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11 Tishrei 5767 - October 3, 2006 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family

The Joy of the Torah
The Advantage of Light over Darkness

Translated by permission of the grandson of the author (R' Moshe Efrati), R' Avrohom Yehuda Tikotzky, who prepared the book of inspiring stories for publication: "Ki Lo Yoshuv Hatzel Achoranis"

A Simple Simchas Torah — Joy in the Torah — story

A pre-winter despondency threatened to submerge the snow- covered village.

The walls of the Jewish huts, bowed with their weight of age and snow, splintered, decrepit, admitted the wind and snow, offering hardly any resistance. The wind swept through and through the house, swirling about freely as on a broad promenade, while the snow hugged the walls and claimed a significant reign of territory on the dirt floor, lavishly spreading its white sheets and sparkling tablecloths decoratively.

Both the wind and the snow, the first — fierce and whistling, the latter — calm and serene, laughed in defiance at the scanty, skimpy two-footed stove designed to mitigate their full victory. So ridiculous was its effort that the howling wind would sometimes overturn the pan of smoldering coals and send them rolling helter skelter, in the very manner that street urchins roll a snowman back into a huge snowball after it has lost its appeal.

As for the snow, it laughed itself to tears as it sat upon the silly stovetop. Notwithstanding, the suffering mothers of sickly infants would feed this voracious primitive stove with any cannon-fodder they could scavange, as defense against the enemy, the cold and frost.

A handful of straw, a coal here and there, a foot of a broken stool, a pole or board that had come loose somewhere, out there, which they had opportunely snatched and claimed from its ownerlessness. If they could wheedle some sawdust from their carpenter neighbor, that, too, became fuel for the `cannon.' One couldn't make light of even that; everything helped. Everything served a purpose in the war-to- the-finish against the murderous cold which seemed determined to transform living babes and nurslings into cold, cold creatures without a breath of life . . .

Mirele's home was not a whit different from the rest of the wretched huts of the village. Hers is an average household, nothing to boast of. Her half-naked, altogether barefoot children are sitting in a semicircle around the smoldering tin stove, staring at the glowing embers as they await their father for the evening meal. Night has long since fallen and the stove has already received the last portion of its daily allotment of fuel, but Tatte has still not come home.

Full well do they know — having heard it countless times from their mother — that Tatte works from daybreak until late at night in order to earn just a measly bit more than their bare subsistence. And still, he does not have enough to buy them new shoes or boots. Their stomachs are grumbling and their innards are shriveling. How long will they still have to wait? How long before they can have something to eat?

The cold is beginning to pinch and sting their feet. Their friend the stove has already gone to sleep, abandoning the little waifs to the utterly bitter cold — and Tatte has still not yet returned . . .

Finally, the `menfolk' enter; the father soaked to the bone, returns from work, and the older boys come home from cheider, where they have just completed a perplexing and difficult sugya which they began that evening.

Mirele sets aside all of her other occupations and begins setting the table. The older ones wash their hands and at a sign from her, the little ones also crowd around the table, ready to eat.

Throughout that day, Mirele had repeated to herself that after supper, she would put the children to sleep and then have a heart-to-heart talk with her Nota Shimon. This time, she decided emphatically, it would not be idle chatter, simple prattle, but a serious talk with a design and purpose.

How much longer could she keep this thing bottled up inside her? We are only human, flesh and blood with a pulsing heart, a heart which can sometimes burst . . . The matter was a very serious, weighty one, not for the sake of talking, which was wasted energies. He was the children's father, after all, and should not be allowed to sacrifice his life and his health.

She had prepared all kinds of plans, of speeches, during the day, how they could change their bitter lot, either by this scheme or that strategy. But now that she looked at him, she saw him as he was; sitting by the table half dead, the spoon almost dropping from his hand. And she knew — knowing herself — that she would necessarily postpone her speech for another day. Who knows? Hashem might send the opportune moment her way. At any rate, now was not the time to talk to him.

After sending the children off to bed, endearingly but also apologetically, she was ready to begin the second half of her exhausting day, the night shift. She began by washing the dishes, big round tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't know who, she didn't exactly know when, but somehow, she felt she had been cheated here.

Of what value, what meaning did her life have, altogether? Here she was, not even thirty, looking haggard and double her age. As for her husband — he was no more than a skeleton, skin and bones. She had already brought seven children into the world, may Hashem preserve them, and all she could offer to stave off their hunger was a bit of beet sugar or a small carrot . . .

She completed one task and went on to the next and the next. But her eyes were not under her control. When the heart is filled with bitter-herbs, the eyes involuntarily tear.

Suddenly, she noticed that the wick of the kerosene lamp was turned on too high. Like the stove, this device was also ravenous and capable of devouring a sea of kerosene like a hippo. At any rate, the light must be disturbing the children from sleeping.

Mirele tiptoed over and turned down the lamp as low as it would go. Suddenly, huge shadows danced around the walls like black sheep, swallowing up the wretched room, complete with its mold and dampness. Only one small place was not plunged in darkness: the table.

When one looked sideways at this small solitary island, illuminated by only a flickering flame, drowning in the surrounding sea of shadowy darkness, an ancient story bobs up from some forgotten abyss.

*

A story about an emissary of the Baal Shem Tov who once found himself all alone at night in the midst of a thick, terrifying forest. He made all kinds of vows, spells and the like to fend off danger. He even drew a circle with the walking staff with which his master had provided him and entered it.

Suddenly, all the beasts of the forest crept out of their dens and burrows, packs upon packs of wolves and wild things, bent upon destroying the two-footed interloper and effacing him from the world. More and more animals converged to the spot, from the darkest corners, the most distant places. They came as far as the edge of the circle — but could proceed no further, as if there were an invisible wall. They bared their fangs, they growled and howled, and lunged forward to rend the intruder limb from limb and not leave a vestige behind.

They leaped forward, but were repulsed by the magic circle that protected the defenseless human that faced them. They could not penetrate it. The tzaddik's power protected the lone traveler from all danger.

*

Mirele finished her task and proceeded to set the room aright. Finally, like the devoted eishes chayil which she was, she took Nota Shimon's worn, sweaty socks and began reinforcing the holes to make them last a bit longer, to prevent his feet from chafing against his shoes and to protect them from the cold and dampness.

The room was almost completely dark. As was her heart . . .

What is the end-purpose of such a life? Hashem in Heaven, is this only temporary, until the worst is over? Is there any sign of a better life in the offing? Am I destined to continue living out my days in suffering, deprivation, misery? Will I and my children never be fortunate enough to experience at least one good day in our lives?

Suddenly, it seemed to her that someone was calling "Mama" softly. She gazed around and around. No, it had been her `Mama-gination'. All the children were already sleeping for some time. Sated or hungry, at any rate, thank G-d they were slumbering deeply. So long as worries do not gnaw away at a person, he is able to sleep.

She threaded her needle again and continued to weave a web that would hold the many-patched socks together somewhat longer. And suddenly, she again seemed to hear a small whisper calling "Mama, Mama." She again studied the sleeping children, but not seeing anyone stirring, she turned the lamp up a bit and studied the sweet faces of her sleeping children.

Now she discerned that Duvid'l, the apple of her eye, her sweet, beloved child, was lying on his pillow, eyes wide open, looking straight at her. Duvid'l, already at six, had an angelic glow about him, a captivating, enchanting charm that gripped you and seemed to say, "Smile at me, and I will smile back to you sevenfold!"

She carefully laid down her sewing implements on the table and tiptoed softly to her cherished darling and asked him, almost severely:

"What's the matter, Duvid'l? Why aren't you sleeping? Does something hurt you, chas vesholom?"

The child whispered back, "No, Mama. Nothing hurts me, not even my stomach. But I was waiting until you would be completely free."

Mirel was surprised. "And why were you waiting so eagerly for me to be unoccupied? Why was it so important to you? It must be midnight, already. Soon you will have to get up for shacharis . . . "

"Well, you are also awake at this hour, aren't you?"

"Me? What example am I for you? Can you compare yourself to your mother? A mother is not like a little boy. Once you have said your Shema and said the hamapil blessing, you are required to sleep uninterruptedly until morning, until I wake you. Come, let me cover you up snugly with your blanket . . . "

"Let me be. I have something to tell you. Something very important, very urgent . . . "

"What is so urgent that you must tell me now, my dearest?"

"Mama, please don't be angry at me. I have a very big thing to ask of you."

"What is your big-big request, then? Perhaps it is so big that I can't even fulfill it . . . "

"Oh, Mama, don't make fun of me. You will be able to do it. For sure!"

"Well then, stop prattling away and tell me what it is that you want."

"I can't tell you here. I don't want to wake Hershele. Will you let me come to the table and tell you?"

"Alright, come here, but let me give you my woolen shawl. It is very cold here. Fine, just like this."

"But now you're cold! See how you're shivering!"

"I'm not shivering. Don't make up stories. Now tell me, what is bothering you and not letting you sleep?"

"Listen, Mama. In cheder, we always only learn the first part of the weekly parshah, that is, only up to sheini. But this week's parshah is very short, so we learned three parts, all the way to revi'i. Everything, with Rashi. The Rebbe said that I know the chumash very, very well and he even said that if I reviewed it thoroughly until I knew it by heart, he would skip me to a higher class. To Berele and Zalmanke and Ahrele's class. I've studied it through and through and I am sure I know it very well, but before I go to have the Rebbe test me, I want to review it one more time aloud before someone grown up to make sure I am not making any mistakes anywhere. And if I stumble or make an error, I will review it all several times more by myself.

"I wanted to ask Tatte to test me but he is so tired that I didn't have the heart to bother him with my silly request. But now, Mama, if you don't mind, it's the perfect time. Everyone is sleeping and we won't disturb anyone, nor will anyone disturb us. I'll show you the place and all you have to do is follow and make sure I make no mistakes. Don't hesitate to tell me. Please, Mama, please agree!"

Mirele, melting with tears, fingers shaking, gathered her child into a warm embrace and squeezed him tightly.

"Ribono Shel Olom! Gott in Himmel! Forgive me! Forgive me for my wicked thoughts. I have sinned before You! Who knows if my precious Duvid'l won't grow up to be an iluy, a great Torah scholar! A gaon! If at the age of six he already knows chumash and Rashi by heart — who knows what will become of him later in life!

"And I, fool that I am, asking myself such terrible questions about the purpose in life! Is this not the highest, most exalted goal in life? The epitome of my dreams? Is the Torah not the beste sechoiroh, the best thing we could wish for in life? Forgive me, pardon me, Father in Heaven . . . And you, too, Duvid'l, forgive me. You have a bad mother, full of grievances and grumblings, an ungrateful wretch, all mixed up and confused in her values . . . "

She laid the surprised little boy back in his little bed and rushed to her darkened bedroom, and with searing tears, turned to her Nota Shimon, who was gripped in the arms of a deep sleep, and exclaimed,

"Forgive me, my Nota Shimon, for my wayward notions. I never dreamed that the happiness which I so longed and yearned for, has been long since residing in our very home, in our very humble, ramshackle cottage, dwelling with us in our very midst!

"Oy, Tatte in Himmel! Where were my eyes! Now that I realize that we are blessed with such treasures, such beautiful exalted souls, I don't have to dream of anything else. What more could I ask? What other goal in life?

"Everything, every thing, every effort, is worth it all!"

 

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