Kuba’s heart was full and he could not endure it. He started to tell his story. “Are you a Kohen?” I asked. ‘What has that to do with it?” he asked. “Because the members of the priestly family are forbidden to take back their wives once they have divorced them, which is not the case with Levites and ordinary Jews,” said I. “You’re all the same,” he retorted, “give you an inch and you want an ell. To tell you the truth, as soon as I had given her the divorce I wanted to take her back. Don’t you understand a thing like that?” I smiled and said, “What happened to you is the same as happened to Hartmann.” “Who is this Hartmann?” “A man called Hartmann,” I replied. “One day he gave his wife a divorce, but as they left the rabbi’s house he fell in love with her again and took her back.” “That is what happened to me,” said Kuba, “but I had not the power to take her back. Still, she visits me and stays in my house.” “And what will her second husband say?” I asked. “What will he say?” said Kuba. “He doesn’t say anything.” “And does he know everything that she is doing?” said I. “Does he believe there is nothing at all between you?” Kuba jumped up from his chair and shouted, “What do you think of her? There isn’t a truer wife anywhere in the world. If you knew her you wouldn’t ask such questions.” “Such a wife you had and you let her go?” said I. He sighed and said, “What is past is past, especially as she is going to marry someone else. Sit still and I will show you a letter of congratulations I wrote to her and her husband for her wedding day.”
A few days passed and I did not go to visit Kuba, because I was busy with the book The Hands of Moses—to send it to Jerusalem, so as to pacify the soul of Elyakim, surnamed Getz, for he had come to me in a dream and I had seen that he was angry with me. My friend Kuba had told me in my waking hours, “I have a grudge against you,” and that clerk told me the same thing in a dream.
On my way back from the post office I turned to the left of the river and went to visit Kuba. Kuba was overwhelmed with joy to see me. He seemed to feel that he lacked something, he didn’t know what; when I came to visit him he realized that it was I whom he was missing. “I was busy,” I told him, “and did not have time to come to see you.” “If you had come,” he replied, “you would not have found me.” “Weren’t you in town?” I asked. “If you don’t understand of your own accord, I shall explain,” said he. “Did you go to visit a patient?” “The sick went to visit the healthy,” he replied. “Meaning?” “Meaning: I went to my wife’s wedding. Yes, my friend, yes. What was it you said: ‘One doesn’t weep over the past’? Well, I won’t weep. But this I tell you: twice I made a mistake, first, when I divorced my wife, and second, when I did not take her back.” There was a third mistake,” said I, “and it was the first one: when you married her.” “Perhaps so, perhaps not,” he replied.
Chapter eight and sixty. Zippora
After Reb Hayim had taken his leave of me he did not go to the village to his married daughter, for his other daughter, Hannah, wrote that she was coming, and he waited for her arrival. Then Hannah fell ill again and could not come.
Once I found Reb Hayim by the well. “Still in town, Reb Hayim?” said I. He nodded his head, as if saying: Yes, that is so. From then on, I would pass him by as if he were not there, because I realized that he did not find it pleasant to be noticed. It may be assumed that since he had said he was going, he was sorry he had not kept his word.
Once I went to the Beit Midrash and found Zippora coming out of the woodshed with a basket hanging on her arm. “Where have you come from and where are you going, Zippora?” said I. “I’ve come from visiting Father,” said Zippora. “Father is lying sick.” “How did your father fall sick?” said I. “He has pains in his legs,” said Zippora. “Your father is ill and I did not know!” said I. “Since when has he been ill? Is it good for him to be lying in the woodshed?” “That’s what Mother thought, that it wasn’t good for him to be lying there,” said Zippora, “but what can we do? We wanted to take him over to our house and he didn’t want to come.” “How long has he been sick?” said I. “Since Sabbath eve,” said Zippora. “Since Sabbath eve?” “And we didn’t know,” said she. “And what was the cause of his falling ill?” “Opinions differ,” she answered. “Some say he went to the rabbi to take his leave and there was a scrap of chicken lying before the door, so he slipped and fell. And some say he was standing near our house and he met a drunken Pole, and that was how he fell.” “If so,” said I, “I shall go to him.”
“Hannah is there, too,” said Zippora. “Hannah there too? When did she come?” “When did she come? An hour and a half ago.” “I had better not go now, but later,” said I. “Why?” “Why? Because Hannah is there.” “Hannah will be glad to see you, sir,” said Zippora. “How do you know Hannah will be glad to see me?” said I. “As soon as she came she asked after you.” “She asked after me? Why did she ask after me?” “I did not ask her why she asked after you,” said Zippora. “You did not ask her?” “I didn’t ask her.” “And what did your father say to Hannah?” “Father didn’t say anything,” said Zippora. “He didn’t say anything? He must have said something.” “He said, ‘You have been sick, daughter,’” said Zippora. “And what did Hannah answer to that?” “Hannah cried and said, ‘And now you are ill, Father dear.’” “And what did your father reply?” “Father replied, ‘God will help us.’” “If so,” said I, “there is no reason to fear his illness, for your father knows that he is regarded with favor in heaven; otherwise he would not say so. And what else did your father say to Hannah?” “He looked at her in silence and said nothing,” said Zippora, “or perhaps he spoke to her after I had left them.” “If so, Zippora,” said I, “I was right not to go to him, for I would have interrupted them. What is this basket in your hand? It is empty, isn’t it?”
“Mother made some dry cakes for Father, with a little coffee, and I brought them to him,” said Zippora. “Mother says that every day after the Morning Service Father used to refresh himself with a cake and some coffee, and all the scholars in the town used to come and ask him questions about the Torah. Sometimes they would sit with him all day and most of the night, and they would hold Afternoon and Evening Services in our house, for Father — Mother says — was as great in the Torah as two rabbis, and that was why all this happened to him. It is not good for a man to be greater than his fellows.” “And if he is greater than his fellows, what should he do?” said I. “He should lower himself,” she replied, “so that they shouldn’t feel it.” “If a man lowers himself a little,” said I, “people lower him a good deal. Is that good, Zippora?” “But in that way people don’t trouble him,” said Zippora. “Mother told me that in those days she never had an hour’s rest, for they used to come from all over to trouble him.” “Do you think, Zippora, that your father is happier now than he was then?” said I. Zippora’s eyes were filled with sadness, until my heart was touched and I wanted to weep.
“An hour has passed while we have been standing here talking,” said I, “Perhaps I shall go in and visit your father. Where are you going, Zippora?” “I’m going to Mother,” said she, “she is not in good health either.” “Your mother is ill?” “She isn’t ill and she isn’t well,” said Zippora. “We have had a hard winter. Our house is old and full of cracks, and the wind comes in. And we haven’t been short of snow and ice either in our house. Once we woke up and found the legs of the bed standing in ice. Mother’s heart is weak too. At first her heart was excited by Father’s return, when he came back all of a sudden. By the time her heart had recovered from that, the rumor came that Hannah was going to come back. Whenever I mentioned Hannah, Mother would scold me and say, ‘Don’t mention her name in front of me.’ And when I didn’t mention her, Mother would mention her and say, ‘That girl will bring me to the grave.’ Suddenly Zvi came and told us that Hannah was here, here and not in Russia, here in a pioneers’ group, and they had plighted their troth as bride and groom. All this came suddenly, and Mother is a weak woman; she can’t stand hearing news suddenly, even if it’s good news.” “So all the burden of the house is on your shoulders, Zippora,” said I. “How do you run the house, little housewife?” “It would be better if it was like that,” replied Zippora. “And isn’t it like that?” “Sometimes Mother gets out of bed and goes to market, when I have a pain in my leg because of the cold,” she replied. “Yes, Zippora,” said I, “I have seen that your shoes are torn.” “Poverty is no disgrace,” said Zippora. “Poverty is no disgrace,” said I, “it is a misfortune.” “There are greater misfortunes than torn shoes,” said Zippora. “Every misfortune is a misfortune,” said I. “Are your legs swollen, Zippora?” said I. “My legs aren’t swollen,” said Zippora, “except the big toe on my left foot — it’s a little swollen.”