The bookbinder put aside the sheets he had brought with him and picked up those of Rabbi Shmaria. He looked at them the way bookbinders do, at their thickness and size, taking into consideration the boards he would use and what he would cover them with, whether with hide or with cloth.
While the bookbinder was attending to Rabbi Shmaria’s sheets, Rabbi Shmaria became aware of the sheets the bookbinder had placed on the table and said, “What have you put down here?” The bookbinder replied, “A new book I was given to bind.” Rabbi Shmaria said, “Let me take a look.” The bookbinder put down Rabbi Shmaria’s work and handed him the book he had brought.
That book was called Mahazit Hashekel, which the great scholar Rabbi Samuel Halevy Kolin wrote on the commentary of the Magen Avraham to the Shulhan Arukh, Orah Hayyim.
Rabbi Shmaria fixed his gaze on the book again and again, and said, “A most satisfactory commentary, most satisfactory; apt and with the ring of truth.” He sighed and said, “I have been preceded by another; there is no need for my work.”
He apologized to the master binder for having bothered him for nothing, left his work where it was, and had it neither bound nor published.
Four or five generations later the book came into my hands. How so? I was poking about the attic of the Great Synagogue in our town where the worn-out books were put away and whence they were brought to the graveyard for burial between the graves in earthenware urns. At first they used to bury them between the graves of the righteous, but later they began burying them between the graves of the stillborn, as I have related elsewhere.
I picked up the book and shook off the dust. I collected all the pages together and put them in order. I saw before me a complete work.
I went up to an embrasure in the wall through which rifle fire was once directed at the Tartars who came to wage war on the town. I stopped to thumb through the book and read a little here and there. I saw that it was a commentary on the commentary of Magen Avraham, and I knew that it was the work of Rabbi Shmaria the Dayan. I found in it nice distinctions not to be found in the book Mahazit Hashekel nor in the other books that I knew, which Rabbi Shmaria, so sorely grieved when he saw that all his efforts over twelve years were in vain, did not perceive in his own innovations.
I went into the old house of study in order to take a look at books that discuss the Magen Avraham, and I found that none of them contained the innovations of Rabbi Shmaria.
I showed some of Rabbi Shmaria’s innovations to my father, my teacher and a righteous man of blessed memory, and to other scholars. After giving them their consideration they said, “Rabbi Shmaria’s is a fine commentary. He has made nice distinctions. What he says deserves to be heard.”
I was sorry for such a wise man who had labored so hard in the law and had not been found deserving enough for a dictum of his to be cited. I wanted to save his innovations from oblivion. It occurred to me to make up a copy of the book, but I said to myself, What good would that do? That would only mean another bundle of writings that would drift from place to place and at best would end up in a place where worn-out books were laid to rest.
About that time I read in the Hamizpeh about the Ginzei Yosef Library in Jerusalem (which heralded the Jewish National and University Library). There appeared in the paper a notice asking publishers and writers, etc., to send books to the library. It seemed to me that this notice was read all over the world and that people from all places were sending books to Jerusalem. I said to myself, People everywhere are contributing to Jerusalem and Buczacz contributes nothing, so let me send Rabbi Shmaria’s book to Jerusalem.
Messengers with whom to send the book were not available; neither did I have any extra money to pay the cost of sending it by post. The little that my father, of blessed memory, used to give me from time to time was spent on payments I felt obliged to make, such as to the Jewish National Fund, anonymous poor, membership in the Zionist Society, and occasionally to buy a new book. But my ingenuity served me to find the money to send the book to Jerusalem. How so? When I was studying the law and would rise early and remain until evening at the house of study, my mother used to give me every Monday two kreutzers, so that if I was hungry I could buy a wafer or a piece of fruit. I said to myself, What my mother has done for the sake of her son’s learning I will do for the sake of Rabbi Shmaria’s teaching. So I said to my mother, “I have come to a very difficult passage and will not be home for lunch.” My mother was sorry for me for denying myself a regular meal but was happy that learning the law had become dear to me once again. At that time my interest in the law had waned in deference to those little books that God does not deign to look upon. But to get the book to Jerusalem I used the law as a pretext. My mother took from the housekeeping money and gave to me. So she did on that day and for a number of days, so that if I was hungry I might buy a wafer or a piece of fruit. Fruit and wafers I did not buy, but put a penny to a penny until I had enough to send the book by post to Jerusalem.
I went to a shopkeeper who was one of the Zionists in our town and bought strong paper and brand-new twine. I didn’t tell him what the paper and twine were for, lest he should think that I wanted a discount. God knows he didn’t run his shop for charity.
After I had bought the paper and twine I went home and took the manuscript and looked it over once or twice, wrapped it in the paper, and bound the twine around it. Then I sat down and wrote on the paper the name of the curator of the Ginzei Yosef Library and the designation Jerusalem. This time the word Jerusalem was not written in vain. I added the name of the country, Palestine, and not the Land of Israel, in memory of the destruction of the Temple.
I surveyed the parcel and found it fair enough to send up to Jerusalem. I took it and went to the post office.
There are things you do out of love but nevertheless you do not hasten to complete them. So it was with Rabbi Shmaria’s book. I was like a child holding fast to a paper kite; although the kite was made to fly on high, nevertheless the child holds on to it and doesn’t let it go. Why? Because as long as it stays in his hand, it belongs to him, but when he lets it fly, it disappears high up in the sky and he is left empty-handed. I knew that I had made up the parcel in order to send it up to Jerusalem, but for as long as it was in my hand, it bound me to Jerusalem. But if I let the parcel out of my hands it would go up to Jerusalem while I stayed in Buczacz. But my legs led me of their own accord to the post office.
I entered the post office and stood among the errand boys of the Buczacz merchants who send their goods to places all over the world, and although I was the only person in the whole town who was then about to send something up to Jerusalem, I was in no hurry and kept standing where I stood until the room was empty of all those who had come, and still I stayed where I was standing.
The clerk saw me and said, “And what have you brought?”
I raised my parcel from where I was standing. He beckoned me to approach and I did.
He took the parcel and looked kindly at me, for Jerusalem is still near to everyone’s heart, even if he is a clerk. He even gave me a receipt with “Jerusalem” written on it.
Upon returning home from the post office I resumed doing the things I used to do, such as a little Zionist activity, and a little of all those other things done by most Jewish boys of that generation who were still dependent on their fathers. In addition to those, I composed poems about Zion and Jerusalem.
I can’t tell whether the poems of Zion and Jerusalem brought me to Jerusalem or whether it was my longing for Zion and Jerusalem that brought me to compose poems about them. Either way, it was my good fortune to go and settle in the Land of Israel.