In our building lives a tzaddik and his family.
The image one usually has of a tzaddik is of an older
Torah scholar. His appearance testifies to his complete
devotion to Hashem. His face, framed by a long, flowing white
beard, radiates wisdom. His eyes shine with pious devotion.
Well, this is not what our tzaddik looks like... yet.
That's because he's still quite young. It is doubtful that he
has seen his thirtieth birthday, and several years will pass
before a hint of gray will grace his dark brown beard. But we
know this is what he will look like, eventually.
It's early morning and I'm in the kitchen making sandwiches.
As I glance out of my kitchen window, there he is: our
tzaddik, on his way to shul. What's so unusual about
that? Well, while the other men in their suits and hats are
briskly walking to shul, he, wearing his tallis and
tefillin, is actually running! And yes, I've seen this
time and again. [And it has absolutely nothing to do with
being late, mind you!]
As men and children make their way to kollel and
cheder, later on, one can't help but notice him. He's
carrying two leather book bags filled to overflowing with
sifrei kodesh. One is slung over his left shoulder, the
other gripped in his right hand, both visibly weighing him
down. This scene repeats itself countless times over months
and years, rain or shine. His slight build belies the strength
that propels him forward on his mission.
My husband and I are perplexed as to why he is
shlepping so many seforim. One day, the mystery
becomes clear.
Boarding a bus to the city one morning, we spot him. He's
standing beside his book bags that are resting securely on an
empty seat in the front of the bus. Removing a couple of
seforim from a bag, he makes his way slowly down the
aisle. In his quiet, unassuming manner, he politely offers
seforim to several men who are not already occupied in
learning. While some are a little taken aback by this offer,
many smile, accept one -- on loan, for the duration of the
ride -- and nod a yasher koach. As we watch this all
unfold from our vantage point at the back of the bus, an
atmosphere of holiness and security settles over the entire
bus. One can only marvel at his determination and stamina.
Weeks later, an unusual storm grips our area. It comes at a
time when rain is not usually expected in Eretz Yisroel. No
need for an alarm clock: this morning, the rain is coming down
in [loud] sheets with sound effects. Thunderclaps and bolts of
lightning make it all the more dramatic. Rivers of water rush
down the street, looking for an outlet.
Entering my living room, I am astonished to see rain coming
through the ceiling and running down the walls. I can only
imagine what is happening upstairs in my neighbor's
apartment.
Making my way up the stairs, I notice that water is leaking
out of the electricity boxes situated in the hallway just
outside the apartments. "There goes the electricity," I think
to myself. And it does.
Our tzaddik's wife greets me at her door. I explain as
calmly as I can that water is cascading down my living room
walls. She invites me into her apartment, and I see something
that reminds me of pictures I've seen of Niagara Falls.
The fact that they were in the process of adding a couple of
rooms to their apartment, we knew. What we didn't know (and
apparently, our tzaddik and his wife were also unaware
of) was that the building contractor forgot to cover the open
areas on their still uncompleted rooms and the rain is just
pouring in. My neighbor is visibly upset when she realizes
that our apartment is also undergoing a toiveling of
sorts.
I was sure that they would do everything in their power to
right the situation as soon as possible. Every action has a
reaction, and this one wasn't long in coming.
Minutes after I return to my apartment, our tzaddik
knocks at our door. My husband welcomes him into our wet and
dark abode. Our neighbor insists on presenting us with money
to offset any expenses that we might incur from water damage.
Although my husband initially accepts it (to make our neighbor
feel better), the money is later returned, as, thank G-d,
there is no real damage. It goes without saying that the
contractor is notified immediately and corrects the situation
after the fact.
Our tzaddik and my husband usually leave home at about
the same time for their respective kollels, and run
into each other at the building exit. Our neighbor rarely
forgets to ask, with genuine interest, how our family is and
how our boys are doing in yeshiva. Now and then, a
sefer is given -- just like that -- as a gift. No
special occasion necessary. "Please give this to your son,"
are the instructions my husband receives. On the inside cover
we find blessings that our son become a godol in Torah
and yiras shomayim. When my sons meet him by chance on
the way to shul, our tzaddik will take the time to
speak with them personally and inquire after their welfare.
Shabbos finally arrives. Our ceiling, walls and floors show
little evidence of the rainstorm that we sustained just a few
days earlier. This week for sure, we've got the cleanest
floors around, except maybe for our upstairs neighbors'. The
beautiful Shabbos lights illuminate our home. As my husband
and sons finish singing zemiros, we can still hear our
tzaddik's niggunim softly filtering downstairs.
Years ago, after reading a book about gedolei Yisroel,
I realized that what was written about each particular figure
was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. How could anyone
possibly know about all the acts of kindness each did, or the
mitzvos he performed, or the depths of his prayers and
kavonos? Since Torah leaders make a point of concealing
many of their deeds, much will remain forever unknown, except
to Hashem.
Decades from now, our grandchildren will contemplate the deeds
of the great men of their generation. It would come as no
surprise if our tzaddik is amongst them. Because with
him, there is much more than meets the eye.
