Young Faiga, the bread baker, wife of the tailor, R' Shlomo
Zalman, woke up at the crack of dawn. She had to finish
shaping the dough she had prepared the night before into
loaves and to slip them into the hot oven. The bread had to
be baked before her regular early morning customers appeared.
She was eager to finish up so that she could get back to her
children, feed them and send them off to cheder with
her warm blessings.
Her youngest son, Yeruchom Yehuda Leib, would soon wake up
and she wished to give him all of her attention. She loved
this precocious child dearly and felt that someday he would
become a great Torah scholar. But she had to do her bit. [In
fact, in later years, he was to be known as the `Godol of
Minsk.']
While her hands were busy with the familiar work, she thought
about her daily routine and the many hours she had to devote
to this difficult work of baking and selling the loaves. "We
hardly eke out a living from this," she sighed, "but at least
we never lack bread, and that is blessing enough. I have
nothing to complain about."
Flushed by the heat of the burning oven, Faiga did not
realize how freezing cold it was outside, until she suddenly
felt a sharp draft at her back as the door opened slightly
and the chill and wind from the street hit her. She glanced
backward to see her first customer. A young woman stood by
the bread box, shivering uncontrollably as she looked
ravenously at the first batch of hot loaves freshly out of
the oven. Faiga's back was turned to her but she had caught a
glimpse of the woman, dressed in a thin housedress and an
old, tattered blanket wrapped tightly around her which was
obviously not doing much to keep out the intense cold. Faiga
glanced at the woman who looked familiar, but she couldn't
recall her name.
Faiga now had to quickly remove a batch of loaves from the
oven. She couldn't help noticing from the corner of her eye
how the woman surreptitiously extracted one loaf, placed it
in her shopping bag, and covered it with a ready towel she
had brought.
"Do you wish to buy bread?" Faiga asked, turning to her
squarely. The woman blushed and shook her head. "It is so
cold outside. I just came in for a moment to warm myself,"
she said, and slipped out of the bakery.
Soon after, R' Shlomo Zalman the tailor entered the store. He
realized that his wife couldn't turn around to greet him when
every moment was critical, but there was something about her
stiff back that puzzled him. "Did anything happen this
morning?" he asked. "Is anything wrong?"
"Yes," she said. "A woman came in here before. She looked
familiar but I can't recall her name. While I was busy taking
a batch of loaves out of the oven, she took one, slipped it
in her basket, and walked out without paying."
"I see. But if she couldn't pay, we must give her a loaf for
free. True, we aren't rich, and you work very hard, late at
night and then very early in the morning. But, Boruch Hashem,
our family doesn't lack for bread, and hers does. One more
loaf, one less, won't make such a difference, will it,
Faiga?"
Faiga was left to digest this thought since her husband had
to leave for his tailor shop. And she thought about it a lot
as she tended to her customers and sent her children off to
cheder.
The next morning, while Faiga was busy giving the loaves
their final touch before slipping them into the oven, the
door opened a crack and the same woman appeared. Faiga came
over to her, flashed a friendly smile, handed her a loaf and
said, "Here, this is an excellent loaf. Take it and enjoy it
in good health."
The woman blushed and mumbled, "I was just cold. I don't need
bread . . . " and turned quickly towards the door.
Faiga flashed another encouraging smile and said, "It's
alright. If you can't pay now, I'll write it down in the book
and some day, when things are better, you can pay what you
owe." This time the woman turned around and accepted the loaf
gratefully. She put it in her shopping basket, covered it
with a towel, and looked up at Faiga. "Thank you," she
whispered, and slipped out.
Faiga smiled to herself, having already made peace with
herself the day before. And when her husband came in shortly
after, she told him how she had turned the woman into an
honest lady.
This act of kindness continued this way for several years,
day in and day out. The woman would come in very early in the
morning, wrapped in her tattered blanket, and take the
excellent loaf which Faiga would hand her graciously. Faiga
would then jot something down in a notebook as the woman
left.
One day, years later, the woman came into the bakery dressed
in a warm coat. Her head was held up high. For the first
time, a smile appeared on her face and her eyes shone. She
waited for Faiga to select one of her best loaves, one that
was baked just right with a golden crust, not too brown, not
too underbaked.
Then the woman placed a heavy laden purse on the table and
said, "I knew all along that you wanted to give me the bread
in a dignified manner and that you wanted to spare me the sin
of stealing. You cannot imagine how poor we were, how
starving for that crust of bread. My husband had lost his job
and my children were clamoring for food. You saved our lives,
but you also saved our honor . . .
"Now, finally, my husband has found a decent, well-paying
job, and I can pay you back all that I owe you! But I can
never repay you for your kind and understanding heart! Not
only did you spare me from stealing, not only did you spare
me the indignity of begging, but you gave me the good feeling
of trusting in me and hoping, along with me, that times would
be better and that I would be able to repay."
And with that, she counted out the accumulated sum in its
entirety, paid Faiga, and left, no longer a beggar, no longer
in debt for money, but forever indebted to the woman who had
preserved her self-esteem.
