Her box did not attract pieces of gold, or even copper coins. In a word, Hanoch’s wife did not prosper, just as the other women did not prosper; but they were accustomed to be without a livelihood, and she did not want to get accustomed. She would sit and wail and cry, or she would use an echo of her earlier weeping, which had moved all hearts but now irritated the listener. If a woman’s soul has been crushed by her troubles you cannot expect her voice to be pleasant, but you do not have to stand and listen. So people would avoid her and her box, and buy elsewhere. Not only are you not filled with compassion for this wretched woman, but you feel annoyed at her for making you harden your heart.
However, her home was far from the market, so that when she sat in the marketplace the orphans were left without a meal, and when she came back she would be overcome by sleep, so that she could not manage to cook for them. When she awoke, the little ones would be sleeping and she could not sleep. She would lie on her bed and see Hanoch driving his horse forward and struggling against the snow. She would raise her voice and scream, “Hanoch, Hanoch!” and all the neighbors would crowd into her house and ask, “Where is he?” And she would cry, “On my solemn oath, only a little while ago I saw him and his horse.”
At first the neighbors would pity her and try to strengthen her heart with elixirs against weakness. But when it happened a second time, they turned their eyes away from her and went away. When it happened a third time, they mocked her and said, “Why didn’t you catch the horse by his tail?” But how hard it is to catch the tail of a horse that is seen in a dream!
Once Reb Hayim and I were sitting in the Beit Midrash and there was no one there except us. I saw that he gave a sudden start, rose, then sat down again; then he rose again and came up to me, and then went back to his place. This he did several times. “Do you want to tell me something, sir?” I said. “I want to ask something of you,” said he, “but I am afraid it may be too hard for you to do.” Said I, “Whether it is easy or hard, if it is in my power I will not fail to do it.” Reb Hayim lowered his eyes and gripped the end of the table in silence; then he raised his eyes and looked at me in silence; then he lowered his head onto his beard and said, “If you can spare a copper, I would ask…” I said to him, If you want to give me the privilege of doing a good deed, certainly.” “It is a favor I am asking, like the favor you did for Hanoch,” said Reb Hayim. “It was no favor I did for Hanoch,” said I, “I paid him for his trouble.” Said Reb Hayim, “Perhaps you would pay me whatever you used to pay Hanoch.” “With all my heart,” said I, “and I’ll give you even more, for Hanoch did not look after the lamps or stoke the fire, while you, sir, trim the candles and look after the lamps and stoke the fire, so your trouble is greater and you ought to receive more. But I do not know how much.” Said Reb Hayim, “Whatever you used to pay Hanoch, you should pay me.” “I do not know how much I used to give Hanoch,” I replied. “I would put my hand in my pocket and give him sometimes more and sometimes less, whatever my hand brought out at the moment. If you like, I will fix your pay, so that you should not rely on a man’s hand, which is sometimes open and sometimes clenched.” So I fixed his pay. Then Reb Hayim said, “One thing more I would ask of you: please give me my pay on the fifth day of the week.” From that day forward I would give him the money for the whole week every Thursday morning.
Once I paid him for several weeks at a time, because I saw that his daughter Zippora’s shoes were torn, and I said to myself: If I give him all at once he will buy shoes for her. He took the pay for the week and gave me back the rest. After some time I found out that he was giving the money to Hanoch’s wife. He himself lived on the money the officers had given him for serving them when they were prisoners, as well as the money he had brought from his travels, for sometimes he had had the opportunity to do some work and earn something.
Most of the month of Adar had already gone. The snow that had lain in heaps was shrunken, and if a little snow fell it melted while it was falling.
Reb Hayim’s work was growing less. At first he would bring wood two or three times a day, but now only once, and occasionally some was left until the next day, for the cold had weakened and we did not need so much wood. As we did not need much wood, so we did not need much kerosene, for the days were beginning to draw out.
As the cold weakened and the snow shrank, the roads cleared. Men went out to their work. Those whose work was in the town went to town, and those whose work was in the villages went out to the villages.
The town took on a new appearance. The streets, which had been empty throughout the winter, filled up with people, and bargaining went on at the doors of the shops. At first glance it seemed as if Szibucz had taken up its affairs again, but at a second and truer glance, it could be seen that everyone was only standing about idly. In any case, there were more people at the streetcorners than in the Beit Midrash, for sometimes we had to wait until they came to pray, and after the prayer they would slip out without reciting psalms or studying a chapter of Mishna. Nevertheless, our old Beit Midrash was better than most of the houses of prayer in the town, for we had a quorum of ten for prayer every day, while in most of the houses of prayer there was no quorum every day, but sometimes the services were held in one and sometimes in another, according to the numbers that came and the nearness of the place. Only in the Great Synagogue were there several quorums and frequent services, and if we did not find ten men we would borrow from there and hold our service.
Most of the worshippers in the Great Synagogue were simple folk, who did not like the people of our old Beit Midrash. Why? Because in the early days, when Jews behaved with a high hand and the dignitaries used to domineer, they would make the unlearned stand beside the washbasin near the door, and not allow them to wear the fur shtreimel on their heads on Sabbaths and festivals, but only the broadbrimmed spodik, and on the Sabbath before the Ninth of Av, when scholars wore the spodik instead of a shtreimel in mourning for Jerusalem, the unlearned men were not allowed to wear even a spodik but only an ordinary hat, because honor was only for the learned. And although learning had vanished from the old Beit Midrash and the scholars were no better than the ignorant, the hatred of the unlearned for the scholars had not abated. Once we were about to pray and there was one lacking, so I asked one of the men in the Great Synagogue to complete the quorum. He drew himself up stiffly and said, “That means that Moses our Teacher and eight like him cannot pray as a congregation unless you ask Zelophehad the son of Hepher to come and make up the quorum. And afterward, when you no longer need him, you come and say he is a sinner, that he was seen gathering sticks on the Sabbath day, and have him stoned to death.”
Reb Hayim swept the floor, stoked the stove, laid the cloths, and lit the candles and the lamps. We recited the Afternoon Service, welcomed in the Sabbath, and recited the Evening Service.
When the prayer leader recited the sanctification over the wine, there was no child to be found to drink it. I felt the sweets in my pocket and asked one man, “Where is your son?” He stammered and said, “He stayed behind with his mother.” I asked another, “Why did you not bring your son to the Beit Midrash?” Said he, “It’s a miracle that I’ve brought myself. All the week long you tire yourself out on the roads; when the Sabbath comes a man wants to sit in peace.”
How beautiful were the Sabbath eves at the time when the Beit Midrash was full of Jews, and the children would surround the Ark and answer “Amen” after the cantor; now, when the children’s fathers find it a miracle that they have brought themselves to pray, how many miracles are needed to bring the children!