If it was a fine day I bought my fruit from the farmer, and on a rainy day I bought it in the market and ate it in the Beit Midrash, so that the people of the hotel should not notice that I was not satisfied with their meals.
Once Reb Hayim found me sitting and eating in the Beit Midrash. “I have bought some first fruits of the season,” I said to him, “so that I can recite the blessing, ‘Who hast kept us alive to this day.’ Will you have some, sir?” So he sat and took some.
So that he should not suspect me of just eating for my enjoyment, for these were not really first fruits, and Reb Hayim might think that I had long since recited the blessing over them, I said to him, “I have heard that a great and righteous man was punished in the world to come because he used to eat little fruit, and the fruits came forward and denounced him because they missed his blessing.”
Another time Reb Hayim found me trying hard to open a tin of sardines. I wanted to distract his attention from the fact that I was using the Beit Midrash for my meal, so I started to denounce all the works of technology. “They invent all kinds of machines,” said I, “and they have not yet invented a tin of sardines that could be opened without all this trouble.” Reb Hayim made no fuss over my using the Beit Midrash for my meals, but asked if I had some bread, for sardines must be eaten with bread.
When the rains stopped and the ground grew firm, I went out for a stroll. And as I strolled, I reached the house of Hanoch’s widow. She was not at home at the time; either she was sitting in the market or going out to the villages as Hanoch used to do, only Hanoch went around with his horse and cart while she went around on foot.
Reb Hayim saw me, came out to meet me, and asked me in. When I entered he said, “I should have offered you some fruit, but there is none here. Perhaps you will taste what I have cooked for the children?” So he brought me a plate of millet and put honey on it.
Looking like good gold, the millet filled the plate; it was covered with honey refined and pure as gold, and the fragrance rose as on the sunny days in time gone by when everything was in order and the world was joyful. For many days I had not tasted a cooked dish on a weekday, and certainly not millet with honey. But I ate with mixed feelings, because I did not know whether to pay Reb Hayim for my meal, and how much to pay. Finally I put my hand in my pocket. “No need,” said Reb Hayim. “Do you want, through me, to win credit for hospitality?” I said. “I wanted to win your praise for my skill,” said he. “Where have you learned to cook such a fine dish?” I asked him. “Tomorrow I will cook you a finer one,” said he. “Then even cooking you can do,” said I. “Where did you learn it all?” “I learned many crafts in the land where I was a prisoner,” said he, “and this is one of them.”
From then on I happened to pass by the house of Hanoch’s widow once or twice a week, and whenever I passed the house Reb Hayim would come out to meet me and invite me to eat with him. Sometimes he would eat with me too, and sometimes he would not eat, but would sit before me grinding the grits that Hanoch’s widow sold in the market, or he would sit and teach the children.
On my return I would say to myself: How much longer shall I put up with discomfort in the hotel and have all this trouble to get my food? True, from time to time my hostess remembers to make me a big meal, but since the house is filled with the odor of fat and meat, I cannot enjoy my meal. However, such a meal generally comes suddenly, after I have eaten my fill of fruit or bread and sardines, and I eat it on a full stomach. And if I should rely on my hostess and not eat elsewhere, she forgets to make me a meal. Nevertheless, this man has no reason to complain, for if he wishes he can go back to the Land of Israel.
For several months there have been no services in the Beit Midrash and no one has entered, except for myself and Reb Hayim, who comes to fill the basin and sweep the floor. Since I calculated that the time had come for me to go back to the Land of Israel, I made up my mind to hand over the key to Reb Hayim. Sometimes I wanted to hand it over with much ceremony, as I myself had received it, and sometimes I wanted to hand it to him privately. Before I had taken any action, I heard that Reb Hayim was going to stay with his daughter in the village. Several times she had sent him an invitation to stay with her; but when he did not come, she and her husband traveled to Szibucz and made him swear to visit them. Then Reb Hayim had given his word, and now the time had arrived for him to go.
Once, on a Sabbath eve, when Reb Hayim came to sweep the floor and fill the basin with water, he said to me, “God willing, after the Sabbath I shall go to my son-in-law.”
I should have been glad that this old scholar, who had endured so many trials, was leaving the woodshed and going to stay with his daughter in the village, where he would have all his needs met without any effort; but I was not glad, for so long as Reb Hayim was here, all the cares of the Beit Midrash were on his shoulders, and now that he was going, I should have to bring water and sweep the floor and do all the other things that I was not accustomed to.
I began pondering all these things, and each seemed to me harder than the other. I could already see myself standing by the wall and filling the pitchers with water, sweeping the floor of the Beit Midrash, all covered with dust like Yeruham Freeman in the streets of Szibucz.
When Reb Hayim had swept the Beit Midrash and was about to go, I asked him where he was leaving the broom. “Why do you ask, sir?” said he. “If you are leaving, sir,” said I, “who will sweep the Beit Midrash if not I?” “And when are you leaving, sir?” he asked. “Where to?” said I. “Home,” said he. I replied, quoting the Prophet, “For my house is a house of prayer.” “A man’s house — that means his wife,” said he, and then he added, “The sooner the better.” I laughed and said, “Are you afraid the sea will freeze?” “Happy is he that returns to his home while he is a man,” he replied. “Will you stand up for a moment,” said I. “Look, we are both of the same height.”
I took his hand in mine and bent my head over it, and said, “I had a coat made in the winter and I have no need of it in the Land of Israel, for the Land is warm and I do not wish to bring back with me anything superfluous. I beg of you, Reb Hayim, do not refuse me, and take the coat.” Reb Hayim bowed his head and went with me to the hotel. I gave him my coat and said to him, “How heavy this coat is. I wonder how this man’s shoulders suffered under it six months or more.” Reb Hayim took the coat and put it on. I said to him, “I could not stand it in the cold days, and you wear it on a hot day,” Said Reb Hayim, “Honor your garment when you do not need it, and it will honor you when you do need it.” As he spoke, he took my hand and said, “May the Almighty speed your way and bring you home in peace.” And am I going on a journey,” said I, “that you have blessed me with the traveler’s blessing?” Said he, “Go slowly, peacefully, until you have need to hurry in sorrow.”
The peg on which my coat used to hang juts out, prominent and gleaming. So long as the coat was hanging on it, I did not see the peg; when the coat was taken away the peg was visible. And it, too — namely the coat — stands prominently before me, as if it were wrapped in itself. Heaven forbid that I should cast an envious eye at Reb Hayim for taking my coat, but that is how it is with a garment: even when it leaves a body, the body remembers it. A man is not a snake, who casts his skin, leaves it lying, and goes off. Finally, the coat disappeared and went off. Apparently it had grown accustomed to being with Reb Hayim. And it was good that it had grown accustomed to him and no longer troubled my heart, for at that time I had to have a free mind so as to count my money to see if I had enough for the journey.