A Simple Simchas Torah — Joy in the Torah —
story
A pre-winter despondency threatened to submerge the snow-
covered village.
The walls of the Jewish huts, bowed with their weight of age
and snow, splintered, decrepit, admitted the wind and snow,
offering hardly any resistance. The wind swept through and
through the house, swirling about freely as on a broad
promenade, while the snow hugged the walls and claimed a
significant reign of territory on the dirt floor, lavishly
spreading its white sheets and sparkling tablecloths
decoratively.
Both the wind and the snow, the first — fierce and
whistling, the latter — calm and serene, laughed in
defiance at the scanty, skimpy two-footed stove designed to
mitigate their full victory. So ridiculous was its effort
that the howling wind would sometimes overturn the pan of
smoldering coals and send them rolling helter skelter, in the
very manner that street urchins roll a snowman back into a
huge snowball after it has lost its appeal.
As for the snow, it laughed itself to tears as it sat upon
the silly stovetop. Notwithstanding, the suffering mothers of
sickly infants would feed this voracious primitive stove with
any cannon-fodder they could scavange, as defense against the
enemy, the cold and frost.
A handful of straw, a coal here and there, a foot of a broken
stool, a pole or board that had come loose somewhere, out
there, which they had opportunely snatched and claimed from
its ownerlessness. If they could wheedle some sawdust from
their carpenter neighbor, that, too, became fuel for the
`cannon.' One couldn't make light of even that; everything
helped. Everything served a purpose in the war-to- the-finish
against the murderous cold which seemed determined to
transform living babes and nurslings into cold, cold
creatures without a breath of life . . .
Mirele's home was not a whit different from the rest of the
wretched huts of the village. Hers is an average household,
nothing to boast of. Her half-naked, altogether barefoot
children are sitting in a semicircle around the smoldering
tin stove, staring at the glowing embers as they await their
father for the evening meal. Night has long since fallen and
the stove has already received the last portion of its daily
allotment of fuel, but Tatte has still not come home.
Full well do they know — having heard it countless
times from their mother — that Tatte works from
daybreak until late at night in order to earn just a measly
bit more than their bare subsistence. And still, he does not
have enough to buy them new shoes or boots. Their stomachs
are grumbling and their innards are shriveling. How long will
they still have to wait? How long before they can have
something to eat?
The cold is beginning to pinch and sting their feet. Their
friend the stove has already gone to sleep, abandoning the
little waifs to the utterly bitter cold — and Tatte has
still not yet returned . . .
Finally, the `menfolk' enter; the father soaked to the bone,
returns from work, and the older boys come home from
cheider, where they have just completed a perplexing
and difficult sugya which they began that evening.
Mirele sets aside all of her other occupations and begins
setting the table. The older ones wash their hands and at a
sign from her, the little ones also crowd around the table,
ready to eat.
Throughout that day, Mirele had repeated to herself that
after supper, she would put the children to sleep and then
have a heart-to-heart talk with her Nota Shimon. This time,
she decided emphatically, it would not be idle chatter,
simple prattle, but a serious talk with a design and
purpose.
How much longer could she keep this thing bottled up inside
her? We are only human, flesh and blood with a pulsing
heart, a heart which can sometimes burst . . . The matter
was a very serious, weighty one, not for the sake of talking,
which was wasted energies. He was the children's father,
after all, and should not be allowed to sacrifice his life
and his health.
She had prepared all kinds of plans, of speeches, during the
day, how they could change their bitter lot, either by this
scheme or that strategy. But now that she looked at him, she
saw him as he was; sitting by the table half dead, the spoon
almost dropping from his hand. And she knew — knowing
herself — that she would necessarily postpone her
speech for another day. Who knows? Hashem might send the
opportune moment her way. At any rate, now was not the time
to talk to him.
After sending the children off to bed, endearingly but also
apologetically, she was ready to begin the second half of her
exhausting day, the night shift. She began by washing the
dishes, big round tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't
know who, she didn't exactly know when, but somehow, she felt
she had been cheated here.
Of what value, what meaning did her life have, altogether?
Here she was, not even thirty, looking haggard and double her
age. As for her husband — he was no more than a
skeleton, skin and bones. She had already brought seven
children into the world, may Hashem preserve them, and all
she could offer to stave off their hunger was a bit of beet
sugar or a small carrot . . .
She completed one task and went on to the next and the next.
But her eyes were not under her control. When the heart is
filled with bitter-herbs, the eyes involuntarily tear.
Suddenly, she noticed that the wick of the kerosene lamp was
turned on too high. Like the stove, this device was also
ravenous and capable of devouring a sea of kerosene like a
hippo. At any rate, the light must be disturbing the children
from sleeping.
Mirele tiptoed over and turned down the lamp as low as it
would go. Suddenly, huge shadows danced around the walls like
black sheep, swallowing up the wretched room, complete with
its mold and dampness. Only one small place was not plunged
in darkness: the table.
When one looked sideways at this small solitary island,
illuminated by only a flickering flame, drowning in the
surrounding sea of shadowy darkness, an ancient story bobs up
from some forgotten abyss.
*
A story about an emissary of the Baal Shem Tov who once found
himself all alone at night in the midst of a thick,
terrifying forest. He made all kinds of vows, spells and the
like to fend off danger. He even drew a circle with the
walking staff with which his master had provided him and
entered it.
Suddenly, all the beasts of the forest crept out of their
dens and burrows, packs upon packs of wolves and wild things,
bent upon destroying the two-footed interloper and effacing
him from the world. More and more animals converged to the
spot, from the darkest corners, the most distant places. They
came as far as the edge of the circle — but could
proceed no further, as if there were an invisible wall. They
bared their fangs, they growled and howled, and lunged
forward to rend the intruder limb from limb and not leave a
vestige behind.
They leaped forward, but were repulsed by the magic circle
that protected the defenseless human that faced them. They
could not penetrate it. The tzaddik's power protected
the lone traveler from all danger.
*
Mirele finished her task and proceeded to set the room
aright. Finally, like the devoted eishes chayil which
she was, she took Nota Shimon's worn, sweaty socks and began
reinforcing the holes to make them last a bit longer, to
prevent his feet from chafing against his shoes and to
protect them from the cold and dampness.
The room was almost completely dark. As was her heart . .
.
What is the end-purpose of such a life? Hashem in Heaven,
is this only temporary, until the worst is over? Is there any
sign of a better life in the offing? Am I destined to
continue living out my days in suffering, deprivation,
misery? Will I and my children never be fortunate enough to
experience at least one good day in our lives?
Suddenly, it seemed to her that someone was calling "Mama"
softly. She gazed around and around. No, it had been her
`Mama-gination'. All the children were already sleeping for
some time. Sated or hungry, at any rate, thank G-d they were
slumbering deeply. So long as worries do not gnaw away at a
person, he is able to sleep.
She threaded her needle again and continued to weave a web
that would hold the many-patched socks together somewhat
longer. And suddenly, she again seemed to hear a small
whisper calling "Mama, Mama." She again studied the sleeping
children, but not seeing anyone stirring, she turned the lamp
up a bit and studied the sweet faces of her sleeping
children.
Now she discerned that Duvid'l, the apple of her eye, her
sweet, beloved child, was lying on his pillow, eyes wide
open, looking straight at her. Duvid'l, already at six, had
an angelic glow about him, a captivating, enchanting charm
that gripped you and seemed to say, "Smile at me, and I will
smile back to you sevenfold!"
She carefully laid down her sewing implements on the table
and tiptoed softly to her cherished darling and asked him,
almost severely:
"What's the matter, Duvid'l? Why aren't you sleeping? Does
something hurt you, chas vesholom?"
The child whispered back, "No, Mama. Nothing hurts me, not
even my stomach. But I was waiting until you would be
completely free."
Mirel was surprised. "And why were you waiting so eagerly for
me to be unoccupied? Why was it so important to you? It must
be midnight, already. Soon you will have to get up for
shacharis . . . "
"Well, you are also awake at this hour, aren't you?"
"Me? What example am I for you? Can you compare yourself to
your mother? A mother is not like a little boy. Once you have
said your Shema and said the hamapil blessing,
you are required to sleep uninterruptedly until morning,
until I wake you. Come, let me cover you up snugly with your
blanket . . . "
"Let me be. I have something to tell you. Something very
important, very urgent . . . "
"What is so urgent that you must tell me now, my dearest?"
"Mama, please don't be angry at me. I have a very big thing
to ask of you."
"What is your big-big request, then? Perhaps it is so big
that I can't even fulfill it . . . "
"Oh, Mama, don't make fun of me. You will be able to do it.
For sure!"
"Well then, stop prattling away and tell me what it is that
you want."
"I can't tell you here. I don't want to wake Hershele. Will
you let me come to the table and tell you?"
"Alright, come here, but let me give you my woolen shawl. It
is very cold here. Fine, just like this."
"But now you're cold! See how you're shivering!"
"I'm not shivering. Don't make up stories. Now tell me, what
is bothering you and not letting you sleep?"
"Listen, Mama. In cheder, we always only learn the
first part of the weekly parshah, that is, only up to
sheini. But this week's parshah is very short,
so we learned three parts, all the way to revi'i.
Everything, with Rashi. The Rebbe said that I know the
chumash very, very well and he even said that if I
reviewed it thoroughly until I knew it by heart, he would
skip me to a higher class. To Berele and Zalmanke and
Ahrele's class. I've studied it through and through and I am
sure I know it very well, but before I go to have the Rebbe
test me, I want to review it one more time aloud before
someone grown up to make sure I am not making any mistakes
anywhere. And if I stumble or make an error, I will review it
all several times more by myself.
"I wanted to ask Tatte to test me but he is so tired that I
didn't have the heart to bother him with my silly request.
But now, Mama, if you don't mind, it's the perfect time.
Everyone is sleeping and we won't disturb anyone, nor will
anyone disturb us. I'll show you the place and all you have
to do is follow and make sure I make no mistakes. Don't
hesitate to tell me. Please, Mama, please agree!"
Mirele, melting with tears, fingers shaking, gathered her
child into a warm embrace and squeezed him tightly.
"Ribono Shel Olom! Gott in Himmel! Forgive me! Forgive
me for my wicked thoughts. I have sinned before You! Who
knows if my precious Duvid'l won't grow up to be an
iluy, a great Torah scholar! A gaon! If at the
age of six he already knows chumash and Rashi
by heart — who knows what will become of him later in
life!
"And I, fool that I am, asking myself such terrible questions
about the purpose in life! Is this not the highest, most
exalted goal in life? The epitome of my dreams? Is the Torah
not the beste sechoiroh, the best thing we could wish
for in life? Forgive me, pardon me, Father in Heaven . . .
And you, too, Duvid'l, forgive me. You have a bad mother,
full of grievances and grumblings, an ungrateful wretch, all
mixed up and confused in her values . . . "
She laid the surprised little boy back in his little bed and
rushed to her darkened bedroom, and with searing tears,
turned to her Nota Shimon, who was gripped in the arms of a
deep sleep, and exclaimed,
"Forgive me, my Nota Shimon, for my wayward notions. I never
dreamed that the happiness which I so longed and yearned for,
has been long since residing in our very home, in our very
humble, ramshackle cottage, dwelling with us in our very
midst!
"Oy, Tatte in Himmel! Where were my eyes! Now that I
realize that we are blessed with such treasures, such
beautiful exalted souls, I don't have to dream of anything
else. What more could I ask? What other goal in life?
"Everything, every thing, every effort, is worth it all!"
