Unintentionally, I have mentioned that I am a writer. Originally, the word denoted the scribe, who wrote the words of the Torah. But since everyone who engages in the craft of writing is called a writer, I am not afraid of arrogance in calling myself a writer.
I have told elsewhere the story of the poet who, when he was a child lying in his crib, was shown from heaven things no eye has ever seen. He wanted to utter poetry; a swarm of bees came and filled his mouth with honey. When he grew up and studied the Torah, he remembered all the songs and praises he wished to utter in his childhood; so he wrote them down and Israel inserted them into its prayers. And where did he get the Laments? The bees who had given him their honey stung him, and out of that pain he wrote the Laments for the Ninth of Av.
There are other poets who were not privileged in the same way as Rabbi Eleazar Hakalir, but because they were humble and modest, they regarded their misfortunes as part of the community’s misfortunes and made them songs and lamentations for the House of Israel; so a man reads them as he reads a lamentation over himself.
Other poets there were who saw their own misfortunes and did not forget them, but they were very modest and made the misfortunes of the community their own, as if all the tribulations that had befallen Israel had befallen them.
Other poets there were who saw their own misfortunes and did not forget those of the community, but knew that our God is merciful and can be relied upon to reward those who suffer; so they endured their sufferings and consoled themselves with the future blessings that the Holy One, blessed be He, is destined to bestow on Israel when it becomes His will to deliver them from their misfortunes. So they swallowed their tears and spoke in song.
We do not have the power to do like one group or the other, but we are like a child who dips his pen in the ink and writes what his master dictates. So long as his master’s writing lies before him, his writing is beautiful, but when his master’s writing is taken away, or when he changes it, it is not beautiful. The Holy One, blessed be He, made a covenant with all that has been created since the first six days that it should not change its function (except for the sea, which was to be split before the children of Israel), and the forms of the letters and the writing of God on the Tablets were among the things that were created in the beginning.
And here I must explain how, if I am a writer, I let the time pass without writing anything all those days I dwelt in Szibucz. Well, if something comes and knocks on my heart I send it away. When it knocks again, I say: Don’t you know I hate the smell of ink? When I see that I have no escape I do my work, if only so that I shall not be pestered again. During those days I spent in my town, many things came and knocked on my heart, but when I sent them away they went off and did not come back to me.
Chapter four and seventy. Change of Place
Let us return to our subject. I stayed in Szibucz and delayed my return to the Land of Israel because I had promised Yeruham Freeman to put off my journey until his wife should give birth. In the meantime, my money had dribbled away, although I economized in my spending and did not buy fruit from the market at a time when the whole market was full of fruit I had not tasted for many years.
I did not write my wife that I had not enough money for the cost of the journey, but continued to write about the people of my town, about Daniel Bach and Reb Hayim’s orphans, about Yeruham, and about Kuba, who was inviting me to come and stay with him. From all the letters I wrote no one could have learned of my own affairs. So it is surprising that my wife sent me a ticket for the journey to the Land and money for my expenses. Or perhaps we should not be surprised, for women are likely to surprise us.
In the meantime I changed my lodging and went to stay with Kuba. On the day Kuba returned from the wedding of his divorced wife he asked me to live with him, for he found it hard to live alone, but I refused. Once I sat up with him all night, and when the dawn rose Kuba said, “Let us eat breakfast first and then you shall go.” After we had eaten, he said, “Lie down a little, then we shall eat lunch, and then you shall go.” When I wanted to go, he said to me, “What are you short of here? Is it the smell of meat, or the noise in the hotel?” So he went on persuading me until I went over to live with him.
In the stories one finds in romances there are many cases in which, on the day a man comes to the end of all his money and is put out of his home, he inherits a house or a palace. Something like this happened to me with Kuba. I paid my bill to the owner of the hotel, so that I should not be ashamed when the time came for payment and I had nothing to pay with.
Kuba treated me with extraordinary hospitality. In the morning he would bring me water to wash with and a glass of clear, cold water to drink, and every day he would prepare me several meals — even with eggs, which he, as a vegetarian, did not eat himself.
In those days I did not sit much in the Beit Midrash, and I paid frequent visits to Zechariah Rosen. He was like an ever-fresh fountain and a never-ending flow of water: he talked about everything under the sun. He spoke of Szibucz, our town, and the glory of days gone by. Now the splendor of our town was gone and no one spared it a thought, for all eyes were turned to the Land of Israel; and it was still a matter for consideration whether this was right so long as the Messiah dwelt abroad, for when a king goes into exile all the great men of his country go into exile with him.
Nor did I neglect Yeruham Freeman. Whenever I met him I conversed with him. But I have already spoken of him in several places, even mentioning his handsome curls, which were all his pride, for no young man in Szibucz had the like. Now I have nothing to add about Yeruham, but I shall say something about his curls. They reminded me of the Lithuanian itinerant preachers, who let their hair grow long, and whose side-curls mingled with their hair. But this is not surprising, for his father was a Lithuanian, as we have already explained.
More than anyone else I was in the habit of visiting Daniel Bach. Sometimes Kuba would come to his house to see what his friend was doing. He would find Erela sitting with piles and piles of copybooks in front of her, correcting spelling mistakes. She did her work with rigid honesty, ferreting out and correcting every error.
As I have already said, Kuba’s house stood in the same street where I lived in my childhood. According to my reckoning, I was as old as my father, of blessed memory, had been when he lived here with us. How many years have passed since then, how many sorrows have passed over our heads! When I sit alone by myself it seems to me that nothing has changed here. Once I looked in the mirror and was startled, for the image of Father’s face looked out at me from the mirror, and I said to myself: What is this? Father did not use to trim his beard! And I did not realize that it was I standing in front of the mirror.
Kuba’s income is scanty. A patient who has a copper in hand calls another doctor, while one who hasn’t calls Kuba. Not only does he get no pay for his work, but when he has a copper in his pocket he spends it on the patient. Nevertheless, Kuba’s house is full of good things. You can find there fruit and vegetables, eggs and butter, cheese and rye bread, which the peasants bring him in payment for his trouble, for the peasants have no particular fondness for rudeness in doctors, but are attracted by Dr. Milch, who treats them like a simple man. So they treat him in their own way and bring him what they eat themselves. It would be no exaggeration to say that in one corner of Kuba’s house you find more than you could find in the entire Jewish market of Szibucz. And since he does not permit himself to eat eggs, he gives some to the poor and some to Mrs. Bach. So as not to rob the poor, I kept my hand off Kuba’s food and bought my needs in the market. Once Kuba found me bringing something from the market, and scolded me for leaving his food to spoil and buying rotten foodstuffs from the shopkeeper.