So that man lies in his bed, his heart beating and beating, and this stone lies upon his heart, pressing him down. Hale and hearty he came to the town, and the whole town envied him. Now he is weaker than anyone else, and he is weaker than the night before.
One night I could not fall asleep. My spirits were low and I began picturing my own death. Perhaps my sickness was not enough to die of, but my death did not budge from before my eyes.
I lit the candle, got out of bed, sat on the chair before the table, and put both my hands on both my knees. Then I lifted my left hand and laid my head on my palm. As I sat thus, I said to myself, “You must write a will.”
I took pen and paper and wrote how I should be treated after my passing. Because I came back from the Land of Israel, they might think that I want to be taken back there and restored to its dust, so I wrote expressly that I should be buried where I died and my bones not transferred to the Land of Israel. Because he had gone abroad, it was enough for this man to make his way to the Land with all the rest of Israel. And wouldn’t it be hard to roll all the way under the ground to the Land for the resurrection? But were all the wanderings I have endured in my life easy? And does this man love his body so much that he should be concerned for it even after his death?
While I was sitting and writing, I came across the key that the elders of the Beit Midrash had entrusted to me on the Day of Atonement. I said to myself: What will happen to the key if I die? Perhaps I should instruct them in my will to put it in my hand and bury me with it, like the tailor who asked for a coffin to be made for him from the table on which he had worked, and for the measuring rule he had used to be placed in his hand, to serve as a witness that he had not taken any surplus cloth for himself; or like the scribe who ordered the pen with which he wrote the Divine Name to be placed in his hands in the grave. But they were receiving credit for what they themselves had done, because before the tools came into their hands they were ordinary tools, and only after they had come into their hands and been used were they sanctified, while that key was important from the beginning. Moreover, it was even more important before it came into my hands, for it used to open the door for students of the Torah, and what right had I to leave instructions for it to be put in my hand in the grave?
So, since I did not know what to do with the key, I dealt with the matter slyly and said: I will not mention it. And I thought about my wife and children. What shall I bequeath them before my death? What shall I ask them to do first and what last? Meanwhile the night passed and the sun began to shine. I put away the will and recited the Morning Service. Suddenly I felt as if part of my sickness had gone; I went in to have my meal, and ate with appetite; for many days I had not enjoyed a meal so much. When I had eaten and drunk I took the key and went to the Beit Midrash.
Chapter six and sixty. A Great Principle of Philosophy
The rains had ended and the sun shone again. A clear light rested on the houses and the stones in the street. At every step I shook off my sickness; at every step I felt that I was reawakening. My ailments had gone, but I did not know if they would not come back. Let me enjoy today, lest I may not enjoy tomorrow.
At that moment I had no conceptual picture, spiritual or physical, of the enjoyments I sought, and if I had asked myself what enjoyment I sought, I could not have replied.
But I asked nothing, and only enjoyed all I saw. Even earthly objects, which are not designed to inspire the soul with joy, gave me satisfaction and delight.
The shopkeepers stood at the doors of their shops, as if they were standing there for their own enjoyment. One played with the rule in his hand and one chatted with the neighboring housewife. A cat jumped from the roof of a house, stretched out all its four legs, and looked ahead suspiciously. A cart loaded with wheat passed by, with a band of children holding onto it. A woman patted her hair and looked after the cart. Lolik was walking along by the side of a lady dressed half like a man, and Ignatz was dragging along after them, droning “Pieniadze.” The postman was coming back from his work, his empty satchel swinging back and forth. In this street even things that have no tie or connection between them mingle and combine with each other and proclaim their reality. Besides the things I have mentioned here, there were many others to be seen and perceived which I have not mentioned.
When I reached the street of the Beit Midrash, it seemed to me that the old locksmith was coming out. I followed him to greet him, and saw that it was not the locksmith. I turned in another direction. As I strolled along, I reached the divorcee’s inn. Little Zippora came out, her face sad.
“Why are you sad?” I said to her. “If it is because your father is going away, he is going to your sister, for his own good and benefit.” “Father is not going there,” said Zippora, “and he will not be going there soon.” “Why?” said I. “Hannah has written that she is coming,” said she. “All the time she asked him to come to her, and when he is about to come, she stops him!” said I. “Hannah is my other sister,” said Zippora, “the one they said ran away to Bussia, but she didn’t run away to Russia, but has been living with a pioneers’ group.” “She was living with a pioneers’ group and did not come to see her father?” said I. “She wanted to come, but she fell ill,” said Zippora. “If so,” said I, “she has got better and now she is coming.” “That’s what she wrote to Father, and we don’t know whether to tell Father or not.” “What does your mother say?” I asked. “She’s hesitating, too, whether to tell him,” replied Zippora. “What is this bundle in your hand?” I asked. “It’s a shirt we sewed for Father,” said Zippora, “and I’m going to take it to him.” Said I, “Your father will see you are sad and he will realize that something bad has happened, and when he asks you, you will tell him, won’t you, and he will be grieved.” “If that’s so,” said Zippora, “I’ll go back home and not bring him the shirt.” “No, it’s better to bring him the shirt,” said I. “Perhaps the gift will make him happy.” “If that’s so,” said she, “you advise me to go to Father?” “What advice can I give you?” said I. “Let us rely on our Father in heaven, whose mercies are manifold. Who told you that Hannah fell sick again?” “A young man, called Zvi, from the training farm nearby, came and brought a letter from Hannah.” “What has Zvi to do with Hannah?” “Mother says they are bride and groom,” said Zippora. “Bride and groom, are they?” said I. “Do you know Zvi?” said Zippora. “But he said he was going up to the Land of Israel,” said I. “First he and then she,” said Zippora. “How is it there in the Land of Israel?” “What a question,” said I. “It is good there in the Land of Israel.” “If that’s so,” said she, “why are you living here, sir? It isn’t good here.” “You are a little girl, Zippora; do you think everyone only wants what is good?” “If a man knows what is good, why shouldn’t he want what is good?” said Zippora. “Now you are talking like a grownup. Perhaps you have heard how Genendel is? Don’t you know Genendel?” “I know her,” said Zippora, “but I don’t know how she is.” “I will go and see,” I told her.
But I did not go to Genendel. There are days when a man seeks his own good and shuts his eyes to other people’s troubles. Before I could take to heart the virtue of visiting the sick, my heart drew me to another place: to the street of the Stripa, where a house stands in which I lived when I was a child. I had been there a thousand times; that day was the thousandth and one.
I am a son of respectable folk and I love the houses where I dwelt in my childhood. First, because a man’s house is his shelter from the sun and the cold, the rain and the snow, the dust and noise of the streets; and second, because a man’s house is his own domain, which he acquires in this world as a portion divided off from the world, in which no one else has any portion, nor does it make any difference whether he lives in a house of his own or has rented it from someone else. Father, of blessed memory, did not build a house for himself, and therefore we would move from house to house and dwelling to dwelling. In one of them I started to learn the Bible, in another the Gemara, and in another the Shulchan Aruch. Some are in ruins and some half in ruins, while of others nothing has remained but the site. But there is one house that still stands; you might even say that it is more beautiful than at first: this house is the house of the old tinsmith, which Dr. Zwirn bought from him and renovated. This war destroys with one hand and builds with the other. Before the war, no one went to Zwirn. After the war everyone began to need him, for some of those who came back from the war got hold of other people’s houses, the first owners took them to court, and there was no lawyer except Zwirn. So he grew richer and richer, and bought many houses, of which this was one.