The days before Succos were some of his favorite days in the
year. As he walked down the busy streets, enjoying the
perfect-for-Succos weather, he smiled at the sight of the
makeshift booths that had sprung up selling pictures of
rabbonim and sparkling Succa decorations, and at the festive
music blaring from tape recorders. Every few steps there were
tables set up with a nice selection of arbaa minim and
utility poles emblazoned with ads for Succa panels, white
material for lining the Succa [Jerusalemites wouldn't dream
of leaving their Succa walls bare], clothing sales, and how
to order wine, chicken or meat by the case. Nails were being
hammered and smells of the beginning of Yom Tov cooking were
all in the air. Yes, Succos was around the corner and this
year, he was especially exhilarated. It would be his last
festival as a bochur. The date of Chaim's wedding was
set for the second week in Cheshvon.
He turned the corner onto a residential street and before
entering the first apartment building, smoothed out the
letter his Rosh Yeshiva had quickly, yet warmly, penned
before hurrying to catch a flight to Europe for his annual
fundraising trip for the Yeshiva. He remembered how his own
father would return home at night after an evening of
collecting money to marry off Chaim's older siblings. "Not my
favorite activity," his father would comment wryly, mentally
adding, Chaim was certain, that he had no choice, for as
matters stood, he would still be in debt. He would then
change the subject and ask what Chaim had learned in Yeshiva
that day, or begin joking with the younger children. Chaim
had wanted to give his father a break, as well as time to
take care of the family's myriad Succos preparations. And so,
armed with the letter from the Rosh Yeshiva, he himself was
collecting for the establishment of a new bayis ne'emon
b'Yisroel.
The first few times Chaim had had to scrape up courage to
knock on the door of each apartment and wordlessly show the
inhabitants his letter. Introverted by nature, it was an
effort, but he told himself, "If my father can do it, so can
I." It was not a pleasant preoccupation for either of
them.
The majority of the times, people responded pleasantly,
sometimes even encouragingly, and the donations they gave
began to fill his bag. Sometimes no one answered the door,
sometimes he was told, "Sorry, we just can't," and
occasionally, a child would answer the door and stare at him,
and he'd have to ask if Abba or Ima was home. He felt
uncomfortable then, and could only guess how red his face
was, but he would console himself, "Boruch Hashem, I'm
collecting for a simcha and not, G-d forbid, for an
operation!"
Gradually, Chaim began to relax, and hum snatches of Succos
songs under his breath between one door and the next. A
wedding, a rented apartment and appliances, even if second
hand, cost money, and the more he'd be able to collect now,
the longer he'd be able to learn with peace of mind later.
He knocked on yet another door. It was opened by a boy with
short curly payos and dancing eyes. The boy took the
Rosh Yeshiva's letter and skipped away, disappearing into the
apartment. A couple of minutes later, the mother happened to
pass by the open door and saw the young man standing outside.
She intuited that he was collecting, gave him a coin and shut
the door.
And there he was, standing outside the door without his
letter! All of a sudden, a lump formed in his throat. "Do not
rob the poor because he is poor." Pictures sprang into his
mind -- the times when he was growing up when, although they
always had some kind of food to eat, he had to wear winter
shoes in the summer because they couldn't afford sandals, the
hand-me-downs from neighbors and his older siblings, the time
when they simply didn't have the money for his class trip so
he didn't go. His eyes felt misty. He shook his head with
determination and commanded himself to think of his options,
starting with the worst.
He could call off the wedding due to lack of funds.
Ridiculous! He could continue collecting without a letter,
which would probably reduce the income considerably. He
groaned to himself. Now he had a taste of why his father
would come home so drained from his rounds. Without the Rosh
Yeshiva's letter he would have to open his mouth and explain
to each one who answered the door that he was a poor
chosson who needs money. He shuddered at the thought
of asking for another letter. Anyway, the Rosh Yeshiva was in
France now -- or was it England? Belgium? Switzerland? At any
rate, he wouldn't be back for a while.
Chaim had to act fast. Who knew if that little boy wasn't
cutting and coloring the Rosh Yeshiva's letter right now,
turning it into a Succa decoration?
Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hand and knocked on the
door again. The mother answered the door and he, with his
eyes fixed on the tiles of the hallway floor, speaking
thickly around the lump in his throat, said, "Your boy has my
letter."
The mother turned away. He could hear her footsteps quickly
retreating. Moments later, she returned, handing him the
letter, boruch Hashem, in the same condition as he'd
last seen it.
This time, as he dragged himself up yet another flight of
stairs in the apartment building, he was not humming Succos
songs. He grasped the bannister through his tears. Was it
poverty weighing him down and making him walk like an old man
or was it his humiliation?
He was lifting his hand to knock on the door of the first
apartment of the next floor when he heard the sound of
someone clearing her throat. He turned and saw the mother
with a 100 shekel note in her outstretched hand. "I'm sorry
for my son's behavior," she said softly, and disappeared down
the stairs.
The bochur straightened up and smiled. His dignity,
like the letter, was restored intact, and he caught the sound
of a Succos tape playing from inside the next apartment as he
knocked on the door.
Back in her own apartment, the mother knew that the young man
had no idea that the 100 shekel was all of the family's
`emergency money', just as he would never guess that their
impish, curly haired son was learning-disabled, as well as
hearing-impaired.
"Hashem," she prayed, "I feel terrible about what happened. I
hope he doesn't think my son acted maliciously. Please bless
this new couple with financial security, harmony,
nachas from their future children, and only, only
good."
