I counted my money again, for the last time; from now on it was not worth counting, for it had shrunk to two dollars (except for the money for my traveling expenses, which I had vowed not to touch until I left). That day I stopped smoking, and Kuba praised me for it; he hated tobacco, first, because it is harmful to the body, and second, because it robs the soil, for on the ground where they grow tobacco they could have grown potatoes.
I found it hard to give up the pleasure of smoking — and harder still because a number of people were in the habit of taking a cigarette from me in the marketplace, and if I did not give them one, it was as if I were shaming them. So I went to town to buy cigarettes, so that if anyone asked me for a cigarette I should be able to give him one.
Ignatz came up to me and cried, “Pieniadze.” The three holes in his face were repulsive, and a mocking smile seeped out from them. My anger rose and I was about to scold him, but in the end I dismissed my anger, put my hand in my pocket, brought up a dollar and gave it to him. He clutched my hand and kissed it. “What is this, Ignatz?” said I. “Why are you kissing my hand?” “Because the gentleman was kind enough to give me a dollar,” he said. “I gave you your reward,” said I, “because you said ‘Pieniadze’ and not ‘Mu’es.’ As you know, I come from the Land of Israel, and I cannot bear to hear the Holy Tongue used to speak of filthy lucre, so because you said ‘Pieniadze’ and not ‘Mu’es’ I gave you your reward. And I must tell you that I have no time to stop to talk to everyone, so I will give you a second dollar, and you must trouble me no more. From now on, even if you cry ‘Mu’es’ all day I shall give you nothing. I am a man who is bothered enough, and I cannot waste my time on petty cash. Do you hear?” Ignatz looked at me like a deaf man who cannot hear. I put my hand in my pocket again and gave him a second dollar.
Do you remember, my friend, the story of a certain young man who had only two coppers in his possession, so he bought a bunch of flowers with one and had his shoes shined with the other? When that happened to this man, his hands held a bunch of flowers and his shoes were shining; now his hands hold the hands of a disfigured beggar and his shoes are not shining.
After I had parted from Ignatz I said to myself: I should not have brought him to the point of weeping, for if I had given him the money little by little the poor fellow’s heart would not have been so moved and he would not have wept. But the other one (namely, the devil, or the evil impulse, who does not allow me to enjoy any good deed I do) said, “Today he weeps because you gave him all your money; tomorrow, when you have nothing to give him, he will laugh.”
Chapter five and seventy. Preparations for the Road
Since all my money was spent, I was afraid to show myself in the street, for I felt as if everyone who met me wanted money. So I went to the Beit Midrash and sat there. I thought of all I had done and what I had not done. I thought I would study a page of Gemara — perhaps it would sweeten the passing time; but because of all my anxiety I found no satisfaction in study. I began to rail at Yeruham for holding me up because of his wife. The door opened and in came Mrs. Zommer, with another woman. She spread out her hands and said, weeping, “I beg of you, give us the book The Hands of Moses— Rachel is having a difficult labor.” “I have already sent it to the Land of Israel,” said I. “Oh, what shall I do?” she cried, clasping her hands in anguish.
But the woman who came with Mrs. Zommer was experienced. “What did they do before they had that book?” she said. “And what do they do in other towns, where they do not have the book? They take the key of the Great Synagogue and put it into the woman’s hands — and she gives birth.”
So they went to the synagogue to ask for the key. But they did not find it, for on that day they were administering the oath to that old man who had been required to take the oath in court, and the beadle, who had gone to bring a Scroll of the Law, had locked the synagogue and taken the key away with him.
It takes an average man a quarter of an hour to go from the synagogue to the court, but a person’s thoughts speed like an arrow from a bow. Before anyone could prepare to go, the woman had an idea. “I remember,” she said, “once they gave a woman in her pains the key of the old Beit Midrash, and she gave birth.”
So I locked the doors of the Beit Midrash from the outside and gave her the key. Mrs. Zommer took the key and ran with all her might, as a mother runs when she is given the power to bring life and healing to her daughter, and I stood like someone who has been bereft of all he loves.
But I set aside my own desires and prayed for Bachel, for besides all the pain I felt for her, my conscience reproached me for sending away a book by which women were saved in the hour of birth. How imperfect are the kindnesses of flesh and blood! I did a favor to Mistress Sarah and her sisters-in-law, and did harm to Bachel.
As I stood there, I heard a man jeering and scoffing: “The child does not want to come out, so as not to shame its mother, for it isn’t seven months since her wedding day.”
While that one was counting days and months, the unborn child saw that it was bringing its mother into danger, so it started struggling and straining with itself. Then Rachel’s mother came and put the key of our old Beit Midrash into her hand. When the child saw the key, it came out, and before much time had passed the news was heard that Bachel had borne a male child.
It was several years since a woman in Szibucz had borne either a son or a daughter. Pharaoh issued his decree only against the males, but the daughters in our town were even more severe with themselves: they added one decree to another and bore neither males nor females. So the whole town took notice, and one could sense a kind of joy. I went to Yeruham and offered my congratulations. He reminded me of my promise, and I said, “What I promised I shall fulfill.”
That day I began preparing for my journey and went to take my leave of all those I had known in the town, whether I knew them before I came here on this last visit or came to know them afterward. If God had blessed them with a little happiness, a little light in their faces, I would spin out my story; but since they lived in sorrow and their faces were black as kettles, why should I make the story any longer? Poverty has many faces, but no matter which face it turns toward you, it looks in pain and suffering. I had another cause for regret in the house of Henoch’s wife, for I was unable to give the orphans even a little present. I fumbled with the buttons of my coat and thought of the sons of that teacher in the “Ballad of the Letters” in my book The Bridal Canopy, who used to make silver buttons for his fringed garment, and if a poor man came along he would pull off a button and give it to him. Hanoch’s orphans did not notice my regret; in fact, they were very happy, for on that day the youngest of them had started to recite the Kaddish by heart. All the trouble Reb Hayim had taken had not been in vain.