Early
every Friday morning, at the time of the Penitential Prayers, the rabbi of
Nemirov would vanish.
He
was nowhere to be seen - neither in the synagogue nor in the two study houses
nor at a minyan. And he was certainly not at home. His door stood open: whoever
wished could go in and out; no one would steal from the rabbi. But not a living
creature was within.
Where
could the rabbi be? Where should he be? In heaven, no doubt. A rabbi has plenty
of business to take care of just before the Days of Awe. Jews, God bless them,
need livelihood, peace, health, and good matches. They want to be pious and
good, but our sins are so great, and Satan of the thousand eyes watches the
whole earth from one end to the other. What he sees, he reports; he denounces,
informs. Who can help us if not the rabbi!
That’s
what the people thought.
But
once a Litvak came, and he laughed. You know the Litvaks. They think little of
the holy books but stuff themselves with Talmud and law. So this Litvak points
to a passage in the Gamara - it sticks in your eyes - where it is written that
even Moses our Teacher did not ascend to heaven during his lifetime but
remained suspended two and a half feet below. Go argue with a Litvak!
So
where can the rabbi be?
"That’s
not my business," said the Litvak, shrugging. Yet all the while - what a
Litvak can do! - he is scheming to find out.
That
same night, right after the evening prayers, the Litvak steals into the rabbi’s
room, slides under the rabbi’s bed, and waits. He’ll watch all night and discover
where the rabbi vanishes and what he does during the Penitential Prayers.
Someone
else might have gotten drowsy and fallen asleep, but a Litvak is never at a
loss; he recites a whole tractate of the Talmud by heart.
At
dawn he hears the call to prayers.
The
rabbi has already been awake for a long time. The Litvak has heard him groaning
for a whole hour.
Whoever
has heard the rabbi of Nemirov groan knows how much sorrow for all Israel, how
much suffering, lies in each groan. A man’s heart might break, hearing it. But
a Litvak is made of iron; he listens and remains where he is. The rabbi - long
life to him! - lies on the bed, and the Litvak under the bed.
Then
the Litvak hears the beds in the house begin to creak; he hears people jumping
out of their beds; mumbling a few Jewish words, pouring water on their
fingernails, banging doors. Everyone has left. It is again quiet and dark; a
bit of light from the moon shines through the shutters.
(Afterward,
the Litvak admitted that when he found himself alone with the rabbi a great
fear took hold of him. Goose pimples spread across his skin, and the roots of
his sidelocks pricked him like needles. A trifle: to be alone with the rabbi at
the time of the Penitential Prayers! But a Litvak is stubborn. So he quivered like
a fish in water and remained where he was.)
Finally
the rabbi - long life to him! - arises. First, he does what befits a Jew. Then
he goes to the clothes closet and takes out a bundle of peasant clothes: linen
trousers, high boots, a coat, a big felt hat, and a long, wide leather belt
studded with brass nails. The rabbi gets dressed. From his coat pocket dangles
the end of a heavy coarse rope.
The
rabbi goes out, and the Litvak follows him.
On
the way the rabbi stops in the kitchen, bends down, takes an ax from the bed,
puts it into his belt, and leaves the house. The Litvak trembles but continues
to follow.
The
hushed dread of the Days of Awe hangs over the dark streets. Every once in a
while a cry rises from some minyan reciting the Penitential Prayers, or from a
sickbed. The rabbi hugs the sides of the streets, keeping to the shade of the
houses. He glides from house to house, and the Litvak after him. The Litvak
hears the sound of his heartbeats mingling with the sound of the rabbi’s heavy
steps. But he keeps on going and follows the rabbi to the outskirts of town.
A
small wood stands just outside the town.
The
rabbi - long life to him! - enters the wood. He takes thirty or forty steps and
stops by a small tree. The Litvak, overcome with amazement, watches the rabbi
take the ax out of his belt and strike the tree. He hears the tree creak and
fall. The rabbi chops the tree into logs and the logs into sticks. Then he
makes a bundle of the wood and ties it with the rope in his pocket. He puts the
bundle of wood on his back, shoves the ax back into his belt, and returns to
the town.
He
stops at a back street besides a small, broken-down shack and knocks at the
window.
"Who
is there?" asks a frightened voice. The Litvak recognizes it as the voice
of a sick Jewish woman.
"I"
answers the rabbi in the accent of a peasant.
"Who
is I?"
Again
the rabbi answers in Russian. "Vassil."
"Who
is Vassil, and what do you want?"
"I
have wood to sell, very cheap." And not waiting for the woman’s reply, he
goes into the house.
The
Litvak steals in after him. In the gray light of early morning he sees a poor
room with broken, miserable furnishings. A sick woman, wrapped in rags, lies on
the bed. She complains bitterly, "Buy? How can I buy? Where will a poor
widow get money?"
"I’ll
lend it to you," answers the supposed Vassil. "It’s only six
cents."
"And
how will I ever pay you back?" asks the poor woman, groaning.
"Foolish
one," says the rabbi reproachfully. "See, you are a poor, sick Jew,
and I am ready to trust you with a little wood. I am sure you’ll pay. While
you, you have such a great and mighty God and you don’t trust him for six
cents."
"And
who will kindle the fire?" asks the widow? "Have I the strength to
get up? My son is at work."
"I’ll
kindle the fire," answers the rabbi.
As
the rabbi puts the wood into the oven he recited, in a groan, the first portion
of the Penitential Prayers.
As
he kindled the fire and the wood burned brightly, he recited, a bit more
joyously, the second portion of the Penitential Prayers. When the fire was set,
he recited the third portion, and then shut the stove.
The
Litvak who saw all this became a disciple of the rabbi.
And
ever after, when another disciple tells how the rabbi of Nemirov ascends to
heaven at the time of the Penitential Prayers, the Litvak does not laugh. He
only adds quietly, "If not higher."
We are called to holiness. We are called to lift those
around us up, to help the needy, not only because it is right, not only because
a great and mighty God compels us, but because it is through us that God is
revealed.
Tonight, as we begin
the Day of Atonement, I ask you: what work have you done to elevate those
around you and in return, yourself? Who have you served and provided for? How
have you climbed to Heaven?
May our actions this year lift each of us up, to heaven, if
not higher.
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