The midday sun sweltered down upon the crowd of Jerusalemites
waiting impatiently for the bus. Ironically, the heat was
intensified by the crowd itself that in an effort to stay
cool had huddled together in a tight mob under the small
awning of the bus stop shelter, whose tiny strip of shade
served more for appearance than shelter. Yanky, however, was
happy to at least have a seat under the shelter, considering
that he had been waiting for nearly an hour. He was among the
first to have arrived there, having just missed the previous
bus.
The chol hamoed rush must have caused delays all over
the city. Wasn't Pesach supposed to be the best season in
Eretz Yisroel? Apparently, the heat wave had started early
that year. Nonetheless, Yanky kept reminding himself that it
beat Pesach in Brooklyn any day. Just a few more weeks
until summer vacation, he thought to himself.
He had nearly completed his agreed-upon year in yeshiva, to
the approval of his parents, and now he was almost free. Free
to do whatever he wanted — what that was, he wasn't
exactly sure, but it certainly wasn't to stay in yeshiva.
Yanky wasn't a bad kid, he had given it a fair shot, it just
didn't seem like learning was for him. He had been kicked out
of one yeshiva after another throughout his high school years
and now, as a last resort, his parents had sent him to Eretz
Yisroel to an American yeshiva to see if some spark could be
ignited within him. He had nothing against religion, per se,
but he was looking for more in life.
Lately, he had been fanticizing about joining the army and
living in Israel. Surprisingly, he was one of the few
Americans he knew who appreciated the Israeli mentality. He
enjoyed the toughness, the independent spirit; growing up in
New York had given him an edge that he liked to think helped
him to hold his own in Israeli society.
All were well relieved when the bus finally came, only 45
minutes late. Yanky took a seat in front so he could enjoy
the Jerusalem scenery and make conversation with the driver,
as he was prone to do. The driver was an older man, thick
wrinkled skin behind dark sunglasses. His bald head remained
uncovered.
"Sholom aleichem!" Yanky yelled to the driver above
the din of the bus engine.
"A gutten," the driver mumbled. A heimishe Yid,
Yanky thought. One never could tell with these Israelis.
"Hot weather, huh?" he continued in his thick American
accent.
"Yah, it was never like this in all my days here," the driver
responded.
"How long have you lived here?" Yanky inquired, taking hold
of the opportunity to get more personal. He always loved
learning about the history of Israel's inhabitants; you never
knew when you would get a real gem.
"Much longer than twice your age in years," he laughed. "I
came not long after the war."
"Where in Europe did you come from?" Yanky asked, not missing
a beat.
"You heard of Karlin? That's where I grew up."
Yanky's grandfather himself had been a Stoliner chossid
and had told him stories his whole childhood of how
wonderful it was to go to see the Rebbe in Karlin. Yanky had
many fond memories of his grandfather — not everything
about Yiddishkeit had become stale for him.
"That's amazing," he exclaimed. "What was it like living
there? Did you know the Rebbe?" Yanky began to hum the famous
soul stirring niggun "Ka Eksof" composed by Rav Aaron
of Karlin, the first Stoliner Rebbe and disciple of the Baal
Shem Tov. The driver nodded in recognition while waving a
hand to silence him.
"No, no, I wasn't religious. Religion wasn't for me."
"But wasn't Karlin a religious town?" Yanky asked innocently,
sensing a story, knowing full well that Karlin was almost
entirely religious until shortly before the war. "Yah, yah,
when I was young, everyone was religious, but I was the first
— the first to leave." The first to go off the
derech.
The bus continued hurtling through the streets of Jerusalem
but Yanky was far away, his mind captivated by the bus
driver's story, as he began to tell his tale:
"It started innocently enough. We were young, teenagers. We
didn't like being told what to do and wanted to assert our
independence. It wasn't intellectual, not at first.
Philosophy came much later. Just a normal teenager's desire
to rebel."
These words were all too familiar to Yanky.
"There were two towns, Karlin and Pinsk. They were separated
by a graveyard. We used to go there every Friday night and
smoke, that's how it all started. While the town was busy
with their seudos, we snuck away. We felt independent,
modern, free. Me and my friend Shlomy," the bus driver
reminisced. "We used to go there together, week after week.
Until that one night." The driver paused.
"What happened?" Yanky demanded.
"That night . . . I will never forget that night," he
recalled with a hint of emotion in his voice. "I'll tell you,
but I don't think you will believe me. But what I am saying
is completely true. You see, in that graveyard was buried a
tzaddik, Rav Aaron of Karlin, the first Rebbe. I may
not have cared much for the mitzvos, I even blatantly
disgraced Shabbos in the public eye, but you must understand,
I grew up in a religious home. I told you, I was the first to
go off. I grew up with stories of Reb Aaron Hagodol —
of him I was afraid.
"So you understand why I refused that Friday night, when we
were alone in the cemetery, our cigarettes between our lips,
only to discover to our remorse that we had forgotten our
matches. What were we to do? It was a long walk back to our
houses. Until my friend Shlomy had an idea. He remembered
that there was always a candle burning by the grave of Reb
Aaron. Like I said, smoking on Shabbos was one thing, but I
wasn't about to include the tzaddik in our
transgression. I refused.
"`You're out of your mind,' I told him. `That's going too
far. He's a tzaddik.'
"`Come on,' he urged. `What, are you scared? What's there to
be afraid of? He's only a pile of bones by now!'
"`You're making a mistake,' I said `Let's go back home.'
"`No,' he said adamantly. `We came here to smoke and I'm
going to light my cigarette!'
"`Do what you want, but I'll have no part in it.'
"He marched proudly towards the center of the cemetery
towards the Rebbe's grave. I followed from a distance to see
if he would indeed carry through with it, or chicken out at
the last moment. And then I saw the most frightening sight I
have ever seen in my life."
The driver continued with trepidation as Yanky sat on the
edge of his seat: "He approached the tziyun. The
single candle burned fiercely, illuminating the pitch-black
night with its bright flame. It cast an exaggerated dancing
shadow of my friend across the stone as he bent down to light
his cigarette. I see it before me as if it were today. He
lowered his head down slowly to the grave and my heart began
to beat with sudden terror. As the tip of his cigarette
touched the flame there was a loud thud as he suddenly
collapsed. His body slumped down upon the grave —
dropped dead without a word. The candle continued to burn
brightly above his corpse."
Yanky sat there in shock, sweat dripping down his brow,
entranced in awe by the frightening story. The bus driver
continued, "When the Chevra Kadisha finally arrived, they
were unable to straighten his bent body. He was buried in a
curved coffin as he had died; bending over the Rebbe's grave;
so he lay forever." A bent thing is not easily
straightened...
They both sat alone for a few minutes digesting the impact of
the story. Yanky broke the silence: "So how did you react
after that? Did it change your life?" he asked excitedly.
"Me?" the driver responded coolly, "I got a new friend to
smoke with."
"What!" Yanky scoffed in disbelief. "After seeing such a
thing, how could you not become observant?"
"I told you." he said, "Religion wasn't for me."
The bus had arrived at Yanky's stop — arrived and left,
and now two stops later, it had come time for him to get off.
He exited the bus after thanking the driver profusely for
telling him his story. He continued all the way to the
shul near his house, in utter amazement that one could
witness a Divine miracle and not be moved to change one's
ways. How could he not see the message?
It all goes to show, he thought, that one only sees
what one wants to see. Hashem goes to great lengths to
maintain free choice in the world. Yanky stopped short in
his tracks — a thought that had been gnawing at the
back of his mind the whole time the bus driver was speaking
began to crystallize. There were so many parallels between
the bus driver's life and his own. It wasn't by chance that
he'd heard that story at this moment in his life; there's no
such thing as coincidence.
No, Hashem was speaking to him, he was certain of it. The
message wasn't lost on Yanky; he heard it loud and clear.
Maybe he would give yeshiva another chance next year after
all!
