by S. Y. Agnon
I knew that she meant the day’s portion of the Psalms, and said to her: Instead of grieving you should rather be glad.
Glad?
Yes, I said, for the delay is from heaven, that one day more might be added to your sum of days.
She sighed, and said: If I knew that tomorrow our Redeemer would come, gladly would I drag out another day in this world. But as day follows day, and still our true Redeemer tarries and comes not, what is my life? And what is my joy? God forbid that I should complain of my years: if it pleases Him to keep me in life, it pleases me also. Yet I cannot help but ask how much longer these bones must carry their own burden. So many younger women have been privileged to set up their rest on the Mount of Olives, while I remain to walk on my feet, till I think I shall wear them away. And is it not better to present oneself in the World on High while one’s limbs are all whole, and return the loan of the body intact? I do not speak of putting on flesh, which is only an extra burden for the pall-bearers. But at least it is good to die with whole limbs. Again I am speaking too much: but now what matters it, a word less, or a word more? I am now fully prepared to return the deposit of my body, earth back to earth.—Take up your quill, my son, and write.
I dipped the quill pen in the ink, made ready the paper, and waited for Tehilla to speak. But she was lost in her thoughts, and seemed unaware of my presence. I sat there and gazed at her, my eyes taking in every wrinkle and furrow of her face. How many experiences she had undergone! She was in the habit of saying that she had seen good things, and yet better things. From what I had been told, these things could not have been so good. The adage was true of her, that the righteous wear mourning in their hearts, and joy upon their faces.
Tehilla became aware of me and, turning her head, said, Have you begun?
You have not told me what I am to write.
She said: The beginning does not need to be told. We commence by giving praise to God. Write: With the help of the Holy Name, blessed be He.
I smoothed the paper, shook the quill, and wrote, With the help of the Holy Name, blessed be He.
She sat up, looked at what I had written, and said: Good; very good. And now what next? Write as follows: From the Holy City, Jerusalem, may she be built and established, speedily and in our days, Amen. In conversation I only say “Jerusalem,” without additions. But in writing, it is proper that we should bring to mind the holiness of Jerusalem, and add a plea for her to be rebuilt; that the reader may take Jerusalem to his heart, and know that she is in need of mercy, and say a prayer for her. Now, my son, write the day of the week, and the Torah portion of the week, and the number of years since the creation.
When I had set down the full date, she continued:
Now write, in a bold hand, and as carefully as you can, the letter Lamed.—Have you done this? Show me how it looks. There is no denying that it is a good Lamed, though perhaps it could have been a trifle larger. Now, my son, continue with Khaf, and after the Khaf write Bet, and after it Vay.—Vav, I was saying, and now comes Dalet. Show me now the whole word, Likhvod, “To the honorable –.” Very fine indeed. It is only right that the respectful prefix should be attractively written. Now add to that, “the esteemed Rabbi”—ah, you have already done so! You write faster than I think: while I am collecting my thoughts, you have already set them down. Truly your father—may he rest in peace—did not waste the cost of your education. My son, forgive me, for I am so tired. Let us leave the writing of the letter till another day. When is it convenient for you to come?
Shall I come tomorrow? I said.
Tomorrow? Do you wish it? What day is tomorrow?
It is the day before New Moon.
The eve of the New Moon is a good day for this thing. Then let it be tomorrow.
I saw that she was inwardly grieved, and thought to myself: The day before New Moon is a time for prayer and supplication, a time for visits to the tomb of Rachel our Mother; surely she will not be able to attend to her letter. Aloud I said to her: If you are not free tomorrow I shall come on some other day.
And why not tomorrow?
Just because it is the day before the New Moon.
She said: My son, you bring my sorrow before me, that on such a day I should be unable to go to Rachel our Mother.
I asked why she could not go.
Because my feet cannot carry me there.
There are carriages, I said, and autobuses as well.
Said Tehilla, When I first came to Jerusalem there were none of these autobustles, or whatever they are called. There were not even carriages; so we used to walk. And since I have gone on foot for so long, it is now hardly worth changing my ways. Did you not say you are able to come tomorrow? If it pleases God to grant my wish, my life will be prolonged for yet a day more.
I left her and went on my way; and the following day I returned.
I do not know if there was any real need to return so soon. Possibly if I had waited longer, it would have extended her life.
AS soon as I entered, I perceived a change. Tehilla’s face, that always had about it a certain radiance, was doubly radiant. Her room shone out too. The stone floor was newly polished, and so were all the ornaments in the room. A white sheet was spread over the little bed in the corner, and the skirtings of the walls were freshly color-washed blue. On the table stood the jar, with its parchment cover, and a lamp and sealing-wax were placed at its side. When had she found time to paint the walls, and to clean the floor, and to polish all her utensils? Unless angels did her work, she must have toiled the night long.
She rose to welcome me, and said in a whisper:
I am glad that you have come. I was afraid you might forget, and I have a little business matter to attend to.
If you have somewhere to go, I said, I shall come back later.
I have to go and confirm my lease. But since you are here, sit down, and let us proceed with the letter. Then afterwards I shall go about my lease.
She set the paper before me and fetched the ink and the quill pen. I took up the quill pen and dipped it in the ink and waited for her to dictate her message.
Are you ready? she said. Then I am ready, too!
As she spoke the word ‘ready,’ her face seemed to light up and a faint smile came to her lips. Again I prepared to write, and waited for her next words.
Where did we leave off? she said. Was it not with the phrase, To the honorable and eminent Rabbi? Now you shall write his name.
Still I sat waiting.
She said in a whisper: His name is Shraga.—Have you written it?
I have written.
She half-closed her eyes as if dozing. After some time she raised herself from her chair to look at the letter, and whispered again: His name is Shraga, his name is Shraga.—And again she sat silent. Then she seemed to bestir herself, saying: I shall tell you in a general way what you are to write. But again she lapsed back into silence, letting her eyelids droop.
I see, she said at last, that I shall have to tell you all that happened, so that you will understand these things and know how to write them. It is an old story, of something which happened many years ago; yes, three and ninety years ago.
She reached for her walking-stick and let her head sink down upon it. Then again she looked up, with an expression of surprise, as one might who thinks he is sitting alone and discovers a stranger in the room. Her face was no longer calm, but showed grief and disquiet as she felt for her stick, then put it by, and again took it up to lean upon, passing her hand over her brow to smooth out her wrinkles.
Finally she said: If I tell you the whole story, it will make it easier for you to write.—His name is Shraga. Now I shall start from the very beginning.
She raised her eyes and peered about her; then, reassured that no one else could be listening, she began.
I was eleven years old at the time. I know this, because father, of blessed memory, used to write in his Bible the names of his children and the dates of their births, his daughters as well as h
is sons. You will find the names in that Bible you see before you; for when I came to Jerusalem, my late brothers renounced their right to my father’s holy books and gave them to me. As I said before, it is an old story, three and ninety years old; yet I remember it well. I shall relate it to you, and little by little you will understand. Now, are you listening?
I inclined my head and said, Speak on.
So you see, I was eleven years old. One night, father came home from the synagogue, bringing with him some relatives of ours, and with them Pesahya Mordechai, the father of Shraga. When she saw them enter, my dear mother, rest her soul, called me and told me to wash my face well and put on my Sabbath dress. She put on her Sabbath clothes and bound her silk kerchief round her head, and, taking my hand, led me into the big room to meet father and his guests. Shraga’s father looked at me and said: “Heaven protect you, you are not an ugly child.” Father stroked my cheek and said, “Tehilla, do you know who spoke to you? The father of your bridegroom-to-be spoke to you. Mazal tov, my child: tonight you are betrothed.” At once all the visitors blessed me with mazal tovs, and called me “the bride.” Mother quickly bundled me back to her room to shield me from any evil eye, and kissed me, and said: “From now on you are Shraga’s betrothed; and God willing, next year, when your bridegroom comes of age at thirteen for wearing the tefillin, we shall make your wedding.”
I knew Shraga already, for we used to play with jacks and at hide-and-seek, until he grew too old and began to study Talmud. After our betrothal I saw him every Sabbath, when he would come to father’s house and repeat to him all he had learned through the week. Mother would give me a dish of sweets which I would take and offer to Shraga, and father would stroke my cheek and beam upon my bride-groom.
And now they began to prepare for the wedding. Shraga’s father wrote out the tefillin, and my father bought him a tallit, while I sewed a bag for the tefillin and another bag for the tallit that is worn on a Sabbath. Who made the large outer bag for both tallit and tefillin I cannot remember.
One Sabbath, four weeks before the day fixed for the wedding, Shraga failed to come to our house. During the afternoon service, Father enquired at the house of study, and was told that he had gone on a journey. Now this journey was made to one of the leaders of the Hassidim, and Shraga had been taken by his father in order that he might receive a blessing from his rebbe on the occasion of first wearing tallit and tefillin. When my father learned this, his soul nearly parted from his body; for he had not known until then that Shraga’s father was of the “Sect.” He had kept his beliefs a secret, for in those days the Hassidim were despised and persecuted, and father was at the head of the persecutors; so that he looked upon members of the Sect as if (God forbid) they had ceased to belong to our people. After the havdala ceremony, at the close of the Sabbath, father tore up my marriage contract and sent the pieces to the house of my intended father-in-law. On Tuesday Shraga returned with his father, and they came to our house. My father drove them out with abuse; whereupon Shraga himself swore an oath that he would never forgive us the insult. Now father knew well that he who cancels a betrothal must seek pardon from the injured party; yet he took no steps to obtain this. And when my mother implored him to appease Shraga, he made light of her entreaties, saying, “You have nothing to fear: he is only of the Sect.” So contemptible were the Hassidim in my father’s eyes that he took no heed in this thing wherein all men take heed.
Preparations for the wedding had been made. The house was cluttered with sacks of flour and casks of honeym and the baker women had already been engaged to prepare the white loaves and cakes. In short, all was ready, and there lacked nothing but a bridegroom. My father summoned a matchmaker and they found me bridegroom with whom I entered under the bridal canopy.
What became of Shraga, I do not know, for father forbade any of our household to mention his name. Later I heard that he and all his people had removed to another town. Indeed they were in fear of their very lives; since, from the day when father ended my betrothal, they were not called up to the Torah in synagogue; not even on Simhat Torah, when every man is called. They could not even come together for worship, for my father as head of the community would not let them assemble outside the regular synagogues; and had they not gone to another town where they might be called up to the Torah, they would not have survived the year.
Three years after the wedding I gave birth to a son. And two years later, another son was born to me. And two years after that, I gave birth to a daughter.
Time passed uneventfully, and we made a good living. The children grew and prospered, while I and my husband, may he rest in peace, watched them grow and were glad. I forgot about Shraga, and forgot that I had never received a note of pardon at his hand.
Mother and father departed this life. Before his death, my father of blessed memory committed his affairs to his sons and his sons-in-law, enjoining them all to work together as one. Our business flourished, and we lived in high repute. We engaged good tutors for our sons, and a Gentile governess for our daughter; for in those days pious folk would have nothing to do with the local teachers, who were suspected of being free-thinkers.
My husband would bring these tutors from other towns; and whereas the local teachers were obliged to admit any student who came, even if he was not suitably qualified, tutors who had been brought from elsewhere were dependent upon those who engaged them and under no such obligation. Coming, as they did, alone, they would dine at our table on Sabbath days. Now my husband, who because of the pressure of his affairs could not make set times for study of the Torah, was especially glad of one such guest who spoke to him words of Torah. And I and the children delighted in the tuneful Sabbath hymns he would sing us. We did not know that this tutor was a Hassid, and his discourses the doctrines of Hassidism, and the tunes that he sang us, Hassidic tunes; for in all other respects he conducted himself like any other true believer of Israel. One Sabbath eve, having discoursed of the Torah, he closed his eyes and sang a hymn of such heavenly bliss that our very souls melted at its sweetness. At the end, my husband asked him: “How may a man come to this experience of the divine?” The tutor whispered to him: “Let your honor make a journey to my rebbe, and you will know this and much more.”
Some days later, my husband found himself in the city of the tutor’s rebbe. On his return, he brought with him new customs, the like of which I had not seen in my father’s house; and I perceived that these were the customs of the Hassidim. And I thought to myself, Who can now wipe the dust from your eyes, Father, that you may see what you have done, you who banished Shraga for being a Hassid, and now the husband you gave me in his stead does exactly as he did? If this thing does not come as atonement for sin, I know not why it has come.
My brothers and brothers-in-law saw what was happening, but they said not a word. For already the times had changed, and people were no longer ashamed to have Hassidim in the family. Men of wealth and position had come from other towns and married amongst us, who followed the customs of Hassidim, and even set up a hassidic synagogue, and would travel openly to visit their rebbes. My husband did not attend their services, but in other respects he observed Hassidic customs and educated his sons in these ways, and from time would make journeys to his rebbe.
A year before our first-born son became bar mitzva, there was plague in the world, and many fell sick. There was not a house without its victims, and when the plague reached us, it struck our son. In the end the Lord spared him—but not for long. When he rose from his sick-bed, he began to study the practice of the tefillin from the great code of the Shulhan Arukh. And I saw this and was glad, that for all his Hassidic training, his devotion to the Law was not lessened.
One morning our son rose up very early to go to the house of study. As he was about to enter, he saw there a man dressed in burial shrouds, resembling a corpse. It was not a dead man he had seen, but some demented creature who did many strange things. The child was overcome with terror and his senses left him. Wit
h difficulty was he restored to life. Restored to life he was indeed, but not to a long life. From that day on, his soul flickered and wavered like the flame of a yahretzeit candle at the closing prayer of Yom Kippur. He had not come of age for wearing tefillin before his soul departed and he died.
Through the seven days of mourning I sat and meditated. My son had died after the havdala, at the ending of Sabbath, thirty days before he came of age for tefillin. And at the end of the Sabbath, after the havdala, thirty days before I was to marry Shraga, father had torn up the marriage contract. Counting the days I found to my horror that the two evils had come about on the same day, at the same hour. Even if this were no more than chance, yet it was a matter for serious reflection.
Two years later, the boy’s brother came of age—came, and did not come. He happened to go with his friends to the woods outside our town to fetch branches to decorate the synagogue on the Shavuot holiday. He left his comrades in the woods, intending to call on the scribe who was preparing his tefillin; and he never returned. We thought at first that he had been stolen by gypsies, for a band of them had been seen passing the town. After some days his body was found in the great marsh beside the woods; then we knew he must have missed his way and fallen in.
When we concluded the week of mourning, I said to my husband: “Nothing remains to us now but our one little girl. If we do not seek forgiveness from Shraga, her fate will be as the fate of her brothers.”
Throughout all those years we had heard nothing of Shraga. When he and his people left our town, they were forgotten, and their where-abouts remained unknown. My husband said: “Shraga is the Hassid of such and such a rebbe. I shall make a journey to this man, and find out where he lives.”