And so, there was Job, our hero, our standard-bearer, a broken, defeated man. On his knees, having surrendered unconditionally. God magnanimously allowed him to stand up again. And live again.

• • •

All is well that ends well; everybody was satisfied. Job, because he had heard God’s voice. God, because Satan and Job had ceased to annoy Him. The three visitors, because Job seemed not to bear them a grudge. Only Satan could have felt wronged, but he was absent, definitively cast into oblivion.

As for the concrete aspect of his vindication, Job recovered his fortune, he even collected damages. He accumulated more riches, more glory than he had had before. He was happier than ever. He—again—became the father of seven sons and three daughters (the most beautiful in the world, says the Midrash) and lived another hundred and forty years. The last line in the Book is also the last stroke of irony: Vayamat Iyov zaken useva yamim—And Job died an old man, saturated with years. This can be interpreted as: Saturated with life; he had had enough. In spite of his apparent happiness, in spite of his regained wealth, he no longer cared to live. He now knew that it takes no more than idle talk, or a wager between strangers, for a human life to collapse like a sand castle in a storm.

Yet, when taken literally, these words could indicate that Job, once his ordeals were behind him, lived in peace with his destiny, reconciled with God and mankind.

And that is the point at which I register my protest. Much as I admired Job’s passionate rebellion, I am deeply troubled by his hasty abdication. He appeared to me more human when he was cursed and grief-stricken, more dignified than after he rebuilt his lavish residences under the sign of his newly found faith in divine glory and mercy.

Many scholars disclaim the ending, insisting that it was added on, grafted onto the original Book in order to reassure devout believers. Or to teach persecuted men everywhere that man must be capable of losing everything without giving up hope. Like Job, one should be able to experience misfortune and nevertheless, at the first respite, take root again and give life. I prefer to think that the Book’s true ending was lost. That Job died without having repented, without having humiliated himself; that he succumbed to his grief an uncompromising and whole man. It seems rather odd that the Midrash, so prodigal in legends at the beginning of the drama, becomes so sparing in its epilogue; it probably troubled the rabbinical storytellers. The third act of a play is usually a kind of apotheosis; this one is pale, disappointing. The fighter has turned into a lamb. A sad metamorphosis, inexplicable in literary terms.

And then, why not say it? I was preoccupied with Job, especially in the early years after the war. In those days he could be seen on every road of Europe. Wounded, robbed, mutilated. Certainly not happy. Nor resigned.