I thought he was sleeping, and saw that he was muttering with his lips. I bent closer to him and heard him saying, “And these are the cases in which a fowl is fit for eating: if there is a hole in the gullet or a slit…” When he noticed me he whispered, “This was the halacha over which the controversy started.”
After a little while he raised his head somewhat and said, “When a man is lying like this, he lacks nothing. He could even be content; except that man is defined as a being that moves, not as one that stands or lies. For the essence of a man’s existence in the world is to acquire good deeds — and so long as he is able to walk.”
I was shocked and distressed, not because of the things he said, but because he spoke at all. Reb Hayim, who used to nod his head instead of speaking, had begun to talk at length.
In all his talk he said neither good nor ill of any human being. That was one of the things that surprised me about Reb Hayim: he did not mention any man in connection with the things that had happened to him, but would open every talk by saying, “The Cause of all causes, in His blessed mercy, brought it about,” and when he concluded he would say, “Through the Cause that produces all causes, this event was caused.” You and I, dear brethren, are also aware that everything comes from the One Master of the world, but you and I add the deeds of human beings to His deeds, as it were, as if He and they were partners in the matter, while Reb Hayim did not bring in any human being as His partner.
Finally he held out to me an old, creased sheet of paper and asked me to open it immediately after his death, before they brought him to his last resting place. He saw that there were tears in my eyes. He took my hand in his and said, “The hour of my death has not yet come, but it is close, and I ask that the terms of my testament should be carried out to the full.”
An hour later Zippora came, followed by Kuba. The doctor examined the patient and stayed a long time. When he left I followed him and told him that Reb Hayim had entrusted me with his will. Kuba took off his hat, shook it this way and that, and said nothing. I was afraid to ask if he thought Reb Hayim’s death was near, and I was afraid he might tell me of his own accord, so I went my way. Kuba put on his hat, clasped his hands behind his back, and began walking away from me, jerking his feet in front of him. Finally he turned his head and shouted at me, “Why don’t we see you?” “What do you mean you don’t see me?” said I. “Don’t you see me now?” “Because you don’t come to visit me,” said Kuba. “If I don’t come to see you,” I replied, “it is because I am taking care of the sick man.” “You are taking care of the sick man?” said Kuba, “then you can come to see me next week.” “Next week?” “Servus!” My heart felt weak and a mist gathered before my eyes. I stood there in the street and did not know where to go. It was impossible to follow Kuba, for he had said I should come to him next week, and this week was not yet over. And it was impossible to go to Reb Hayim, for fear of what he might notice in me.
That day was Sabbath eve. In the hotel they were baking and cooking and making everything ready for the Sabbath. If I am not mistaken, a new guest had arrived — or perhaps there was no guest, but I only thought there was one. Because of that guest I found it hard to stay there, and I went back to the sick man.
Vus hot ihr sich eppis in mir ungetchepit? I said suddenly in the language the people of my town speak, and I was astonished. First, because there was no one there who was following me, and second, because I thought that when I talked to myself I spoke in the Holy Tongue, and now I was speaking in the language of every day.
This man who suddenly molested me and suddenly disappeared, and appeared again all of a sudden, had a face like a butcher but a beard like an official rabbi. As I was engrossed in my thoughts, I paid him no heed. But he paid heed to me, and said, “Are you going to see Reb Hayim?” “How do you know I am going to see Reb Hayim?” “Because I am going to see him too.” I said to myself: He is leading a lamb with him, so how can he go in to see Reb Hayim? He bent down, plucked a handful of grass, thrust it into the lamb’s mouth, and said, “Moses, why are you looking that way?” “Are you talking to me?” said I. “My name is not Moses, and I am not looking that way.” “Moses,” he said to me, “do you mean to tell me you are not looking that way? Now, that pigeon, which is flying there, aren’t you looking at it?” “There is no pigeon here,” I replied, “and my name is not Moses.” “What else then?” said he. “Perhaps it is a bear dancing there on the rabbi’s hat?” I reproached him with “Vus hot ihr sich in mir ungetchepit?” Said he, “If you like, I will show you a marvel. You see this lamb? Look, I pull the rope and it disappears.” I looked this way and that and said, “Where is the marvel you spoke of?” Said he, “Since you believe I can do it, there is no need for me to take the trouble, but so as not to leave you empty-handed, watch me rubbing myself against the wall and saying ‘Mu’es’ and you will imagine that Ignatz is here.” “That is no marvel,” said I, “for here is Ignatz already standing before me.” “And I?” He struck his hat and said, “And where am I?” “You? Where are you?”
“Who was that man who was leading a lamb?” I asked Ignatz. Ignatz raised his head, looked at me through the three holes in his face, and said, “There was no man here and no lamb.” “But I saw them myself.” “No doubt the gentleman was kind enough to imagine it,” said Ignatz. I changed the subject and said, “It is hot today, Ignatz. I’m afraid rain will fall.” “It’s a hot day, sir,” said Ignatz. “What is that flying over there on the roof of the Beit Midrash?” said I. “It’s a crow or a pigeon,” said Ignatz. “If so,” said I to myself, “that man was telling the truth.” “What man?” “The man with the lamb.” “What lamb?” “The lamb the man was leading, who is called ‘Moses.’” “Moses? But who here is called Moses?” “That’s what I am asking you.” “There are a few men called Moses in the town,” said Ignatz. “So why did you say ‘I don’t know’?” “But you were asking about a particular Moses,” said Ignatz, “and not just any Moses. Mu’es, sir, mu’es.” I gave him some money and moved on.
I went in to Reb Hayim and found Hannah sitting there dozing. She woke up, wiped her eyes, and stood up, asking me to sit. “I am prepared to sit down,” said I, “so that you can go home and rest a little.” “I shall wait until Zippora comes,” said Hannah. Her father fixed his eyes upon her imploringly and said, “Go, my daughter, go.” Hannah looked into her father’s face and went out unwillingly.
“How did you pass the night?” I asked Reb Hayim. Reb Hayim bent his head toward his heart and a clear light shone from his eyes. After a little while he got out of bed and left the room. When he came back, he washed his hands and recited the benediction, “Who created man with wisdom.” Then he got back into bed, lay down flat, and said, “Now I am being called.”
I looked to see who was calling him. Reb Hayim noticed this and smiled.
At that moment his face shone like the flame of a candle and his eyes glowed like the sun. He washed his hands again, recited the “Hear, O Israel,” and gave up his soul.
When the people from the Holy Burial Society came to wash his body I remembered the sheet of paper Reb Hayim had given me, and opened and read it. The will was carefully arranged in paragraphs, of which there were seven:
“a) To you, good people, I call, to you, the God-fearing men of the Holy Burial Society, who perform unselfish charity: bury me in the portion of the field where they bury the premature infants.