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TAKEN FROM: FLAX-GOLDEN TALES

UNIT TWO: ANCIENT TALES

If Not Higher

I. L.  Peretz ( Poland (1852- 1915)

Translated from the Yiddish by Marie Syrkin

Early every Friday morning, at the time of the Penitential Prayers,¹ the Rabbi of Nemirov would vanish.

    

     He was nowhere to be seen—neither in the synagogue nor in the two Houses of Study nor at a minyan.²  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 is what the people thought.

      But once a Litvak³ 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 Gemarah⁴—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 got 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 earlocks 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 peasant 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 under the bed, puts it in 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 the town.

      A small wood stands behind the town.

      The rabbi, long life to him, enters the wood.  He takes thirty or forty steps 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 beside 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 the 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?” said 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.  And 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?” said 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 put 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 he 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.”

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