A colleague, she says? Raizel stage-whispered to her husband as they made their way toward the living room. That’s not what her mother told me!

"Raizel, sha. We don’t know anything for sure unless we hear it from Sophie. Sometimes a mother’s worries are nothing more than that. And besides, what does it matter, really? If the man is a mensch, that’s fine by me. We’ve both seen Jewish men who are such boors that I’d sit shiva if Sophie ever married one of them! In the end, I go with quality over kind any day."

"Well, I don’t like it. There are plenty of nice Jewish men out there too. After all we’ve been through, after all her Jewish education, why can’t Sophie find one of her own? How will our people survive if our best and brightest marry goyim?"

Raizel, please. No one is talking about marriage here. She says ‘a colleague’ so he’s a colleague. Today is today. Tomorrow we’ll worry about later. If Sophie thinks enough of this young man to introduce him to us, then let’s be gracious and respectful—

"Anschel! Don’t you lecture me about derekh eretz! I know my manners. You just watch your own!"

The exodus of English-speakers from Montréal had enabled the Frankels to remain in the city in a larger apartment than they otherwise could have afforded. They were European, specifically French and Jewish in both culture and outlook; they were immigrants; and they were Holocaust survivors. After the war, Montréal seemed, because of its Québecois—but still French—culture, like a natural haven for them and, as soon as they could arrange things, they emigrated there. Once settled, they hunkered down, resolving, even though it was beyond their power to control it, that their lives would never be disrupted again. Change represented uncertainty and, since they knew they were safe and happy in post-World War II Canada, they kept their home much as it had been when they first acquired their apartment.

It was as if time had frozen. The furniture was from the early 1950s, upholstered time and again, despite their children’s pleas and even mockery. Only the television had been upgraded over the years. The house still had a rotary dial telephone, a hi-fi record player, and a now-antique boxy wooden AM radio in the kitchen. The furnishings and décor all belonged to another era; only the people of the house had kept pace with the times, and that just barely. The modern world was an increasingly baffling place for the older Frankels. Family, especially their beloved granddaughter, was what mattered the most; she was their touchstone for the modern world.

So, Anschel said, "Sophie tells us that she has been helping you in your studies by introducing you to the world of rabbinic midrash—you know, stories. You need that for your research? What exactly are you studying?"

Well, it’s not so easy to say in a few—

Isn’t our Sophie beautiful? Raizel asked as she set down the cake she had carried in.

I—

And bright too! Her own PhD work is on the Jewish tradition of arguing with God. Has she told you?

Yes, and I think that the subject is—

Would you like some more tea?

Sure. But to go back to your original question—

Another piece of cake?

Sure. But—

Bubbie, Zaide, stop! Give Adrian a chance to answer something. We have all afternoon to talk. You see, Adrian, it’s just like I told you. They’ve been together so long they complete each other’s sentences. Now one is playing to your head, and the other, to your heart and stomach. You’re going to have to assert yourself if you want to get a word in edgewise!

Okay, Adrian said as he leaned forward on the couch. Raizel and Anschel, yes, I think Sophie is beautiful and very, very bright. I like her a lot. And yes, I think the idea of arguing with God is a very important concept, especially after the Holocaust. Personally, my studies focus on trying to establish a theological framework for our stewardship of the earth and its creatures. And yes, I would like some more tea and cake. Jeez, and I thought Irish-American families were talkers!

Everyone laughed at their collective nervousness and the tension wafted away. Over the next hour, Adrian and Sophie talked about their studies and about how she was helping Adrian better understand the rabbinic portion of his project. As Anschel and Raizel listened, the question of whether or not romance would bloom between their granddaughter and Adrian seemed less and less important—for the moment. They could see that he was a fine young man and understood why Sophie appreciated him so.

As the afternoon sun waned, the hour for stories arrived and the conversation shifted to the grandparents, their growing-up years in Paris, their experience of anti-Semitism at the hands of some of their fellow French citizens as well as the Nazis, and their amazing escape from death during World War II. Raizel and Anschel took turns telling their tale of survival.

So, there we were, up in the hill-country of the Haute-Loire, being hidden by a peasant family just outside of the town of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon—

It’s beautiful countryside. Rolling hills, rivers, forests. . .I understand that today there is a thriving tourist trade there—

Which is especially understandable, considering not just the terrain but also the people. You cannot imagine how wonderful the people were to us, even at their own peril, even though we were refugees—and Jewish ones at that!

And because of that generation’s good deeds, they and their descendants deserve our thanks and praise—

So, there we were, living on this farm outside of town, being sheltered by this wonderful family, along with another gentleman—

Benjamin Aboab—what a funny family name he had.

That’s because he was Sephardic!

"As I was saying, he was only there with us for a year or so. What a scholar and mensch! Too bad he didn’t make it. Such bad mazal!"

Yes, it’s true. Then as now, one has little control over the course life takes. We do the best we can with what we’re dealt. Of course, during the war years, chances of survival were much worse than they are here in Montréal. Why I can remember—

So, one day, I think it was in the spring of 1942, this man, Benjamin, comes to us and pleads with us that, should anything befall him, we should take care of something he has hidden away for safe-keeping.

And I think, what is it? Jewels? Dollars? What does a man treasure when looking over the precipice, facing death? Well, for Benjamin Aboab, it turned out to be some notebooks!

"Notebooks! Can you imagine? Notebooks. Here the poor man had been on the run for years. He had lost all his possessions. His family had been snatched by the Germans and probably killed. And what does he cherish above all else? Notebooks! Well, maybe he was a little meshuggineh by then—which wouldn’t be too surprising considering all he had endured."

Anyway, one day our Mr. Aboab goes out to help escort a group of Jewish children to the Swiss border, but he never returns.

"Later, we hear that the guide was probably a traitor, and that she likely had betrayed the entire group to les Boches, the Germans. At any rate, that is what we all thought. That was it. That was the end of them all."

So, we waited, and waited. Finally, we went to his hiding place, retrieved his packet, and put it with our own stuff for safekeeping.

And after Liberation, when we came over here, we brought it with us.

Why, I am not sure. After all, it was just a couple of notebooks. We looked them over on the boat here. There were two. One was a kind of diary, written in French with a smattering of Yiddish, talking about his experiences before and during the war.

The other was in Hebrew—only our Hebrew isn’t so good, plus his handwriting is not so great—so we really just glanced over it, but it seemed to be some kind of fable. Something about the animals debating with humanity about all the abuse they’d suffered.

But a vow is a vow, and we’d promised him, so we’ve kept them all these years, not knowing what else to do with—

WAIT! Stop. Please! Adrian bolted from the couch with excitement. Cake crumbs launched through the air. A fable? About animals? And how we mistreat them? It sounds like something I could use in my post-doctoral studies! Where is it now? May I see it?

The grandparents were surprised by his outburst but recovered nicely.

But of course, Adrian, replied Anschel. All we have to do is find it. It’s been so many years now. Wherever do you think it might be, my dear?

While Raizel did her magic on a fridge full of leftovers in order to make dinner for them all, Anschel, Sophie, and Adrian searched through closet after closet for the long-forgotten notebooks. With a limited number of closets to examine, it was only a matter of an hour or so before they discovered them, wrapped in a crumbling, yellowed cloth, and tied with graying string. They lay at the very bottom of a box filled with mementos of Anschel’s and Raizel’s earliest years in Montréal, like the oldest layer of an archaeological dig.

Sophie carefully lifted the package from the box. She and Adrian and Anschel stared for a while at the cloth wrap as if their eyes could discern its contents. Finally, and with more than a hint of impatience, Adrian exclaimed, "Let’s open it, shall we?"

He looked at Sophie, and Sophie looked expectantly at her grandfather. He gave a slight nod and Sophie gave a tug on the string. It disintegrated. Hesitatingly, she began to unfold the wrapping.

Adrian could hardly contain his excitement. What in the world did these notebooks of Benjamin Aboab contain?

chapter 2

Jerusalem, 1099

For generations, seemingly from time immemorial, the story had been told from father to son. Only occasionally was it passed from grandfather to grandson, for Allah had blessed the family with many male offspring. Now, late in the eleventh century of the Common Era, the story resided in the memory of this man, Ismael ibn Ibrahim, a well-to-do Arab merchant living in al Kuds, the Holy City, known of old to the Jews as Yerushalayim.

The man was old for his time, sixty-eight years, thin, wiry, and dark. But he was ailing. Worse still, he was beset with worries. For several months, those infidels—the cursed European Crusaders—had been ravaging the Holy Land, killing believers, Jews, and even fellow Christians, anyone who wasn’t one of them. Soon they would arrive at the Holy City’s gates and then everyone’s fate would be dependent on Allah’s will.

As Ismael completed his prayers, a servant helped him to his feet. Rabbi Ezra ibn Avraham is here to see you, as requested. They made their way into the reception room, Ismael leaning heavily on his servant’s arm.

"Shalom aleiḥem, ḥabibi."

"Wa aleicum salaam, ḥabibi."

The two men embraced and exchanged kisses. The young servant gently helped Ismael, exhausted by this effort, to lie back on some crewel-embroidered pillows. Ezra sat before him and waited. He knew something weighed heavily on his dear friend’s mind.

Finally, Ismael spoke. Ḥabibi, my dear friend, I fear my life is drawing to its close.

Ezra opened his mouth to protest, but Ismael waved him down.

"No, it is certain. Each day I grow weaker and more fatigued. Worse still, I fear those cursed Crusaders may cut even shorter the time Allah has allotted me if they breach the city walls. Inshallah, God willing, I shall die a natural death."

He paused for breath looking toward the window through which light poured, making diamond patterns on the intricately woven rug under his feet. His gaze shifted and he trained his dark eyes on Ezra.

My old friend, I have something of great import to tell you, and something even more important to ask of you. He sighed so deeply it was almost a moan. For generations, the men in our family have been members of the Order of the Pure Brethren, a Sufi movement devoted to the study and understanding of the sacred mystic bond that exists between all living things, and between our world and the seven spheres of the Heavens, between all that is and the Creator, may His name be praised.

Ezra nodded his head. He had heard of the Order of the Pure Brethren, even discussed shared concepts with some of its masters. It was a movement whose views on life were compatible with his own Jewish ones, as were so many of Islam’s teachings.

Ismael continued. "The Pure Brethren, long ago, took it upon themselves to become a living encyclopedia of mystic knowledge, with each member at the time assuming responsibility for memorizing one of fifty-one epistles, in truth, essays or stories, which together describe the mysteries and meaning of existence. Ours is secret knowledge, not meant to be heard by the untrained ear nor understood by the uneducated mind. Even so, among the religious leaders of our faith, there are more than a few who would declare us heretics and blasphemers because, so they claim, we dare to contradict the word of Allah as revealed in the holy Qur’an. But their allegation is false. Our teachings neither contradict nor compete with the holy Word. They complement it, they complete it, they make manifest its message—but only to those with the necessary level of training and discernment—so that in each generation there are those who understand the truth behind God’s revealed Word.

Among the Brethren, each man is responsible for passing along his holy epistle to his son or grandson, so that this unique knowledge will continue to live until the End of Days. Truth be told, we know not from whom or from whence it came. According to tradition, we Pure Brethren have carried on this sacred task since the days of Noah. I do know that the story, as I received it from my father, and he from his, was borne by my forefathers when they came from the East, from the city of Basra. Our epistle concludes the holy letters and, as the final word, it is the most important because it contains dire prophecies concerning the Day of Judgment and the Coming of the Mahdi, whom your people call the Messiah.

Ezra listened with growing interest and intensity. Now, while Ismael paused for breath, Ezra gazed at his dear friend. Where, he wondered, was this leading? What was the purpose behind the revelation of this secret and sacred mission? Before his curiosity led his mouth to questions, Ismael picked up his tale.

"I am but the current link in the chain of recipients of our portion of this holy knowledge. Alas, I have neither sons nor grandsons any longer. All have died as soldiers of Allah, defending our land and our peoples from the infidel Crusaders. It is beyond comprehension that this Holy Land should fall under the sway of the sword after many centuries of peace. But it has, and I fear that I will fail in my sacred task if I do not pass this tale on. You see, each time a father recited this tale, verse by verse, to his son for memorization, he began with an oath, an oath warning that the very survival of the earth and all that lives upon it might one day depend on the story’s transmission as we have been taught it, from generation to generation. Ours is a holy task, to receive the story exactly as it was given, and to pass it along to the next generation in exactly the same way, until such time as God demands its revelation. The story must survive. It is that important.

And now, dear friend, I am near my death. One way or another, it will have me. I fear no believer will survive the uncircumcised hordes. You, however, might yet chance an escape. Also, as one of the People of the Book, you know what it means to guard and teach a holy text, because you have carried your own holy works from age to age, and from land to land, down through the centuries. Please, I beg of you, take custody of this tale, for my sake, for my family’s honor, and—possibly—as the tale itself teaches, for humankind’s own future. Please, do not let this sacred chain break.

Ismael sank back on his pillows, exhausted. Hearing his plea and saddened by his friend’s frailty, Ezra pondered the situation. With a flourishing of hands, right and left, he explained that, on the one hand, he was honored