For many days I had not seen Schuster and his wife. That sick woman, no one is going in to visit her. Let me go and see how she is keeping, or perhaps I had better not go, for if no one comes she forgets her sicknesses and he his exaggerations.
To go or not to go? If I find the stove lit I will go; if not, I will not go. When I came into the Beit Midrash I found Reb Hayim bent in front of the stove. I said to him, “Have you lit the stove, sir?” Said Reb Hayim, “I have arranged the wood and I do not know whether to set a light to it or not.” “The winter is going,” said I, “but the sunny days are still far off. Do you think we shall have a congregation for the Afternoon Service? For the Morning Service we had to wait until a quorum gathered.” Reb Hayim spread his hands upward, as if to say that it was all in God’s hands.
After Reb Hayim left I took a book to study, and remembered Schuster and his wife. I said to myself: Now the question is back at the beginning: to go or not to go? But I will fix a sign. I will open a book, and if there is a letter lamed at the beginning of the page, that is a sign that I should go. I opened the book and saw at the beginning of the page the word “Lo” which means “No.”
There is a lamed here, which means I ought to go. But this lamed is the beginning of the word “Lo”—which is meant to tell me not to go. Or perhaps, since the main thought was about the lamed and not about the whole word, I should follow the lamed and not the word as a whole. If so, that means I ought to go. Kindchen, it seems to me you are wasting your time.
Why are you suddenly so concerned with Schuster? Or perhaps it is not so sudden, but when you felt your coat heavy on your shoulders you thought of the man who made it. Let us leave the tailor and think of some other matter.
What shall we think about? Let us think about the adventures that happened to Reb Hayim and contemplate all those travels he made, from Szibucz to Warsaw and from Warsaw to Brisk in Lithuania, and from Brisk to Smolensk, and from Smolensk to Kazan, and from there to the places on the Volga. How wide is the world and how cramped is man’s place. Now, when Reb Hayim has returned from all these places, he drags out an existence in the woodshed of our old Beit Midrash.
Does Reb Hayim intend to squander away all his days and years here? If he asked my advice I would tell him to go to his daughter, where perhaps he will gain a better end than he has here.
This book, which I opened in order to find a sign, was not suitable for study, so I closed it and took another. But it was not suitable for study either, so I closed it and took a different book. If I had taken a Gemara and studied, I would not have distracted my mind in this way. I closed the book and took out a Gemara from the bookcase. I held the Gemara in my hand and thought: What was it that man said? The father of the priest became a penitent. And in storybooks I have read that the priest himself repented.
These storybooks — are they chronicles of deeds or chronicles of the imagination? Whether the one or the other, why are there so few stories these days? Have the men of deeds disappeared or has the power of imagination diminished? Surely, wherever Jews live, they create new good deeds, which are blessed by the power of man’s imagination, and receive glorification and strength from it; but where there are good deeds there is not always one who knows how to tell them. It is easier to do good deeds than to tell good stories.
What is the difference between the stories of the Hasidim and the tales of the other great men of Israel? If you like, I may say that there is no difference: what you find in these you find in the others. But the other great men of Israel are masters of law, and are remembered for their teaching; while the Hasidim are men of deeds, and are remembered because of their deeds. And sometimes stories are ascribed to them which are already told of our early rabbis. Sometimes the name is the reason, as when an event that happened to the great Rabbi Meir of Tiktin is told of the righteous Rabbi Meir of Przemysl, and the like. But if you wish, I may say that there is a difference between them, for most tales of the great men of Israel are meant to teach the law and the commandments, morality and upright behavior, which every man can acquire; while the stories of the Hasidim are meant to enhance the glory of the zaddikim, who have been graced by heaven with the power to perform wonderful deeds, which not every man can do. The author of Leket Yosher wrote his book so that everyone should know how his great teacher behaved, and learn his ways in order to practice them; but when you read the stories of the Hasidim, though your soul admires them and your heart is inspired, you cannot do likewise.
Why have the Hasidim stopped coming to the old Beit Midrash? Is it because they have made peace among themselves and returned to the Tchortkovite klois, or have they stopped coming for the same reason as most of the other frequenters of the Beit Midrash?
I raised my eyes and looked at the great hill opposite the Beit Midrash. It was still naked, without any grass, and covered with a cold, damp darkness; tomorrow the grasses would grow on it and the sun would shine upon them. Let us close our eyes for a brief moment and stroll in another place, where the sun shines every day, and the trees blossom, and the whole land is covered with blossoms and flowers, and sheep walk between the houses, and their fleece warms your heart. Beside the sheep walks the shepherd, his satchel on his back and his flute in his mouth. Silent walk the flock, raising the dust, when suddenly a sheep stops and begins to dig in the earth, throwing himself down on the grass and bleating to his mate. And she comes to him, while the shepherd stands over them playing on his flute. Perhaps the ancestors of the shepherd were among the singers in the Temple and the songs of the Levites have survived in his flute, or perhaps his ancestors were among the destroyers of the Temple and it is the sound of the legionaries’ trumpets in his mouth. What is it that oppresses my heart so much?
In the course of these musings, midday came. I put on my coat to go to my hotel.
When I came outside I heard a great noise and saw people standing around excited. I asked a child, “What has happened here?” He looked at me startled, and did not answer. I got hold of someone and asked him, “What has happened?” He stammered, “Hanoch.” I found Ignatz and said to him, “What is this excitement about?” He replied, “Snow, sir, snow.” “You have gone crazy,” I said to him angrily. “What’s this about snow here?” He stretched out his hand and said, “There, there, there.” “What are you screaming about—‘There, there, there’?” said I. “Open up your mouth and say what is there.” “They’ve found Hanoch, there in the snow,” said Ignatz. “Found Hanoch? Dead?” “Then what? — Alive?” “How did they find him?” “How?…” But while Ignatz was trying to speak through his nose, another man came up and told me. That morning a Jew had gone out to the countryside and found Hanoch standing by his cart, embracing his horse. It seems that during the heavy snows Hanoch had frozen to death and been covered with snow, he and his horse and his cart. Now that the snow had melted, the three of them had been revealed together. It was almost certain that his horse had frozen first and, because Hanoch had tried to warm it, he had also been frozen.
Hanoch was dead and was brought to burial. The entire town walked behind his coffin. There was not a man in the town who did not come out to pay his respects to Hanoch.
With bowed heads we walked as mourners behind his coffin. After Hanoch had been forgotten by everyone, they began to tell of him again: how he had gone out on a snowy day to seek his livelihood, and how they had found him standing in the snow embracing his horse, as if he were alive. The man who found him had wanted to scold him for not letting his wife know that he was alive, but when he looked at him he saw that he was dead.