Moshe and I were married in December 1946 and lived in
Newark, New Jersey. Several years earlier, he had bought a
chazoka [franchise] for shechita in a chicken
market from a shochet who was retiring.
He worked in the market from 4:30 a.m. until 2:30 in the
afternoon, only interrupting himself twice. For
shacharis, he went to the shul of an elderly
widowed rebbetzin for whom he donated his services as baal
tefila and baal korei, which he did on Shabbos as
well, after which he would eat the breakfast he took from
home -- a thermos of coffee, sandwiches, and fruit. And
shortly after noon, he would arrive home for a light
lunch.
After he left the market at 2:30, he worked on-call as a
sofer, repairing sifrei Torah and inspecting
tefillin and mezuzos. In the evening, he
studied. My husband was a man with a clearly structured
day.
A time came where there was some concern that the chicken
market might have to close down. Aside from the potential
lost steady income, we faced the loss of our initial $2,000
investment in purchasing the franchise. This added to other
financial worries: several shuls were behind in their
payments for repairs on their scrolls and we had an unpaid
bill at the corner grocery. There were only a few dollars in
the house.
It was one morning at this worrisome time that the only food
left in the house for Moshe's lunch were two rolls and two
eggs.
There was a knock on the back door. I opened it and found a
short, shabbily dressed man wearing a sky-blue
yarmulka who said in Yiddish, "I'm a Jew and I'm
hungry."
I asked him to come in and sit down. I quickly toasted the
rolls and prepared scrambled eggs and coffee. He washed, said
hamotzi loudly and clearly, and ate. I wondered: did
he live in this middle class neighborhood? If so, why was no
one helping him? He quickly finished eating, benched,
and murmuring some words, left. I glanced at the kitchen
clock. It was almost twelve o'clock and Moshe was due for
lunch in 15 minutes. I had to go down to the grocery for more
food, stretching our credit even further. Running down the
back stairs and seeing my neighbor hanging out her laundry, I
asked her, "Do you know the man who just came down the
stairs?" She said, "I've been here for at least twenty
minutes, and nobody has gone up or come down." I found this
somewhat unnerving.
As I left the building, a strong breeze blew a $5 bill
towards me and I easily caught it. I looked around for its
owner, but there was no one on this usually busy street.
Now I could pay for a grocery order. In 1947, $5 could buy a
lot of groceries. As I returned to our appartment, I looked
at the kitchen clock again and saw that I had apparently
misread the clock the first time: it was only 11:15, allowing
me plenty of time to make soup and prepare a substantial
lunch.
When Moshe came in and expressed surprise at a table set more
generously than usual, I told him about the guest and the
subsequent gift that the wind had brought. Then he told me
that the owners of the market had decided that even though
many Jews were leaving Newark, there would still be enough
business to keep the market open.
There was more good news: the gabbai of the
shul had dropped by the chicken market and paid Moshe
in full for the repair that he had done for their scrolls.
I called my parents and the story circulated among relatives
and friends. Only Mutti could offer a possible explanation:
"It was Eliyohu Hanovi who came to your door."
"Oh, no," I said. "He had no beard and looked very plain."
She replied, "He disguised himself."
Upon reflection, a lifetime later, I honestly don't know if
we were so important as to merit a visit from Eliyohu
himself. Rather, what comes to mind are the words in
modim from the shemone esrei -- "V'al
nisseicho... -- For Your daily miracles."
