The goat returned to the old man, but she did not flick her ears, and the note did not fall. When the old man saw that the goat had returned without his son, he clapped his hands to his head and began to cry and weep and wail, “My son, my son, where are you? My son, would that I might die in your stead, my son, my son!”
So he went, weeping and mourning over his son, for he said, “An evil beast has devoured him, my son is assuredly rent in pieces!”
And he refused to be comforted, saying, “I will go down to my grave in mourning for my son.”
And whenever he saw the goat, he would say, “Woe to the father who banished his son, and woe to her who drove him from the world!”
The old man’s mind would not be at peace until he sent for the butcher to slaughter the goat. The butcher came and slaughtered the goat. As they were skinning her, the note fell out of her ear. The old man picked up the note and said, “My son’s handwriting!”
When he had read all that his son had written, he clapped his hands to his head and cried, “Vay! Vay! Woe to the man who robs himself of his own good fortune, and woe to the man who requites good with evil!”
He mourned over the goat many days and refused to be comforted, saying, “Woe to me, for I could have gone up to the Land of Israel in one bound, and now I must suffer out my days in this exile!”
Since that time the mouth of the cave has been hidden from the eye, and there is no longer a short way. And that youth, if he has not died, shall bear fruit in his old age, full of sap and richness, calm and peaceful in the Land of the Living.
Paths of Righteousness, or the Vinegar Maker
In one of the towns of Poland there lived an old man who used to make vinegar. His forebears were renowned wine merchants, but hard times impoverished them and they left him with no more than a shack and wine that had gone sour. Ne’er a happy day did he see there. His wife died when his children were small, and when they grew up they were pressed into military service and died in the wars. The old man would sit there all alone and make vinegar. For the first five days of the week he would engage in his trade, and on Fridays he would fill up a large can and make his rounds about town. Many times he would stop and think, What am I and what is my life? Five days a week I make vinegar to sell; when I have sold it I make some more and go out again to sell it. And for what reason? To sustain this enfeebled body. If my wife and children were alive, I would truly provide for them. Now that my wife is dead and my progeny is no more, why do I take such pains to draw my skin from my flesh? He would whine and sigh and moan about the course of his life so much that his work was discreditable in his eyes, and even the wearing of tsitsit and tefillin of little worth. But since the love of the Land of Israel was embedded in his heart, he made up his mind to go up to the Land of Israel, and if he were found worthy he would find for himself a grave in its dust. Not only was he sparing in his food and parsimonious in his pleasures, but he would even deny himself tasting the fruit that he had from which to make vinegar and would take his bread with weak brew, eating less than his due. On Mondays and Thursdays he would fast, until he got used to living on very little. And on Friday afternoons, after he had sold his vinegar and returned from town, he would sit on a stone and take the money out of his pocket, half of which he would take for sustenance and the other half he would put into a charity box which the Gentiles in this realm used to place at crossroads in the hands of that man. A simple man, he didn’t know what the purpose of the box was, and thought that there was no place safer than that. Copper coins he would take for his immediate requirements and silver coins for his traveling expenses to the Land of Israel, and he would make a scratch on the can for a sign. From then on he labored with joy. Lo and behold, he would say to himself, up to now I disliked my trade and now I find it hard to give it up; the same utensils and the same vinegar, and before I know it the day is done. At midnight he would get up from his bed, take his can, and dance about with it until it was time for morning prayers. The more he was occupied with his calculations of how many scratches there were on the can and how much money he had put in the charity box, so his prayers suffered, becoming somewhat erratic. And so said he, “O God, it is plain for You to see that all the calculations I make are only so that I may go up to Your land. Take me there and there I will say to You a fine prayer.”
And thus several years passed. The old man, out of love for his work, went around the town with his vinegar, after which he would apportion his earnings, one-half for his immediate requirements and one-half for his traveling expenses. Then he would make more vinegar to take around the town, apportioning his earnings, one-half for his sustenance and one-half for the charity box. So is the nature of simple people that, notwithstanding the passage of years, they do not change their ways. And thus several years passed. The inner walls of his house began to peel. The roof began to leak and cracks appeared in the walls. And when it rained he was soaked to the skin, even when he was under the covers. And the way taxes and rates were going up, if he were to remain either the state would take over his house or his house would be his grave. The vinegar maker would lie on his bed at night and listen to the sound of the plaster crumbling from the walls, bit by bit snapping off and falling away, almost without being heard due to the moisture. But the old man’s heart quavered like a bell out of joy at God’s mercy in keeping him alive and not letting him perish abroad.
At cockcrow, the old man would wash his hands and eyes, light the candle and sit by the front door and wrap himself up as one who mourns and bewails the exile, but as soon as he sees his can and how many scratches there are on it, he recalls immediately the money he had put into the charity box for his traveling expenses. He would pick up the can and drum on it with his fingers songs and praises, and then, placing one hand on his hip and raising one shoulder, he would count how many scratches there were on the can — two, three, forty, fifty, a hundred — dancing for joy. Not like those who dance over their heads and not like those who if they are put in one corner are to be found in another, but like those who dance around their shoulders, moving their shoulders to and fro. And so he would hop about until summoned by the beadle to services. Upon hearing the beadle’s voice calling to services, he would say to himself softly, I will get up and go to prayers, abashed at being so happy in this world. And then he would get on his feet and take with him his tallit and tefillin. How tattered was his tallit, virtually disintegrating with tears. Thank God he is going to Jerusalem where one is buried without a tallit. When prayers were over, and unless it was a fast day, he would dip a slice of bread into a glass of weak brew and lick the dust with his tongue so as not to be tempted to indulge in meat and wine. Then would he get down to making vinegar. Five days a week he made vinegar, and on Fridays he would fill up the can and make his rounds about town. Upon his return he would apportion the money he had made, one half for his immediate requirements, and the other for his traveling expenses. And when no one was looking he would thrust his finger through the cobwebs that had gathered during the week around the slit in the charity box which was clasped between the hands of that man, and would put the coins into the box. He was a simple man and knew not the purpose for which the box served. Each time he put coins in the box he would add another scratch on the can for a sign.
And thus several years passed. His body became bent like a ram’s horn and he groaned from the heart. The vinegar ate away half of his lungs and he breathed with difficulty. Most of the time he suffered and there was hardly enough left of him to fill his clothes. But each Friday afternoon he would add another scratch to the can, although there was barely room for one more. Now he was already saying that it was high time to go up to the Land of Israel, for, he said, last Friday afternoon when I put my money in the can, I could see the coins peeping out of the box. But as long as the can is whole it is hard to retire.