On this hot summer night, one by one they came, scraping
sounds grating on the white walls. Silently, invisibly at
first, then boldly and daringly stalking the dining room.
Chana's glowing smile dropped limp into a dead arch. She
winced, bracing her fingernails into the soft brown
upholstered chair. Her usual pale countenance made a
lightning fast transformation into a shocking shade of red.
Humiliation struck her whole being with sharp daggers. Her
eyes lowered themselves to the ground as they searched for an
appropriate escape, but there was none at hand. As she
glanced upwards in prayer, her gaze fell upon the Shabbos
candles.
After having expended much painstaking efforts for Shabbos,
the fresh-smelling white tablecloth finally graced the old
oak table, flowing in waves at its edges from the breeze of
the overhead ceiling fan. The aroma of chicken soup ebbed and
flowed in waves around the gleaming candlesticks, reflecting
back a sense of beauty and serenity. Chana, albeit tired, was
aglow, her back straight, her head held high - a queen at her
Shabbos table. She peeked at her American guests with a timid
smile. Their Shabbos table, she imagined, was undoubtedly
still fully set with gold rimmed Quartz china and genuine,
NOT plated silverware. Chana desperately hoped that these
honored guests would gloss over the scratches in her smoked-
glass, very standard Arcopal dishes. "This is Eretz Yisroel,
after all," she rationalized confidently. "Dull looking glass
and a scratch or two should hardly put a dent in a Shabbos
full of kedusha."
Kiddush and the soup followed uneventfully. Then, then,
then... Just the thought of it could turn any self-respecting
baalebusta over in a freshly imagined grave. But Chana
wasn't even of those types. She rarely found her keys, or
children's socks. You could paint a white glove black by
rubbing your finger along her windowsills. But Shabbos
perparations were another story. What she lacked in cleaning
talents, she more than compensated for in enthusiasm and
culinary success. From challa to dessert, she labored
lovingly to persent a delectable array of treats.
But THIS was beyond the typical embarrrassing moments
encountered by uninvited guests dropping into her tornado-hit
apartment on a usual weekday. No words could describe her
humiliation now. As she was raising her fork, filled with
piping hot sweet-and-sour chicken to her mouthwatered lips,
one by one, the silent, brown-antennaed cockroaches stalked
the dining room walls in football formations.
Chana's fork dropped onto the glass plate with a sharp
clatter. The bold, giant jukim `encroached' upon her
entire self esteem, seemingly mocking Chana's Shabbos-
baalebusta-hood. The American guests' faces contorted
in horror, their eyes widened with anxiety as they followed
the scene with disgust. Perhaps the wife even shrieked
quietly. As they bit their lips, Chana's neck bent forward
and her arms hung at her side in helpless shame.
Chana's husband, Yaakov, unfazed, quickly explained in his
matter-of-fact baritone that the Stein home had just been
exterminated the previous Thursday and the exterminator had
explained that as a last-ditch effort to gain oxygen, the
roaches (did you really want to hear this?) would venture out
to the middle of the rooms to make a few final circles and
drop dead. This danse macabre, a last debut, was
obviously what they were witnessing.
Chana didn't hear a word of her husband's explanation. Her
thoughts pounded her brain furiously. Oh, why had they
invited Shabbos guests this week? What must they be thinking
about her and her family Her insecurity gauge started
mounting. Hopefully, they're careful not to speak loshon
horo. Actually most people are working on themselves in
this area, these days, and I can hope that this will never
get out. They seemed to have lost their appetities, she
noted, as they wiped their mouths daintily on paper
serviettes and laid down their forks.
Then Chana remembered the stories of tzaddikim who had
even lost loved ones on Shabbos and had withheld their tears
and not even presented a sad expression throughout the entire
Holy day. What greatness! Perhaps this was HER test, albeit
on a much smaller scale.
It is forbidden to suffer on Shabbos. So what if you've
lost your pride? an inner voice interrupted.
But what will they think of me? Chana retorted inside
her head.
It's a kaporo, the voice offered.
But why, today? You know our guest is a world famous
lecturer, Chana countered.
It could be worse, the voice consoled.
Yeah? How? Chana inquired.
It could have been the Rosh Yeshiva or the Godol
Hador, the voice suggested.
You're right, Chana conceded, but, still, this is
probably the worst meal they've ever experienced.
It's Shabbos, the voice soothed.
"It's Shabbos," Chana heard herself murmuring, and she
relaxed.
Chana lifted her eyes to Heaven, inadvertently glancing at
the Shabbos lights to reveal that THEY showed no horror as
they flickered proudly and gloriously. THEIR Shabbos was
untainted. With some effort, a thoughtful Chana straightened
herself in her chair and noticed her crimson yet smiling
reflection in the recently polished candlesticks.
"Yom zeh mechubod," Yaakov began singing, and the
world famous lecturer joined in heartily.
"Chocolate cake, anyone?" Chana graciously offered.
