There was one Vizhnitz Hasid there, resolute and well-to-do, who went off with his nine sons and built a separate klois. This is the Vizhnitz klois, near the black pond behind the butcher’s shop. They were joined by other Hasidim who felt like dependent strangers in the Tchortkov klois, as well as those the Tchortkovites did not admit because their rabbis had taken part in the well-known controversy. And here the same thing happened to them as had happened in the Tchortkov klois, for the Vizhnitz Hasidim ignored them as the Tchortkovites had done. So some of them returned to their former place, while some submitted to their sufferings in silence.
When the Hasidim split, it might have been thought that the congregation of the klois would dwindle. But in fact it did not, for some of the sons of the Tchortkovite Hasidim who had married daughters of Szibucz were in the habit of coming to pray there and, needless to say, every Tchortkovite Hasid took husbands for his daughters from the members of his own sect. They ate at their fathers-in-law’s tables and had no need to earn a living, so they used to sit in the klois and study the Torah in peace and tranquillity. On winter nights, when they would sit each with his candle in his hand, their voices reaching the street and the golden chains on their chests reflecting the light, the neighbors would wish themselves likewise blessed, and say, “Oh that we had sons like them.”
But the neighbors’ wish was in vain; there was no one to whom the wish could apply, for the secular schools had already laid waste the Torah, and even our old Beit Midrash where the Torah was profoundly studied did not bring forth sons to the Torah. The scholars still sat there engaged in study, but it brought them no radiance, for they lacked peace of mind because their sons and sons-in-law were not students of the Torah. And why were some privileged to have sons and sons-in-law who were scholars while some were not? Because the people of our old Beit Midrash believed in all the branches of worldly wisdom, too, for they would say that Torah and worldly wisdom came down from heaven together, and anyone who is deficient in one branch of wisdom is also deficient in the Torah. So when the secular schools were opened to the Jews, they sent their sons to them, so that they should supplement the wisdom of the Torah. Once the sons had entered the schools, they did not return to the Beit Midrash, but became lawyers or doctors or pharmacists or bookkeepers, or just ordinary men without Torah or wisdom either. On the other hand, the Hasidim, who mocked at extraneous wisdom and avoided secular culture, did not send their sons to the schools, so that most of them remained with their fathers, and when Hasidism dwindled it was replenished from the Torah. This is what sustained it, so that it produced most of the ritual slaughterers, cantors, and teachers. And even the rabbis, slaughterers, cantors, and teachers who did not believe in Hasidism in their hearts subordinated themselves to the zaddikim of the generation, for any rabbi, slaughterer, or teacher who was not subordinate to the zaddik had no hope in our community.
There was another feature of our klois: two or three times a year we would travel to visit our rabbi in Tchortkov. Those who have been in Tchortkov know Tchortkov, and for those who have not been there no tongue can describe it. Not only did we have the privilege of meeting that zaddik, but Hasidim from most countries met there, and we heard what was going on in the dispersion of Israel. Sometimes marriages were arranged there and new Hasidim were added to us, until we stood crowded in the klois for lack of place, and had it not been for the war they would have built a new house of prayer.
There was still another feature of our klois: from time to time visitors arrived on their way to Tchortkov or back. When a visitor came to the klois he would donate refreshments, or bring a new melody, or tell what he had seen or heard. The conversation of the travelers made even a weekday into a kind of minor festival. And sometimes the visitor would cast his eye on a young man to make a match between him and his daughter, and he would write the marriage contract and make a feast for the Hasidim.
We said above that they used to tell tales of the zaddikim, but so that you should make no mistake I will tell you that in these stories they did not mention the early zaddikim, or even the Baal Shem Tov, of blessed memory. It happened once that an old man came to our town and told a story about the Baal Shem Tov. One of our people said, “If this had been true, it would have been mentioned in The Book of the Praises of the Baal Shem Tov,” and the Hasidim smiled, for they did not regard that book as authentic.
The Tchortkovite Hasidim used to talk of nothing else but the Tchortkover’s fathers and his fathers’ fathers, and of his brother, and of the Tchortkover himself: how the door of his room opened and how he sat on his chair and how he let his head fall back and who was present on that occasion and how he would enter the klois on the eve of Yom Kippur and recite the prayer “Answer Us.” You may not think these things important, but every Tchortkovite knows that every single movement of that zaddik is designed for our benefit in this world and the next.
Chapter five and thirty. Additional Matter
In those days there shone the light of the Zaddik of Kupiczince. This zaddik did not inherit followers from his fathers, but won them for himself. He would go out from time to time to the cities and towns like the early hasidic rabbis, and wherever he went the women and the simple folk came to him, those who were not accustomed to travel to see the zaddikim, but believed in their power. Once he came to Szibucz for the Sabbath. A number of the townsfolk — even some of the well-to-do — gathered around him. Some came secretly, because they were afraid their friends might see them, but when they came they found some of their friends, who had also come in secret, for Szibucz was still regarded as a town of Misnagdim, and whoever was not called a Hasid boasted of being a Misnaged. So this zaddik came for one Sabbath and stayed for two, because of the numbers who came to him. On the two Sabbaths that he stayed in Szibucz, he presided at his table in the rabbi’s Beit Midrash, and many came to him, either out of faith in the zaddikim or in order to see how zaddikim conducted themselves. This zaddik did not discourse on the Torah, for all his ways were like those of the Ruzhiner’s grandsons — he behaved in royal style. When he sat at the head of the table, with the shtreimel set straight on his head, like the Ruzhiner’s sons, and his little beard descending on his stiff collar, and rapped on the table with his fingers, humming “Chal, chal, chal,” all the congregation were enthralled. And when he let his head drop backward and looked up, one old man, of the last of the Ruzhin Hasidim, swore that the zaddik from Kupiczince was exactly like the Ruzhiner, both in his holy appearance and in his holy movements. Before he left the town, a number of people got together and agreed to establish a klois in his name. Next year he came again, and now something happened that showed that this zaddik was important in the eyes of those on high and on earth. What happened was this: the Tchortkov Hasidim were indignant at him for trespassing on their territory, for Szibucz was regarded as a Tchortkover’s town. And when the Rabbi of Kupiczince came to the town, the Tchortkovites did not go to welcome him. It went so far that in the same train in which the zaddik had arrived an old man, one of the leading Tchortkov Hasidim, was coming back to Szibucz, and everyone expected that he would go to the zaddik to receive his greeting. He did not do so, however, but hurried into the town so that he should not mingle with those who had come to meet the zaddik. Before he reached home he caught cold and fell ill, and everyone understood that he had been punished for not giving honor to this zaddik.