— I was present when the decision was taken and I heard, I heard them proclaim that the decree was sealed and could not, would not be suspended.

Moses should have heeded such knowledgeable and well-meaning advice; he should have left in a gracious, dignified manner. But he did not. He went on refusing to die, pleading, crying for another day, another hour, as would any common mortal—and not the prophet of prophets who had imposed his vision on mankind, the teacher of teachers who had felt God’s fiery breath on his naked face!

So great was his despair that he declared himself ready to renounce his human condition in exchange for a few more days of life:

— Master of the Universe, he implored, let me live like an animal who feeds on grass, who drinks spring water and is content to watch the days come and go.

God refused. Man is not an animal; he must live as a human or not at all.

— Then, said Moses, permit me to stay here as a bird, friend of the wind, returning to his nest every night, grateful for the hours it has lived.

Again God said no. Man must live and die as a man, like all men.

Then God used a striking expression:

— Moses, you must die. You have already made too many words.

But Moses was still not resigned. He fought fiercely to the end, until abruptly, he appealed to death to come, as we shall see later.

• • •

The reader cannot help but be troubled by Moses’ violent passion for life.

How could Moses, so zealous, so loyal, oppose the divine will? Or even question it? Is it not a privilege to die for God and His glory?

Why was he so anxious to continue living? After all, he was not exactly young, having reached the age of one hundred and twenty. Furthermore, had his life been so happy, so rewarding? He had constantly been tested and punished by God and man. No one had ever shown him any gratitude or even friendship. His people had made him suffer so much that he had begun to doubt himself and his mission. They had distorted his ideals, betrayed his trust; there had been few joys in his life. Why, then, did he cling to it so passionately instead of going quietly, serenely toward infinite peace?

And even if he did want to live so desperately, why did he show it? Why did he make such a display of his appetite for life? Was this behavior worthy of the founder and leader of a nation? Most great men, as we know, tend to conceal their feelings and suppress their anguish; they try hard to welcome death with contempt, or at least indifference. How, then, is one to explain that one of the most extraordinary figures in history behaved so oddly? Could he have “forgotten” Rabbi Akiba, appointed by God, who was to accept martyrdom silently and even joyfully?