"Babushka!" I called out loudly as I burst into my
grandmother's small third floor apartment. "I need your help
writing a story. Are you busy right now?"
"Oh, zeeskeit, come in! Come in! It's so good to hear
your voice. What's this you said about me helping you write a
story? You've never asked me anything like that before! My
English is not the greatest, having come here as a child, but
don't worry, you came to the right person. Papa always said
that I was a natural writer..."
"Errr, Babushka," I gently interrupted. "I'm sure you're
terrific in Polish and maybe even in English. You're good at
everything, but I don't need help with the writing. I really
want you to tell me the story of the missing shofar
again. You know, the one that happened in your shtetl
when you were little."
"Oh, that's what you want. Well, I guess I am better at
telling stories than at writing them. O.K., here
goes...
*
Elka Schwartz slowly made her way down the cobblestone path,
careful not to spill a single drop of milk from the wooden
pails she was carrying. Milk was expensive and her little
Shloimele needed a lot of it. The doctor had said so.
Although the milk was heavy and her back hurt, Elka Schwartz
tried to enjoy the scenery. The path was surrounded by
picturesque trees, the kind that look like they've come
straight out of an oil painting. The sun stood low in the sky,
casting shadows on the old cobblestone passageway. Suddenly
she stopped short. Just a few feet before her stood a woman
with her hands on her hips. It was none other than Feigele
Fishman. "How could you have not noticed her before?" Elka
scolded herself. "Your daydreaming leads to no good." She
waved to Feigele.
"Well, if it isn't Elka Schwartz," a sharp voice cut through
the air. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever notice me. I
tell you, you ought to pay more attention to where you're
going. Too much daydreaming can cause misunderstandings."
Feigele Fishman wagged a playful finger at her good friend.
"That's exactly what I was thinking myself, Feigele." Elka
carefully lowered her buckets to the ground and then changed
the subject. "So, is everything good by you?" At that,
Feigele's expression changed completely. Her mischievous smile
was replaced by a frown.
"Good?" she barked. "And how could anything be good when not a
soul in this shtetl of ours will get to hear the shofar
blown this Rosh Hashona? Is that good? Good?" she echoed
angrily. Elka Schwartz just stared at her with a puzzled
expression. "What, for heaven's sake, are you talking about?"
she finally asked.
"Oh, I guess you didn't hear the news yet. Sorry for yelling."
Feigele calmed down. By now, Elka was bursting with curiosity.
"Please, Feigele," she pleaded, "do me a favor already and
tell me what happened!"
"Well," began Feigele, "my cousin's best friend's husband went
to ask the Rov a question last night. When he arrived at the
Rov's doorstep, he found himself standing face to face with
none other than the Rov himself. He stammered an apology which
R' Shaya waved off but proceeded to tell him that he would be
unable to help him just then as he had a problem of his own on
his hands. He was unable to locate the community
shofar!" By now, Feigele Fishman was shrieking again.
"Do you realize what this means, Elka? The shofar was
stolen and we won't be able to get a new one in time."
"That new law about gentiles being forbidden to do business
with Jews is not going to make things easier, either. We might
have asked our goyishe neighbors who travel around to
help us out. Whatever will we do?" She was practically in
tears. She picked up her buckets of milk and bid Feigele good-
by. She continued walking home, her back bowed, forgetting to
be careful with the milk this time.
*
From that day on, the missing shofar was the talk of
the town. "Yenta, you'll never believe what Elka Schwartz told
me!"
"Why, what unbelievable thing could have happened that I
haven't heard about yet? Something about the new law? Has her
grandmother given birth? Has..."
"You're serious one minute, joking the next. Well, you're
totally wrong. Something terrible, something awful, horrendous
has happened. The shofar was stolen in the last
pogrom!"
"The shofar? You mean the community shofar that
has belonged to the shtetl for generations? That's
terrible indeed! I must rush home to tell this to Yankel..."
The shteibl, too, was bursting with the news.
"Berish, my wife says the shofar was stolen. Did you
hear about it?"
"Do you mean to say that it was stolen along with the
megilla in the last pogrom?"
"Exactly. The Rov didn't bother checking to make sure it was
in its drawer at the time. He figured that no gentile would
realize that a ram's horn was worth anything. He just noticed
it was missing when he went to take it out for Elul."
"Oh, Yankel, this will be my first Rosh Hashona without
hearing the shofar! My Breindy will be heartbroken to
hear this piece of news."
As it turned out, Breindy was heartbroken and she quickly ran
and told Chaike Feldman, who told Zeesil Hopstein. Breindy,
Chaike and Zeesil all told their families, of course, and
their children passed the news around in school. The
schoolchildren all told their parents and the parents told a
few more people. By the time Rosh Hashona came along, the town
was basically in mourning.
A week before Rosh Hashona, Hershel Fishman returned from shul
to find his wife Feigele huddled in a corner, tearfully
mumbling chapters of Tehillim. Although he knew that this was
a most commendable activity, he also realized that there was a
time and place for everything. You see, with all the bemoaning
of the community's ill fate and the guilt feelings this loss
aroused, Feigele had forgotten all about Yom Tov
preparations.
"Feigele!" he sang out in the most cheerful tone he could
muster, "you'll never guess what a special treat I managed to
obtain for Yom Tov! Even with the government's latest decree
hovering over our heads, with Hashem's help our family will
have honey this Rosh Hashona. Isn't that something?" Feigele
wasn't so sure.
"Well, as far as I know, the point of dipping an apple in
honey is to have a sweet year, right? I also seem to remember
hearing that the success of anything depends on its beginning.
And how can we have a good or sweet year without repenting?
And how can we repent without hearing the sound of the
shofar? How can we miss out on such a mitzva?"
She burst into a new bout of sobs.
Suddenly, an idea struck her. "Hershel, how did you get your
hands on that honey? There's none to be had in these parts and
importing it is so expensive, with those new taxes. It must
have been smuggled by a non-Jew, right? And he must have
charged a huge sum for it, right?" Hershel was amazed at how
his wife could be so logical at times, and yet at others, so
illogical.
"If he was willing to go to such a risk, and smuggling is
sometimes punishable by death, maybe he'll be willing to find
us a shofar for a higher price?"
The Polish peasant was reluctant. After all, honey is
something everyone wants... but a ram's horn? In the end,
money won him over, but he warned Hershel that if anything
happened, he'd point the finger at him.
From that moment on, Hershel and Feigele were constantly
praying for the success of their plan, realizing that the
police might storm into their home and arrest them.
At the appointed day and hour, Hershel went to meet the
peasant clandestinely. The peasant arrived empty-handed. "I
succeeded in getting a ram's horn, the only problem was that
it tore a hole in the bag and fell out without my noticing. In
any case, you'll have to pay me for my trouble. If not, I'll
have a story to tell the police. Oh, and I'm not interested in
doing this again, either."
*
Rosh Hashona dawned gray and chilly. Big black storm clouds
loomed overhead, threatening to unload their wet burdens any
minute. People bundled up and trudged slowly to the shul.
It was a little warmer inside, but grim. People huddled
together and spoke in whispers. An outsider might almost have
mistaken it for Tisha B'Av.
The Rebbetzin entered the women's section, her face lit up
with a smile. People took courage from her. "What a
tzaddekes! Trying to act as if everything was
alright."
Shacharis passed and the time for the blowing of the
shofar approached. What would the Rov do, people
wondered. Would he read the prayers and just intone the words
of tekia, shevorim, terua? Or would he just skip the
whole section? He stood there, enveloped in his voluminous
tallis, shrouded in mystery.
The moment arrived. Silence. Then... a blast filled the air.
The Rov was blowing the shofar! The very one that had
served them all these years! Tears of joy streamed down
people's faces.
Later, the men surrounded the Rov and the women encircled the
Rebbetzin to learn what had happened. How had they gotten the
thieves to return it?
"What thieves?" asked the Rebbetzin, an island in the midst of
a raging sea. "What stolen shofar? I don't understand."
The women stared at one another. Who had started the story, to
begin with?
Feigele knew. "The Rov himself told the husband of my cousin's
best friend, Yocheved Bloch, that the shofar was
missing!" The Rebbetzin thought back and chuckled. "Now I
remember. Yankel came to ask my husband a shaila just
as he was trying to locate the shofar. We found it in
the Pesach cabinet afterwards, and my husband has been blowing
it all Elul, but at his private minyan. I guess he
didn't realize people thought it was missing. I don't know
anything about the pogrom and the thieves, but it must have
been an empty rumor. It's been here all along."
Feigele blushed. She had taken things for granted and spread
idle rumors. Luckily, they hadn't really hurt anyone. As for
the money she and her husband had lost -- well, she probably
deserved that...
*
"Babushka," I turned to my grandmother. "You've told me this
story so many times and each time I learn something new. Just
think of how that rumor ruined the month of Elul for so many
people."
"Well," my grandmother nodded her head wisely, "that is the
power of words. But you know what? In a way, it wasn't so bad
after all. The people certainly prayed hard that Elul, don't
you think?"
