The child kissed the book, closed it, stood up, and recited: “Praised and sanctified be His Great Name.” “Fine, fine,” said Reb Hayim, “‘In the world that He has created according to His will’”—and the child repeated after him, “‘According to His will.’” “Now, my son,” said Reb Hayim, “join all the words together. Why are you looking outside?” “There’s a man standing there,” replied the child. “There is no one here, except for ourselves and our Father in heaven,” said Reb Hayim. “You are tired, my son, off you go outside.”
The child went outside, while Reb Hayim took a handmill and began grinding groats. I went into the house and greeted him. Reb Hayim pointed to the heap of sacks and asked me to sit down. “Where did you learn to grind with a mill?” I asked. “I have ground with a bigger mill than that,” replied Reb Hayim. “What did you grind, sir?” “I used to grind manna for the righteous.”
A great change could be seen in Reb Hayim. Not only did he converse with me, but he jested. Finally he fell silent again. I took my leave of him and went away — first, so as not to disturb him at his work, and, second, so as not to disturb his studies.
A man is jealous of everything. I envied Reb Hayim for sitting and teaching children, for besides Hanoch’s little son he also taught the other children. Of the dead one should say nothing but praise, so I hope God will not punish me for what I say, but Hanoch, may he rest in peace, did not teach his children the Torah, because he had not enough money to hire a tutor, and there were no children’s tutors in the town. It is undoubtedly a privilege for Hanoch to have Reb Hayim looking after the orphans and teaching them the Torah and the mourners’ Kaddish. Then I said to myself: How many boys are walking about without studying! Let me take them into the Beit Midrash and teach them a chapter from the Books of Moses.
As in a vision I saw myself sitting at the head of the table, with a group of little ones surrounding me, teaching them the Books of Moses with Rashi’s commentary, and the boys’ voices in my ears bringing joy to my heart. My heart said to me, “Do you want to settle down permanently here and not return to the Land of Israel?” I said to my heart, “There once was a zaddik who set out for the Land. On the way he reached a certain place and saw that they knew nothing of the Torah, except the verse, ‘Hear, O Israel.’ So he stayed with them seven years and taught them Scripture and Mishna, Law and Legend, until they became scholars. At the end of the seven years he set out on his way, going on foot, because he had spent his money to buy books and had nothing left to pay for the journey. The road to the Land of Israel was infested with bands of robbers and savage beasts. A lion came and crouched before him. He got on its back and it brought him to the Land of Israel. And they called him Ben Levi — which means ‘Son of the Lion.’”
“What have you to do with legends?” my heart said to me. “Keep your mind on the realities.” “I know another man in Jerusalem,” said I to my heart, “who on the Sabbath brings the children in from the street, takes them to the Beit Midrash, recites psalms with them, and gives them sweets after each book.” I told Daniel Bach what I wanted to do. Said Daniel Bach, “You will find sweets, but I doubt if you will find boys who want to study the Torah.”
In those days I was overcome by longing for my children — first, because it is natural for a father to long for his children, and second, because I said to myself that if they had been with me I would have taught them Torah. I wrote to my wife, and she replied, “We had better go up to the Land of Israel.” I began thinking about it, and it was not far from what was in my heart.
Chapter nine and fifty. My Meals Grow Meager
For some days now, things are different at the hotel. Krolka lays my table, but brings me nothing more than a light meal. Gone are the hot and nourishing dishes that give more life to those that eat them.
True, light foods are good for the body and do not burden the soul. But the trouble is that even if you eat your fill of them, you feel that something is lacking. Poland is not like the Land of Israel; there, you eat a morsel of bread with olives and tomato, and you are satisfied; here, even if you eat a gardenful of vegetables, your belly is empty. This is the curse that was called down upon the children of Israel because they said, “We remember the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, which we ate in Egypt.” The Holy One, blessed be He, said to them, “Behold, I will exile you to the lands of the Gentiles — perhaps you will be more satisfied there.”
All this is true of breakfast. And the same is true of the midday meal. My hostess has forgotten the recipes and lore of the vegetarian physician who taught her to make all kinds of dishes. Now she makes one dish, and feeds me from it for two, even three, days. If the dish spoils, they bring me a couple of eggs and a glass of milk. Worse stilclass="underline" even for this light meal I have to wait. At first my hostess would apologize and say that she had not managed to prepare me a good meal because she had been busy with Rachel, but in the end she has stopped apologizing, because she has no time to talk to anyone, for she sits with Rachel every day.
A man can do without much food, but he cannot do without a little cordiality. My host sits wrapped up in his long coat, with his pipe in his mouth; sometimes he puffs smoke and sometimes he rubs his knees in silence. When I pay my bills, he counts the money silently and puts it into a leather pouch. I know he bears me no grudge — it is only the troubles with his children and the pains of his body that have left no light in his face — but what good is my knowing why he is sullen, when the heart seeks a little joy?
Since the day my hostess stopped looking after the kitchen, she has put Krolka in charge of the cooking and Babtchi in charge of the kashruth.
I did not find Babtchi particularly pleasing, and since she did not please me I did not please her. And since I did not please her, she did not feel it worth while to set a fine table for me, and she would set it as for a man who is not worth taking trouble over. Many a time I refrained from coming to the main meal of the day so that I should not have to thank her for her trouble. Another man would have gone to the tavern or the divorcee’s inn, but I did not go there. So as not to go hungry, I would fill up with fruit: at first I would buy from Hanoch’s wife in the market, and when Hanoch’s wife had none, I bought from her neighbors.
Once I asked a certain woman, “Why are you sitting in the market when you have nothing to sell?” “So where should I sit,” she replied, “in the garden of the king’s palace?” When I asked another woman, she replied, “People might put the evil eye on me and say, ‘That lady is sitting in the theaters’—so I sit in the market.”
The fruit that comes from the market is partly rotten and partly mouldy; you have to take pains picking out the good and throwing away the bad. Nevertheless, I used to buy from the market: first, out of habit, and second, so that Hanoch’s wife should earn something. Once I came to buy and found no fruit worth eating, so I said to myself: It is natural for fruit to grow on a tree in the orchard; I will go to the orchard and take fruit from the tree.
This Gentile from whom I buy apples and pears does not frown or talk about man’s end in life; he takes the money and gives me the fruit, and says, “Enjoy the eating.” Once I came and did not find him. I asked after him and they told me he was at home. I went to his house and found him lying sick. It was then that I saw that even Gentiles can be overcome by weakness.