Rebbetzin Baksht called out, "What happened?" as she entered
her sitting room. On the floor lay R' Yechiel Michel Gordon,
their esteemed guest, the eminent Lomze Rosh Yeshiva. Her
husband, R' Baksht, was kneeling beside the fainting rabbi
and was trying to listen to his heartbeat.
"Is . . . is he still alive?" she asked in alarm. "What
happened?"
R' Baksht was equally alarmed. "He fainted! Quick, bring some
water," he said urgently. The rebbetzin rushed out of the
sitting room, returning soon with whatever she could collect:
a basinful of water, some clean cloths, a bottle of alcohol
and even some smelling salts. She laid them all hastily on
the table. R' Baksht became very busy. He opened the fainting
rabbi's shirt, loosened his tie, took a cloth and dipped it
in water, squeezed out the water and placed it on the
forehead of his fainting guest. He then rubbed his temples
with alcohol. His wife handed him each item as he requested
it and soon, thank G-d, the esteemed guest had opened his
eyes.
"We must call a doctor!" said the rebbetzin.
"Yes, of course. He does look better but he may be very ill .
. . "
As soon as the doctor arrived, he checked the rosh yeshiva on
the couch, where he had been laid. Pillows were placed under
his feet to bring the blood back to his head and soon his
color improved. After drinking a spoonful of some malodorous
medicine, the rabbi was able to smile faintly. He spoke
softly, assuring his anxious hosts that he felt much
better.
"What happened to him?" the doctor asked.
"I really don't know. He seemed busy reading something when
all of a sudden, he fainted and fell to the floor." All eyes
now turned to R' Gordon and in a low voice he was able to
explain: "I just received a letter from my daughter. I was
deeply upset by what she wrote me." He breathed heavily and
the doctor looked at him sharply. "You must not get
emotionally upset again or you will faint once more," he
warned.
"Read this letter," said R' Gordon, pointing to the letter
that had been picked up from the floor and put on the table.
"The first paragraph on the second page."
R' Baksht read aloud, "I met one of my dear friends and asked
her simply when she was getting married, since she, too, is
engaged. She began crying and told me that the money which
had been put aside for her wedding was loaned to the Lomze
Yeshiva and now that the yeshiva is in such a terrible
financial state, it is unable to redeem the money. She fears
the wedding might be called off . . . "
The letter went on, "I decided, Father, that my
chosson, R' Issak, and I, don't need money for our own
wedding. I want you to take a loan and pay back the money
which the yeshiva owes my friend so that she can get married
as planned. I want her to be happy . . . "
The room was quiet. R' Gordon covered his eyes and in a
choked voice said, "I am very proud that my daughter showed
such noble character. I am sorry for all the troubles caused
by the sad financial state of the yeshiva. This young woman
is not the only one who entrusted personal funds to it but at
least my daughter was noble enough to come to the aid of her
friend. Alas, that the yeshiva has come to such dire times .
. . "
Rebbetzin Baksht wiped a tear away and accompanied the doctor
to the door. Then she turned to her husband to hear what he
had to say. "I'll send someone to call R' Abramsky. We must
send help immediately. I can't leave the house now. I can't
leave our eminent guest in this state but I am sure that the
benevolent Gaon will be willing to help collect the necessary
funds. There are many kind-hearted people in London who will
be willing to open up their purses to help . . . "
Twice on that very same day, R' Abramsky came to the home of
R' Baskt. On his second visit, he smiled broadly and said,
"Boruch Hashem, I was able to collect enough to cover the
immediate funds to repay the loan the yeshiva owes." He waved
the written check in one hand and held an envelope in the
other. "What is your home address, R' Gordon?"
"I can write it myself. There is no need to trouble you that
much."
"I recall the story which I heard from you, the Rosh Yeshiva,
about the wife of the Vilna Gaon who made a pact with a
friend that whoever should pass away first would come within
thirty days to report to the other who was still alive and
tell her how it was in the other world.
"True to her word, the woman who passed away first appeared
in a dream to the wife of the Gra and said, `Do you remember
how, one day, we went collecting for a worthy cause and saw a
rich lady across the street. We waved our arms to her and
motioned to her to wait for us and then rushed to ask her for
a donation. Do you know that even this motion with our arms
was recorded to our credit and I am getting reward for
it?'"
And thereupon, the letter was addressed, a stamp was pasted
on the envelope and it was sent off immediately to Lomze.
*
In Lomze, Frieda Gordon, daughter of the Rosh Yeshiva, was
sitting by the window, plying her needle and thread. She
turned to her sister, Etta, noting, "This was Mother's dress,
remember?" Etta nodded, "Yes, she wore it on Shabbos and Yom
Tov. Now it will be perfect for you."
"I'll have to turn it inside out and add some nice buttons
and a white collar and then it will look just like new . . .
." She continued sewing until day turned into night and
Frieda was satisfied that the dress was completed. "Who needs
new clothing? Mother left good clothes. They are still in
good condition and very serviceable. It will be fine for me
and I will look decent in these difficult times." She sighed.
"It's only too sad, though, that Mother didn't live to lead
me down to the chuppa."
The two sisters sat in their quiet home which was right
across from the bustling Lomze Yeshiva. Having finished their
sewing, they prepared themselves to retire for the night.
Tomorrow, they would continue with other sewing jobs, to
finish the preparations for the upcoming wedding.
As they lay in their beds, Frieda said, "Father promised to
borrow five hundred dollars as soon as he travels to the
U.S. to raise money for the yeshiva. That will be enough to
fix up a home for me. But now I feel that it's a mistake to
spend so much money, especially at a time when my friend is
in danger of breaking up her engagement for lack of money . .
. "
In the darkness of the night, Etta answered quietly, "You are
right. And you are lucky to have such a worthy chosson
who does not threaten to leave for lack of funds." Frieda
sighed and then the two girls recited hamapil and
drifted off into sleep.
Frieda dreamed that she saw her deceased mother dressed in
her beautiful black dress. "Mother," she murmured, "please
pray for us. Pray for all the good people who were hurt by
the yeshiva's desperate financial condition . . . "
The two sisters awoke early the next morning. With youthful
zest, they approached their daily tasks. Before doing
anything, Frieda stole a look at their mother's empty bed,
then at their father's stender, which awaited his
return. She sighed briefly, but thinking about her upcoming
wedding, smiled happily.
Before reciting the prayers for the day, she stole a look out
the window at the bustling yeshiva. From the corner of the
street she noticed her chosson, Isaak, rushing to the
yeshiva. He had such a zest for everything: prayers, study .
. . How proud she was of him. His speeding steps reminded her
that she still had a busy day ahead of her, and she took down
her siddur and began to pray with devotion.
When she finally sat down to continue her sewing, after a
meager breakfast with her sister, she mused aloud, "I wonder
if Father got my letter? Will he be able to do something?"
Etta responded, "I am sure he will do something for her."
That noon, the postman delivered a letter. "Who could it be
from?" Frieda wondered.
"Maybe it's from our brother, Shneur Avrohom, who is studying
in Yeshivas Chevron in Eretz Yisroel."
"But it's from London!" Frieda exclaimed. "It can't be from
Father; it's too soon. It's less than a week since I wrote
him. And it isn't his handwriting, either . . . " she said in
alarm.
"Open it," said Etta.
Frieda hesitated, but finally opened it with trembling hands.
It contained a check with a note attached to it. Now she was
sure that her father had gotten and read her letter.
"This is for the poor bride whom you wrote about, whose
chosson threatened to leave her . . . "
Frieda smiled happily. Suddenly, the old clothes she had been
sewing became a wardrobe of queenly attire.
