The rains did not stop and the mud became deeper and deeper. The hotel had no guests. Between one rain and the next, Riegel the agent came to tell Babtchi the news that he had separated from his wife. “If so,” said Babtchi, “it is only right to congratulate you on your good luck. So, congratulations on your good luck, sir.” “I hope for a second piece of good luck,” said Riegel. “If you expect a second piece of good luck, sir,” said Babtchi, “you should go back and marry the wife you divorced.”
Riegel set out on his way, and Babtchi went on in her way, and David Moshe wrote, in his way, letters of peace and love. For each generation, its own generation of writers. The rabbi writes commentaries on the Torah, the rabbi’s son writes about the love of the Torah, and the rabbi’s grandson just writes about love.
Since we are talking about writing, it is worth going to visit Leibtche Bodenhaus, who is working day and night to turn the Torah into rhymes, doing what Moses never did, for in Moses’ day the German language did not yet exist and they did not yet make rhymes.
A man does not always do what he is prepared to do. I set out to visit Leibtche Bodenhaus but I went in to see Zechariah Rosen — first, because his shop was nearby, and second, because he too was included in the promise, for I had promised to visit him.
His shop is long and narrow and set in a dark cellar, which he once used for rubbish. When the house was destroyed and nothing was left of it but the cellar, Zechariah Rosen opened a shop for fodder and grains. Zechariah Rosen can not only trace his descent to the illustrious Rav Hai and as far back as King David, but he is a relative of all the great men of Israel. There is no sage, no zaddik, no prince among men but Zechariah Rosen is one of his relatives. And when he mentions them, he says: Our relative the illustrious rabbi, our grandfather the zaddik, our uncle the President, leader of the Council of the Four Lands. Your soul is literally filled with joy that the golden chain still continues up to our own generation.
Since the day the controversy arose between us about Rav Hai’s children, I had not been in Zechariah’s shop, although he had pacified me and asked me to visit him, for I have learned that pacification sometimes leads to a new quarrel worse than the first, and I am a softhearted man and afraid of such things. On the other hand, if I did not go he would be still more annoyed, so I went to visit him.
There are few owners of horses, and still fewer gardeners. So Zechariah Rosen has time. He sits with a book in front of him, reading the testimonials printed at the beginning and the author’s introduction, and picking out names from them, which he records on paper. Paper is better even than a tombstone, for if the tombstone is a large and beautiful one the Gentiles steal it and use it for their buildings, and if it is small it sinks into the ground. Paper is a different matter, for if you print a book it spreads all through the dispersions of Israel and lasts for generations.
So Zechariah Rosen sits and tells me all the glories of his father’s house. Opposite him, in a corner of the shop near the wall, sits Yekutiel his son. He covers his elbows with his hands, because his coat is torn there, and his mother is dead and there is no one to patch it for him, and he has no other coat, for of all the glory of his father’s house he has nothing left but the clothes on his back. Zechariah, who is an old man, pays no attention to such things; his son, being a young man, is ashamed of his torn garments.
To give the old man pleasure and show affection to the son, I said to Yekutiel, “Have you heard what your father told us?” Yekutiel nodded his head, smiled, and said, “Yes, I heard.” I was filled with pity for this son of a great family who had been stricken by the wheel of fortune and did not know when the wheel would revolve again and bring back his happiness, and I was grieved at the lords and nobles who had been garbed in satins and lived in palaces, while their son’s son lived in a dark cellar and his clothing was torn — and perhaps his shoes were cracked too, which was why he hid his feet under the table.
So that it should not occur to him that I was looking at his shoes, I raised my eyes and looked him in the face. I said to myself: What is this smile that does not leave his lips — just a smile, or the smile of a king’s son? And if he is a king’s son, where is the king’s daughter who awaits him? And if a king’s daughter awaits him, it is certain that she does not belong to our town, for all the girls in our town have forgotten that they are kings’ daughters.
I sat and thought about the daughters of my town. Rachel, my host’s youngest daughter, is already married; Babtchi her sister is going to marry Dr. Zwirn, or David Moshe the rabbi’s grandson, or Riegel the agent, or someone else. As for Reb Hayim’s daughters, one lives with her married sister, and the other heaven only knows where. Some say she ran away to Russia and some say she lives with pioneers in some village. And the smallest one, Zippora, who washes her father’s shirt, is a little butterfly, and her time has not yet come. There is one more girl, Erela Bach. Everyone who wishes her father and mother well would be glad to see her married, but she is older than Yekutiel Rosen. And even if they were both the same age, they are poor, and who will pay the matchmaker’s fee?
So I sit and think about the girls in our town, those I know and those I have heard about. Each of them will find her mate, but Yekutiel will be left without a wife or children, and the pedigree his father has discovered for him will have no heir.
Zechariah Rosen goes on talking, and in the middle he turns to a wagoner who has come to buy a bundle of hay for his horses and asks him, “What do you want?” The customer does not like his tone, so he answers, “I just came in to pass the time of day,” and he turns and goes away. “Run after him and bring him back,” says Zechariah to his son. The son runs and brings back the customer, who buys the hay for his horse and pays for it. Zechariah takes the money, gives some to his son, and says, “Buy yourself a bun.” Yekutiel takes the coin and goes out happy. I, too, am happy that the Almighty has provided a bun for this son of kings.
The rains stopped, the sun came out, the roads were getting dry, and I went out again to stroll in the fields and the forest. Sometimes I went into the Beit Midrash, but I did not stay there, only opening the door and locking it again, so that the key should not get rusty. And again I strolled as before in the fields and the forest.
One day, when I was walking in the center of the town, I passed Hanoch’s house and heard the pleasant voice of a teacher with children. I stood in front of the door and saw Reb Hayim sitting on a heap of sacks with Hanoch’s child in front of him. He was teaching him from the Books of Moses, his hand on the child’s chin, and explaining — with chanting — each word.
Being used to finding Reb Hayim silent, I was surprised to find him talking at such length to the child and making remarks before his explanations, such as “Raise your voice, my child, so that your father should hear you in paradise and rejoice that his son is learning the Torah of the living God. And when you have the privilege, my son, of knowing our sacred Torah, you shall have the privilege of being a good Jew, and your father will rejoice in paradise, and you too, my son, will rejoice, and our Father in heaven will also rejoice, for He has no joy except when His sons know the Torah and fulfill His commandments. Now, my son, when we have finished the chapter, let me hear if you have not forgotten the Kaddish in the meantime.”