"Why are your faces so sad today?"
"Do you know what those words mean?" asks the man sitting
next to me at a bar mitzva.
R' Meir suffered his second stroke about six months ago. The
chance of full recovery were good, but he gave up before he
started, so the hospital sent him home and since then, he has
been sinking deeper and deeper into his wheelchair.
R' Meir would leave his house early every morning in order to
be at the six o'clock shiur in Zichron Moshe, and then
he would go from one shiur to the next until
lunchtime.
Last night there was a knock at his door. "Come in." In came
one of his fellow participants from the shiur. "R'
Meir, how are you? We miss you so much. I'm making a bar
mitzva for my son tomorrow night. Please come. I know how
hard it is for you, but please try."
R' Meir was one of the first to arrive here today. It's hard
to work out where the head table is. Everyone seems to be
around R' Meir, young and old alike. It's clear that he was
the heart and soul of the shiur.
Now the moment which he has been awaiting arrives: "Please
help me to my feet," he requests. Now standing, he embraces
the maggid shiur and with tears streaming down his
face, he announces, "I'm coming back! Tomorrow, I'm coming
back!"
All hands join as they break into a dance, singing the
niggun R' Meir sang every day at the end of
shacharis.
"Look at me," he says. "Look at what a few words can do. Only
after two years had passed, and thinking only of personal
gain — the butler mentioned Yosef to Pharaoh, and even
then, in a degrading manner, as Rashi notes. Yosef had shared
a cell with him and the baker, and must have gauged the kind
of person he was. Nevertheless, he asks him, `Why do you look
so distraught? Maybe I can be of help?'
"The Bluzhever Rebbe zt'l managed to acquire a South
American passport with which he hoped to flee Europe during
the Holocaust. But in order for him to be freed from the
camp, his document had to be stamped by a certain S.S.
officer, from whose office many people did not leave alive .
. .
"The Rebbe arrived but stayed in the waiting room, praying
all day long, until finally he felt prepared to enter. The
Nazi officer, with his back to the Rebbe, shouted, `Where did
you get this passport? It's a fake! I'm going to shoot you.'
And pistol cocked, he swung around and took aim.
"`Oh, is it you, Herr Rabbiner?' he asked.
"During his yearly visits to the health spas in Germany, the
Rebbe regularly met this German citizen and he always greeted
him courteously. And that is what saved his life . . ." R'
Meir said, pausing to take a breath. "Can you imagine that if
Yosef had not asked that `why,' he might never have left
jail? And that `why' eventually turned Yosef into a mighty
viceroy.
"Our baal simcha could have sent me an invitation in
the mail just like he did to everyone here. But no, he came
in the pouring rain to ask me `Madua — Why so
sad?' And because of that, I came here tonight and I intend,
please G-d, to attend the shiur regularly from now
on."
As R' Meir leaves the bar mitzva, I see a man going from
table to table, holding out his hand and saying, "Tzedoka,
tzedoka." There's a sad look on his face. Someone offers
him a drink. "No," he shakes his head sadly.
As he passes the circle of dancing men, the host pulls him
in. "Let me go," says the beggar. "Can't you see I'm not in
the mood?"
The host persists, and takes him by the arm to the center of
the circle and dances with him alone. A few moments later,
this once-sad man is dancing away with a huge smile on his
face.
I'm not sure if his hands filled his pockets with a great
deal of money tonight, but his feet are definitely filling
his heart with joy . . .
