Each court nourished legends that testified to the wondrous powers of the rebbes of its particular dynastic line, as well as to their special personal and philosophical characteristics. The mere telling of these legends was viewed as a mystical experience. It was not only a means of glorifying the tsadikim but also of sharing in their piety and power. The Baal Shem Tov is said to have claimed that recounting tales in praise of the tsadikim was like engaging in ma’aseh merkava—the mysteries of the heavenly throne and chariot. To tell a legend about a Hasidic rebbe became itself a religious act, a meritorious deed.1
For over two hundred years a rich oral storytelling tradition flourished in Hasidic courts. It became, and continues to be, part of the Sabbath ritual: Hasidic men still meet three times on the Sabbath to pray and attend communal meals. At the melave malke, the fourth meal, they gather at the rebbe’s table to hear stories of Hasidic saints and sages. The yortsayt, anniversary, of the death of a rebbe, is another occasion for retelling the legends of his deeds. Of course the legends are also exchanged informally and casually in daily conversation and at the shtibl, the small Hasidic House of Prayer.
Typically, Hasidic legends are short. They contain only one episode, which is related in a linear fashion with no suspense. Some are told as eyewitness accounts, as “true” hagiography. For example, “A Modern Miracle” begins: “My father, may he rest in the light of paradise, loved to tell this tale about the Rebbe of Nizkhizh. Though it wasn’t really a tale, but something that actually happened to him.” Other legends, like “The Baal Shem Tov and the Herdsman,” may tell more about the Hasidic worldview than about actual events. Some are told in the “enigmatic mode,” like “Rebbe Malkiel and the 702 Candles,” so that the truth will be veiled from the eyes of scoffers.
As a group, the legends offer a garland of praise to these revered spiritual leaders. In some the tellers express awe at a rebbe’s superior faculties and unusual powers, ranging from mystic capacities to sympathetic magic. The rebbe is depicted as behaving in mysterious ways. In “The Boy Who Put Two Socks on One Foot,” for example, he can foresee the outcome of future events and has power to influence them. Like “The Fleet-Footed Tomeshef Rebbe,” he can traverse huge distances in the wink of an eye. He can be in two places at once; he can even ascend to heaven while remaining on earth.
These narratives also serve to give comfort. They catalogue the ordinary requests of the plain folk who traditionally came to the rebbe for help, as well as the fantasies they developed about how the rebbe might reverse their fortunes through a miracle. Like the pious tales, these legends deal most often with the mundane concerns of the adult world: a mean landlord, a well that goes dry, the hope for a child. The rebbe acts as helper and intermediary between God and men in these everyday trials. He hears the pleas of childless couples and prays for their fertility; he helps a woman in childbirth, and a child left alone. As in “The Curious Disciple,” he gives aid to troubled petitioners in their dealings with local squires and landlords.2 Curiously, it was not only the Hasidim who believed in the magical powers of the rebbes. According to An-ski, “In many villages, gentile peasants adopted the beliefs in wonder-working rebbes. It frequently happened that peasants would come to a rebbe with a pidyen, a petition for children … for good crops.”3 Thus, in “Rain and the Rebbe of Stolin,” peasants seek the rebbe’s help in a drought.
Hasidic rebbes are teachers of religious precepts and proper conduct, and some Hasidic legends contain motifs found in pious tales. A rebbe can, for example, be an admonisher, or a punisher, of the greedy, the stingy, the skeptics, disciples who go astray, or those who engage in scholarly nitpicking. He is not above being punished himself if he insists on satisfying his curiosity when that is forbidden.
From the anti-Hasidic camps come tales that poke fun at the so-called miracle workers. Both the traditionalist anti-Hasidic misnagdim as well as the modern enlightened maskilim scoffed at the supernatural powers attributed to the Hasidic rebbes. Amusing as such tales might be, the collectors of Yiddish oral legends tended to concentrate more on the Hasidic than the anti-Hasidic tales.
In the second group of legends presented in this section, the typical hero is a Biblical or post-Biblical rabbinic figure, a man who excels in scholarship and piety.4 Our sampler includes legends about Moses; Judah Halevi, the twelfth-century religious philosopher and poet; Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, the seventeenth-century Cabalist; the Vilna Gaon, an eighteenth-century spiritual and intellectual leader; Jonathan Eybeschuetz, an eighteenth-century Talmudist; and Moses Schreiber, a nineteenth-century religious scholar.
Such legends may open with an attribution like: “This is the story that Rabbi Joshua ben Levi tells,” or “I heard this from my father when I was a boy.” This sort of opening serves to authenticate the veracity of the legend. There are numerous descriptions in the memoir literature of the kheyder-teacher who tells legends to the children about figures of the Bible “as if he had known them personally.”5 Among the favorite themes are disputes over matters of faith, unjust acts followed by penance, and Messianic longings. Some of the tales tell of the hero’s humility, or his exceptional kindness and humaneness; others treat his awesome wisdom or his ability to deal directly with the supernatural.
Such tales had a rich resonance both for rabbinic traditionalists as well as for Hasidim. In these tales, as Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it, “The present moment overflowed its bounds, since people lived not chronologically, but in a fusion of past and present. They lived with the great men of the past, not only in narrating tales about them, but also in their emotions and dreams. Jews studying the Talmud felt a kinship with its sages.… In their souls, simple Jews were always prepared to welcome the Messiah.”6
Our section closes with several Yiddish legends about secular historical figures. The heroes and villains are the politically and economically mighty: czars, emperors, and financiers. Often they appear unexpectedly and in disguise, not unlike Elijah the Prophet in the pious tales. Some of these legends reflect the actuality of East European Jewish life: the edicts that restricted legal rights, residence, and choice of occupation; the conscription laws which forced many Jewish soldiers to give up their religion.
The two legends about Czar Nicholas the First, “The Cantonist’s Mother and Czar Nicholas the First” and “Czar Nicholas Decrees the Burning of the Talmud,” show him as beneficent in one case and villainous in the second. History tells us that this nineteenth-century despot should not have been a positive figure in any Jewish legend. But legends, like tales told as fiction, may reveal fantasies. A mother whose son was inducted into the army at the age of twelve for twenty-five years of service may well have hoped for a miracle. She may have dreamed that the very czar who signed the inhumane conscription edict would take pity on her and free her son—if only he got to know her personally.
Legends about the much-loved Emperor Franz Josef of Austria, on the other hand, were always positive. Not only did his 1849 Constitution grant Jews civil and political rights, but his refusal to confirm the appointment of an anti-Semitic mayor in Vienna in 1895 was remembered with appreciation.
Yiddish lore about Napoleon Bonaparte was also current into the twentieth century. One memoirist from Gordz in Lithuania writes: “Some of the children of the higher grades in kheyder were proficient in telling wonderful legends about Napoleon which they had heard from their fathers and brothers.”7 As late as 1939, ethnographers collected numerous items of Jewish folklore—some favorable, some unfavorable—about Napoleon, including legends, jokes, games, and songs.8
The financier Rothschild was another subject of both legend and folksong. As suggested by the three short pieces included here, he did not fare too well in either genre. In fact, the last tale in this section cheerfully kills him off in his countinghouse.
107
Sabbath in Paradise
Once there was a tsadek, who was on a journey somewhere. I think his name was Reb Elimeylekh. Well, he traveled and traveled but coul
dn’t seem to get anywhere. Since the Sabbath was creeping up on him, Reb Elimeylekh sent his shames, his assistant, to look for the right road. Several hours went by, and still the shames had not returned. It was getting dark, so Reb Elimeylekh began to pray with great passion, the way such a tsadek does. His prayers resounded to the heavens.
Just then he saw a man coming and felt a bit better, because it meant that he must be near a settlement. The man approached and asked him if he wanted to spend the Sabbath with him. To which Reb Elimeylekh replied, “Well, why not?”
The man warned Reb Elimeylekh that when they got where they were going, he must not ask questions. In fact no matter what he might see, he must not make the slightest sound. Well, as you can imagine, he had no choice but to agree. They went on their way, and Reb Elimeylekh saw a wonderful palace in the distance.
The man took him up to its door and opened it. The room inside was so beautiful that Reb Elimeylekh’s eyes were dazzled. Then he heard music that seemed to be played by a fine band of klezmer musicians, and it was so lovely it almost overwhelmed him. The door opened, and several prayer quorums came in and began to sing with radiant faces.
An old man whose gray beard reached to his chest moved forward and recited the Sabbath service in such sweet tones that he seemed to be entirely transformed. Reb Elimeylekh was sorely tempted to ask him who all the people were, but remembering what his guide had told him, he said nothing. As they finished their prayers, the old man was given a golden goblet of wine. With smiling eyes he received the wine and blessed it. When he was done with the blessing, a woman’s voice was heard to say, “Amen.”
Later Reb Elimeylekh was led into a room even more beautiful than the first. He was seated beside other men at a table that had sparkling place settings. As for the food, his first bite sent a rush of pleasure coursing through his limbs.
When the meal was done, everyone at the table sang once more. Reb Elimeylekh was tempted again and again to ask what sort of place this was, but always he stopped himself, remembering what he had been told.
A while later his guide came over and said, “Follow me. I’ll show you where to sleep.” As he walked after the man, Reb Elimeylekh wondered whether he ought to say something now, but he restrained himself. The room into which he was led was so fragrant that he fell asleep at once.
It seemed that only a few hours had passed when he heard, as if in a dream, the singing of many birds. It was morning, and his guide soon appeared. Handing him a long shirt, he told Reb Elimeylekh that it was time to go to the bath. There he saw the men with whom he had eaten the night before. When Reb Elimeylekh descended into the bath, he couldn’t feel the water’s touch, that’s how blissful it was.
Later he went back to pray, and heard the same melodies he had heard the day before. Then it was time to read from the sacred Book, and it occurred to Reb Elimeylekh that now, since Torah readers are called up by name, he would learn who his guide was. But when he heard them calling out “Moyreynu Moyshe bar Amram, Our Teacher, Moses, son of Amram, the sixth portion,” he felt himself trembling. The next name he heard was Dovid hameylekh, King David. Then Shloyme hameylekh, King Solomon. When he heard Avrom ovinu, Our Father Abraham, being called to read the portion of the week, he was completely nonplussed. He wanted to say a few words to Avrom ovinu, but he restrained himself.
Later in the dining room they ate and sang. After that, Moses discoursed on the Torah, revealing such secrets as Reb Elimeylekh had never even dreamed of. The assembled company listened attentively, their faces bathed in light.
At dusk Reb Elimeylekh went to say his first evening prayers. When night fell, the old man, who was the Patriarch Abraham, made the havdole blessing marking the close of the Sabbath, and King David accompanied him with exquisite melodies on his violin.
After that several beautiful women entered and danced so well that everyone joined in. Then a voice called, “Quiet. The celestial council of justice is about to convene.” Hearing that, Reb Elimeylekh was unable to contain himself any longer and cried out “Ah!”
At once everything disappeared. He found himself standing in an open field.
108
The Baal Shem Tov and the Herdsman
The Baal Shem Tov, of blessed memory, was very anxious to know who would be his neighbor in paradise. One Sabbath evening when, as usual, he experienced an ascension of the soul, he learned that it would be a man named So-and-So, the son of Such-and-Such, a complete unknown who lived in a small shtetl somewhere. The Baal Shem wondered what was the nature of the man’s good deeds, that he was assured the kind of place in the World of Truth which he, the Baal Shem, had been able to earn only by an entire lifetime of sanctity.
Soon after the havdole service, he ordered Alexey, his coachman, to harness his horse. He rode off to the town where the man lived and inquired about him everywhere. But it seemed that no one knew him; Later, however, someone did remember that there was a person in town by that name. Still, the Baal Shem wouldn’t be interested in him; he was a herdsman of some sort. A crude fellow. Hardly an observant Jew, though he was decent enough.
The Baal Shem disguised himself in ragged old clothes. That evening at the outskirts of town, on a street where Gentiles lived, he knocked at the door that had been pointed out to him. A woman opened it and asked what he wanted. The Baal Shem replied that he was a beggar on a long journey, and that he wanted a night’s lodging.
When he was admitted, the Baal Shem saw a peasant’s house, complete with white doors and doorposts to which no mezuzes were attached. Not the sort of place that would make a good impression on the Baal Shem. “Where is your husband?” he asked.
“Busy with the cattle,” she replied irritably, then flung him a bit of black bread and pointed out a corner where he could sleep.
The Baal Shem leaned against a wall but found that he could not sleep. A little while later a rough fellow came in dressed like a peasant, with a coat made of pelts that was bound at the waist by a string. He carried a rude stick and a sack over his shoulder from which a peasant’s flute protruded. “Evidently the man of the house,” the Baal Shem thought.
Without so much as a “Good evening,” the herdsman flung down his sack and stick. Then he sat on the floor and demanded his supper.
When he was done, he nodded toward the Baal Shem and asked his wife, “Who’s that?”
The Baal Shem waited to see what would happen. When the man had eaten his bread and some groats—without washing his hands, without reciting a blessing—he took out his flute and played a melody. Then he flung himself down on the floor and went to sleep. Again without a blessing. Don’t even ask whether he recited the bedtime prayer.
The Baal Shem watched him with amazement. “Well,” he thought, “who knows? He may be a lamedvovnik. Perhaps he performs his holy work at night when everyone else is asleep.”
That night, the Baal Shem didn’t sleep a wink, afraid that he might miss the herdsman’s holy labors. But the herdsman slept like a log and never left off snoring.
At dawn the herdsman got up and tied on his rope belt. He put a piece of bread into his sack and went off to drive his cattle to pasture. Did he wash his hands or recite any benediction? What a ridiculous question.
The Baal Shem was more and more perplexed. Just the same, he dressed and stole after the herdsman. In the field the herdsman sat down, opened his sack, and took out his bread. Raising his eyes to the heavens, he said, “Lord, I want to eat.” Then he broke off a morsel of bread and ate it. That done, he lifted up his eyes again and said, “Dear Father in Heaven, thank You for giving me food. I wish there was some way I could serve You, but what can I do? I’m poor and untaught. Well, at least I can play You a little tune.”
When he had played his flute for a while, the man lay down and slept until noon. Then he woke and said again, “Lord, I want to eat.” He ate and played the flute some more.
At the end of that day the Baal Shem, in a very cheerful mood, returned to Mezhibuzh. There he told
his disciples the story of the man who couldn’t take a bite without acknowledging the Creator of the Universe. And later he added, “Well for the man who is destined to be his neighbor in Paradise.”
109
Yisroel, the Child Rebbe
When the old Rebbe of Stolin, the grandfather of the present Rebbe, passed away, his son, Reb Yisroel of blessed memory, was still a little boy. Both are now in the world to come. Reb Yisroel died a few years back in Frankfurt-am-Main, which is why he was known as the Rebbe of Frankfurt.
He was (may he forgive these words from where he is now) something of a scamp. Though he had become the Rebbe, he used to chase about all day with other children, making mud pies and playing hide-and-seek and other such games. But all that to one side, people used to come from all over the world to consult him. He was, after all, the son of the Rebbe of Stolin. However hard they tried, though, they could never find him at home. He was always off somewhere—in the courtyard, in the garden, or God alone knows where.
One day a village innkeeper who was very unhappy came to consult the little Rebbe. Moved by some mad whim, his landlord, the local squire, had given the innkeeper three days to clear out of his domain. And neither tears nor such lamentations as would raise the dead would move him.
And so the innkeeper had come to the young Rebbe—who was nowhere to be found. Whenever they thought they had him, he just laughed and disappeared again. Well, the innkeeper hung around for two days without being able to talk to the Rebbe. Then heaven itself took pity on him and the Rebbe showed up in the garden, making mud pies.
Yiddish Folktales Page 24