When the rabbi came to the king and the king realized Gur Aryeh was a great sage, he became dearer to the king than all his courtiers, and the king would constantly seek his advice.
The courtiers took a disliking to the rabbi and constantly looked for some trick with which to expel him from the king’s palace.
Every month, the courtiers would host a dinner for the king. The king would come and revel with them all night. The fires in the palace would burn like golden suns, and the sweet sounds of violins would waft lightly through the bright palace windows.
Gur Aryeh was not wealthy, because he always distributed his money among the poor and oppressed. He never hosted any dinners for the king, and once he even said: “Better to give the money for those dinners to the poor.”
Once the eldest courtier said to the king: “Your Majesty, the king! All your courtiers and officials constantly host lavish dinners in your honor, and you revel all night with them, but the rabbi who resides in your palace has never done so. He has never hosted a dinner for the king.”
Upon hearing these words, the king called for the rabbi and said: “Listen, my friend! My courtiers say you do not admire me. My courtiers always host merry dinners for me, but you have never done so. It seems as if you actually did not admire me….”
The rabbi answered: “Your Majesty, the king! In a week from now, I shall host a feast in your honor, and I will also invite your courtiers.”
That same day, the king met his eldest courtier and told him what Gur Aryeh had said. The courtier burst into laughter and said: “Your Majesty, the king, don’t believe him. You should know that he’s very poor. His pockets are empty. How can he host a meal?”
The king shrugged and said: “The rabbi is a very honest man. He always does as he says.”
Several days later, the courtiers secretly sent someone to see whether the rabbi was preparing for the feast. He returned quickly, his sides splitting with laughter. His eyes brimmed with tears, his open lips pressed against his teeth from laughter.
“Why are you laughing so hard? Tell us, what did you see there?” all the courtiers asked in one voice.
As his laughter subsided somewhat, he managed to mutter with difficulty: “The rabbi’s sitting around and studying. His home is empty and dead…no trace of any feast.”
The eyes of the eldest courtier began to twinkle. “Well, well,” he said, “the little rabbi will have an unhappy ending. The king will surely chase him out of the palace.”
Again, several days passed. Again, the courtiers sent a spy. They still weren’t reassured: maybe the preparations for the rabbi’s feast had already commenced? The spy went and returned and again laughed. “What can I tell you? Nothing’s new. The rabbi’s sitting around and studying. Apparently, he’s entirely forgotten about the whole thing.” The courtiers clapped their hands, stroked their handsome beards, and said with joy and pleasure: “Good! He’s sure to meet an unhappy end. Now the king will recognize that the little rabbi has fooled him….”
The day of the feast quickly approached. Impatient, the courtiers could hardly sleep the night before. They couldn’t close an eye. They wanted to see revenge taken against the rabbi who was so liked by the king. As soon as day broke, they jumped out of their beds, dressed themselves, and ran to see what was happening with the feast.
Meanwhile, time was running out. Now there was only an hour left until the feast—and the rabbi was not here yet. Now there was only half an hour until the feast—and it was as quiet everywhere as in a graveyard. There was no work, no meal being prepared.
“Of course he won’t come,” they said quietly among themselves as their eyes shone with glee.
At that very moment, the rabbi appeared, dressed in his finest attire, and invited the king and courtiers to the feast. The courtiers looked at one another and didn’t utter a word.
Soon thereafter, they sat down in beautiful chariots and drove out of the city, together with the rabbi, while the king drove ahead. They traveled and traveled and suddenly saw a beautiful palace with a garden around it. In the garden, there were huge trees with golden fruit hanging from their branches. The rabbi stopped the chariots and invited the king and all his guests into the palace.
As soon as they entered the palace, young slender servants with white towels on their shoulders emerged from tall open doors. Again the courtiers looked at one another, and though their faces burned with rage and shame, they were silent and didn’t say a word.
Suddenly another tall door opened, and the guests beheld a large room with long golden tables and golden chairs. On the golden tables were all kinds of good things to eat, and the golden platters holding the food glowed like fire. Between the plates and glasses, there were wreaths of pearls, and loose diamonds, and other jewels. A blue light emanated from the walls as if from the sky.
“How beautiful and good it is here,” the king thought, but he didn’t say anything.
“My honorable guests!” the rabbi called out. “Take a seat at the table, and enjoy the food and drink.”
The king sat down at the table, and all his courtiers sat around him. A servant soon stood behind every chair and waited for each guest’s smallest command.
The guests first conversed with one another, and then they ate. A good light wine that didn’t make the guests drunk was poured from crystal carafes into tall glasses. They all felt that they’d never seen such a beautiful and luxurious feast.
Neither was music lacking. From time to time, they heard an orchestra playing music, yet they couldn’t see it. Here, too, delightful sounds wafted lightly through the bright windows.
The king, who was used to golden palaces and bejeweled plates, had never in his life seen such opulence and splendor. The saltshaker seemed a mere trifle—yet he had never in his life seen such a beautiful one. This saltshaker was decorated with diamonds and sparkled with green-and-red glimmer.
The feast lasted many hours, and eventually the guests went out into the garden. The slender trees lit by the sun stood proudly and silently. But their branches, heavily laden with ripe fruit, bowed down to the guests and urged them: “Enjoy my fruit…enjoy my fruit….”
It was easy to pluck the fruit from the trees, and they melted on the tongue like sugar.
The king tasted the fruit, walked along the smooth, tree-lined paths—shining as if covered in gold—and stared. Everything here was new and as beautiful as it could only be in a dream, but the king uttered not a single word.
The sun was flaming red behind the gigantic trees, and it was getting late. Happy and grateful, the king looked at the garden one last time and prepared to travel home. The courtiers gathered around him, and slowly they strolled out of the garden.
But the eldest courtier couldn’t move from where he sat—as if he were chained to the ground.
Another courtier asked him: “Why are you sitting down? Come with us!”
The eldest courtier answered with a pained face: “I can’t get up.”
The other courtier stepped closer, bent down, and asked: “Who’s holding you back? There’s no one here!”
But the eldest courtier yelled in a choked voice: “Help! I can’t get up! Help! What’s happened to me?”
The other courtier said: “Try, maybe you can get up….”
He tried with all his might but couldn’t. His feet wouldn’t budge, as if they were tied down. And his eyes, filled with raging anger, seemed to want to burst out from under his wrinkled forehead. He yelled curses at the rabbi with his palace and his feast.
The other courtier ran to the king and related everything to him. The king was stunned and went to look at what had happened to his eldest courtier.
He reached the spot and saw the courtier sitting as if he were chained to the ground, his eyes bursting out from under his forehead. The king said: “Get up and come with us….”
<
br /> But the eldest courtier croaked like a wounded animal: “I can’t—I can’t, Your Majesty, the king!”
The king ordered one of his courtiers: “Go fetch the rabbi. Maybe he can help.”
He ran to the rabbi, who was already standing on the other side of the garden, and told him what had happened to the eldest courtier.
Hearing the news, the rabbi said: “He’s probably taken something from the table. He won’t be able to get up as long as he doesn’t return the stolen item….”
The courtier ran back and related the rabbi’s words. They searched the eldest courtier and found the beautiful saltshaker in his pocket. They returned it to the rabbi, and the eldest courtier at once got up and crept away—because he was ashamed in front of the king and the other courtiers.
But Gur Aryeh said to the king: “Your Majesty, the king! If the saltshaker pleases you, you can keep it for one month. But when the month is over, you must return it into my hands.”
The king took the saltshaker and returned to his palace.
After a good and peaceful sleep, the king said to his courtiers: “Now I see that the rabbi is a great person and righteous man. But the eldest courtier is a bad man and a liar. From today on, I no longer want to see his face.”
And so it happened. The eldest courtier no longer appeared before the king’s eyes.
* * *
—
Meanwhile, years passed. The king grew old, but he could not forget the palace with its exquisite garden. Often he thought: “How did Gur Aryeh secure such a palace with such a garden? And how did he serve such a meal? It’s a miracle that can’t be grasped.”
One day the king hosted guests from a distant country, and they told the following story: “Once upon a time, the king of a far-off land wanted to hold a ball for his own highly distinguished guests. When the day of the ball came, a miracle happened: the palace—with all its food, platters, and servants—disappeared before everyone’s eyes. The dignitaries came to the ball, but in vain—there was no wine, no food, no servants. The palace was dead. Three days later, the palace with all its servants and wines returned. Everything was back in its place, but one thing was missing: a valuable and beautiful saltshaker. But do you know how it happened? It had something to do with a great and righteous person….”
Having heard these words, the king thought hard. For three days, he didn’t speak, and on the fourth day he summoned the rabbi.
He wanted to ask the rabbi about the miraculous palace with its garden, which was so suddenly unveiled before his eyes—but he did not dare ask. It seemed to him that he mustn’t speak of it, that it was a great secret, about which only a good and beautiful heart could receive an answer.
And he said to the rabbi: “My entire life, I have prepared myself to ask you something—but I feel I must not do it, because I’m not good enough and because I’ve spilled much blood in my wars. But there’s one thing I want to ask of you. Be my friend….”
The rabbi lifted two pure and good eyes and said: “I hear what you say.”
And the king added: “You’re a righteous man, a pure and godly person. You will be my best friend.”
And so it happened. Until the king’s very death, Gur Aryeh was his best friend and dearest advisor.
Translated by Sandra Chiritescu
There was once a teacher named Haim-Ber, who taught little children. He was a very pious, God-fearing man, but he was very poor, a pauper. His wife and eight children were almost always hungry, and in winter they froze. But his wife was good and pious. She never caused her poor, wretched husband sorrow, and she did whatever she could to provide for the children so there would be no quarrels in the house and no one would know of their poverty.
But once—in the middle of a terrible winter—for the third day in a row, there was no bread to eat and no embers in the fire. Outside there was a bitterly singeing white frost. With the entire town covered in mountains of snow. The marketplace looked as if it had been abandoned. Not a single sled had appeared the whole day. Only the wind raged, wildly tearing at doors and window shutters.
None of the townspeople, not even the stallkeepers, could be found outside. Because of the frost, the town’s children had not gone to school for a number of days, and Haim-Ber had not received the few coins he normally got each week for his instruction. The heads of the households had not paid up, and so there was not a single kopeck to buy bread, and no firewood to warm up the cold, damp house. Every day, the frost got stronger. Inside their icy home, the starving children clung to one another, blew on their frozen fingers, and stared with fear at the frozen-shut white windowpanes and the thin walls, from which water trickled all over the floor. They had no strength left.
First thing in the morning, the father—stooped over in his coat—ran off to the study house, in order not to see the hungry eyes of his starving children or the look in his wife’s pious eyes, which pleaded with him tearfully:
“Haim-Ber, how can you sit there with your arms crossed and watch your children go out like a light? What kind of father are you? May God not punish me for my words! Run, borrow something, leave no stone unturned, and bring something for the children!”
But Haim-Ber no longer had anyone from whom he could borrow. So he sat in a corner of the study hall and recited psalms, his lips dried out. His voice grew increasingly weaker, chocked up with grief for his wife and children. They were dying of hunger and cold at home, and there was nothing he could do to help.
While he sat in the study hall and endlessly recited psalms, his wife stood by the window, looked with swollen eyes through the frozen windowpanes, and cursed her husband in her heart. She could no longer bear to look at her poor children who were lying on the bed and, pointing silently at their mouths with trembling hands, begging her to give them something to eat.
“Murderer! Heartless man! He should have stones, not children!” Their mother ran around the house, her eyes burning. “I’ll go straight to him in the study hall and ask everyone there: Does it have to be this way?”
She flung her tattered shawl on her head, ran to the doorstep, and stopped. It would be a terrible sin, she thought, if she shamed him in front of all the men in the study hall. She could forfeit her place in the World to Come.
“What, then, can I do? The children are slipping away!”
Just then, she thought of something, which made her face flare up, and yet without a moment’s hesitation, she ran out of the house.
Ten minutes later, she returned, her face burning with shame, carrying a bit of flour in a pouch hidden under her shawl.
In no time at all, she kneaded the dough, rolled it into sheets, and cut it up into little dumplings. But just then, she remembered she had no kindling with which to cook those few ungreased dumplings. Once again, her chest tightened.
What could she do now? To whom could she turn, humiliating herself, to borrow a few bits of wood? No, it would be better to perish with the children than to appear contemptible in the eyes of her neighbors.
But she looked at the bed, where the children, half-starved, lay at death’s door. She grabbed a wisp of straw from the mattress and lit the oven.
The damp shredded straw burned poorly, and the pot of water was barely heating up.
She stood surrounded by smoke, coughing, her heart aching, and blew on the fire with all her strength, over and over. She burned half the straw in the mattress, but the water would not boil.
Meanwhile, night had fallen. She kindled the kitchen lamp and continued to slave over the oven. The door opened quietly, and Haim-Ber, covered with snow, stealthily slipped inside. Then he got scared and wanted to dash back out of the house. He thought that he would find Haya-Bashe asleep, exhausted from hunger, and would also curl up in his bed. In the end, she was awake, and he came home without a kopeck, just as he had left that morning. But he heard his Haya-Bashe speak to
him with compassion.
“Oh well, what can you do if God does not will it? Come, sit down. I’ve humiliated myself to borrow a bit of flour, but there is no wood. I’ve been trying to boil some water with straw, but it won’t boil. Ah, I can’t stand on my feet anymore, and the smoke is eating through my throat and lungs!”
Haim-Ber said to her with tears in his eyes:
“Go, Haya-Bashe, lie down on the bed a little. I’ll make sure the fire burns and the water boils.”
She didn’t want to burden him with work that wasn’t his, but she had no choice. She reclined onto the bed and at once fell asleep, exhausted. Haim-Ber stood stooped over the oven, adding straw all the time and blowing into the smoke with all his strength. Suddenly the pot of water began to boil! His face beamed. He wanted to wake her up, but decided he would cook the dumplings himself and then wake her up. She would be so pleased with him, and he wanted so much to make her happy. He cooked the food and was about to go, full of joy, to wake her up, when suddenly he heard someone very old coughing hoarsely on the other side of the door, groping around for the handle in the dark. Frightened, he said:
“Who could it be, so late at night?”
He heard an old man’s trembling voice, begging to be let in.
“Have mercy on an old man—open the door! I haven’t eaten in three days, and I’ve traveled a long way. In the dark, I felt a mezuzah. Open, dear sir. I’m dying of hunger and cold.”
Haim-Ber’s heart gave a jerk. He opened the door, and in stepped a bent-over, gray-haired old man, leaning on a cane. The visitor was chilled to the bone, with pieces of ice around his beard and mustache. He was shivering from the cold.
Haim-Ber quickly offered him a stool and, without thinking for a moment, poured him a bowl of hot food. The old man made a blessing and began eating heartily. Haim-Ber stood next to him, and his heart swelled with pride that God had given him an opportunity to fortify a hungry old man.
In the Land of Happy Tears Page 9