by Naomi Ragen
As much as she tried to comfort herself by counting her many blessings, she found the loss unbearable. Sooner or later, she knew, it would bring her down to the grave. She did not wish for such a thing. God forbid! To do so would have been a direct affront to He Who gives us life and sustains us day after day. But the relentless flow of sorrow that dampened her pillow and the pages of her prayer book could not go on forever.
Often these days, she found herself sitting alone in the evenings staring out the window with her increasingly fuzzy eyesight at the halo of light from Boro Park’s streetlamps, imagining the pain that would strike her down, the visit to the doctors, the test results that would finally, finally give her ordeal an expiration date. Still, she prayed that would not happen until her daughter’s family were settled and taken care of; until the right wife could be found for her saintly son-in-law, the right stepmother to care for her suffering grandchildren.
There was no other choice. Life only went in one direction: forward.
Yaakov’s own family was not in a position to help. He had lost his saintly father at such a young age, and his mother had never remarried. And now—God save us!—his mother was in a nursing home with that unspeakable disease that robbed old people of everything they had struggled so hard to learn from infancy, stealing away a lifetime of education, accomplishments, connections, and precious memories. That alone terrified her, more than any debilitating physical pain. People could live for years like vegetables, a burden to everyone they loved, dependent on the mercies of indifferent strangers.
Only not that, dear God, she prayed. Only not that. Death would be a blessing compared to dependency.
Yaakov’s siblings could also not help. His brother, Chaim, was in Baltimore, married with a large family, and his three sisters were spread out around the country and in Israel with their devout, scholarly husbands, each one working hard to support Torah learning as well as to care for their large families.
She blamed the breakup of close-knit families on the high price of apartments in Boro Park and Flatbush. You had to be King Solomon to buy a normal house these days, the little redbrick town houses selling for over a million dollars. Besides, the neighborhood was being taken over by chassidim moving in from Williamsburg, many Litvish families like her own moving to Lakewood, or Israel, or wherever jobs in far-flung religious institutions seeking Torah-true leadership were plentiful. As a result, large families had been dispersed, making it impossible for them to help each other through a tragedy such as that which had befallen her poor son-in-law.
Of course, friends, neighbors, and merciful strangers were temporarily taking up the slack of Zissele’s loss, as was the rule in their holy community. Women sent meals to stock their refrigerator, others their teenage daughters to babysit in the afternoons. A day care center had been found for the baby, and one of the mothers had been dropping off Mordechai Shalom every morning along with her own. But if somebody got sick and needed to stay home during the mornings, who but she would be available? Yaakov, of course, could not be disturbed from his Torah learning.
It was all piling up: the laundry, cooking, shopping. Her little granddaughter was trying, but she couldn’t cope. She was a child herself. Fruma Esther shook her head. You needed a full-time mother for five children. Not to mention a second income.
People did not like to discuss that—money. After all, according to halacha, a man was obligated to support his wife and children financially. That was the law, written specifically into every Jewish marriage contract. But custom was stronger than law, and the rabbis had long circumvented this absolute religious requirement by allowing women to “voluntarily” give up their due. Bais Yaakov girls were instructed that the highest rung of womanhood was not only to renounce their husband’s financial support but also to put the yoke of making a living around their own slender necks, sparing their husbands all monetary worries that might interfere with their single-minded pursuit of greatness in the halls of Talmud study. Girls competed with each other for the honor. A prospective groom who admitted he planned to earn a salary at some profession was denigrated as balabatim and had a hard time finding a willing bride.
Her Zissele, of course, had been the same. Not that she hadn’t struggled. Especially after every birth. She often had what people called “sad” days, days when she had been too exhausted to get out of bed and needed pills to fall asleep. But she was such a saint, never complaining and always managing to pull herself together and continue until …
She stopped walking, taking a deep breath and letting it out with an audible sigh. She must sweep that thought out of her head forever, the memory of the day when her Zissele had been unable to continue.
With great effort, she readjusted her thoughts, focusing on that which she could comprehend. The income! What would the family do without Zissele’s income? A teacher in a religious school didn’t make much, but added to Yaakov’s kollel stipend, it had made the difference between being able to pay the rent, the grocery store, the butcher, and their medical insurance. How would they manage now? If only she had been able to help them. But between her social security and the small pension from her husband, she herself barely scraped by. Yaakov was borrowing money, she knew. But how many more loans could he take from the free loan societies? Even if no interest was charged, this money still needed to be repaid! Otherwise, the family’s reputation would suffer. It was a stopgap, not an answer.
The only solution, she thought, was to find Yaakov a wife—an efficient, clever housekeeper who knew how to manage money and who would work as well, bringing in a monthly salary; a kind, pious woman who would care for her precious grandchildren as if they were her own.
This was urgent.
Waiting what non-Jews called a “decent interval” before beginning arrangements for such a new shidduch was not part of Jewish tradition. Such niceties had been erased from Jewish life by the unceasing struggle to survive each generation’s pogroms and persecutions. If Jews had learned anything of value at all from their sufferings, it was this: the dead were to be honored and deeply mourned, but they were not irreplaceable, especially if there were children involved who needed a kind hand to wipe away their tears; especially if there was a Torah scholar whose learning was interrupted by material cares and whose natural, physical needs were not being met.
Practically from the moment the thirty days of mourning had ended, the matchmakers had been bombarding Yaakov with prospective brides. She not only knew of this but forced herself to approve. It was Yaakov himself who had refused to cooperate. Even now, after a year, he insisted he had no intention of returning their calls.
She was sympathetic. In fact, his reluctance served only to raise him higher in her esteem. Of course he missed her Zissele! What kind of monster would he be if he could so easily forget the lovely bride of his youth, the mother of his children, and just move on? But that was neither here nor there. The fact was, he and his children needed a woman in their lives, a mother and a wife. The family—her family—wouldn’t survive without one.
She straightened her shoulders, clutching her aluminum and plastic containers closer to her ample bosom. It was a problem urgently requiring an immediate solution. With God’s help, solve it she would.
5
The moment Yaakov Lehman entered the study hall and heard the noisy, passionate chant of learning, his soul expanded, shedding all the constraints that sorrow had placed around it. He searched for his chavrusa, Meir Halpern, happy to see him in his familiar spot.
They had been learning together for ten years. Aside from his wife and children, it was the closest relationship he had ever had with another human being, closer even than his parents. A good chavrusa, a study partner you chose to learn with, was a gift from God. Sometimes it was random—someone who just happened to be sitting near you and needed a partner. Sometimes the rosh yeshiva played matchmaker between two students. And sometimes, over the voices of the other students, you heard the comments of someone who intrigued and
motivated you. It could be because you complemented each other: one was precise and practical, pointing out all the tiny details—the how—while the other was deeply spiritual, delving into the mystical meanings, the significance—the why. And sometimes, you were exactly on the same wavelength, able to finish each other’s sentences.
Study pairs often lasted a lifetime, and students would change yeshiva to follow a partner, even moving to another city. Often it was also a relationship that dissolved the moment you stepped outside the study hall. But inside, you were soul mates and partners in the most intense, meaningful endeavor imaginable.
Each day as he sat down behind his shtender and opened his Talmud, it was as if he were embarking on an incredible treasure hunt, sifting through the often opaque text until the light of insight illuminated all its startling hidden inner meanings, the very secrets of life. Like all great explorers, each man had his own style.
Sometimes, ignorant people compared learning Talmud to studying in a university classroom. Nothing could be further from the truth! Professors had high intellect, perhaps, but no passion. There was no hidden, Divine truth to be uncovered. Quite the opposite. Their need was to pin down the ordinary, to expose the commonplace nuts and bolts. All they saw was the dark and light of bones and sinews. They missed the soft skin, the beautiful eyes, the sweep of eyelashes on a delicate cheek.
What lover would keep an x-ray of his beloved in his wallet?
A Talmud scholar did the best he could to connect to something much deeper. It was not like praying to God; it was like working for Him, joining with Him to shape the world.
As Yaakov neared Meir, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He sat down in his chair, a sense of peace flowing through him that eluded him everywhere else in his life, which was chaos, as was the world. Only here could he search for and find the Divine order, the secrets of reality. This was the true work of men, he believed, to discover how to live the right way, by learning God’s laws. And once he uncovered these secrets, it would be his task to enlighten others, to fill their lives with good, to save them from the misery of ignorance, from a life of walking blindly through darkness where jagged, sharp stumbling blocks pierced, blocked, and injured one at every turn. It was the noblest of occupations and the most selfless.
He was not here because he had to be, or to fulfill the expectations of others. He was here to fulfill his heart’s desire.
“Reb Alter is looking for you,” Meir whispered.
Reb Alter’s authority permeated every corner of the yeshiva. As rosh yeshiva, he decided who was admitted and who rejected, who earned a stipend, and how much, who was in line to be promoted to a maggid shiur, and who was to remain in limbo. He was not a person with time to waste—his or his passionate students’. If he wanted to speak to you, there had to be an important reason.
A shadow, like a cloud passing over the sun, darkened Yaakov’s spirit. Could he know? Could someone have told him just how bad things really were at home?
“Did he say what it was about?”
Meir shrugged. “He told me to tell you to go to the office.”
Yaakov settled himself more firmly into his chair.
Meir raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“I will go, but not now,” Yaakov said obstinately. “We will learn for a few hours, and then…” He turned the pages eagerly. “You begin.”
Meir shrugged. He began, and Yaakov allowed himself to breathe.
* * *
Rav Alter viewed time like precious drops of water in the desert. From the moment he got up and made his way to the earliest minyan at the yeshiva to greet the sunrise, to the moment he uttered his bedtime prayer before closing his eyes at midnight to sleep, he was besieged by students and ordinary neighborhood people seeking his advice, help, understanding, and religious rulings. Often, he found himself skipping lunch as the parade of visitors clogged his waiting room, people standing crowded together against the walls when all the chairs were fully occupied. How many times had he found his whole being yearning to once again be a simple yeshiva student sitting behind a shtender in the study hall with nothing to do but delve into the holy words of the sages! But as it is written: Not the expounding of the Law is the important matter, but the doing of it. He sighed, beckoning his beadle to usher in the next supplicant.
When he saw it was Yaakov Lehman, he rose with a warm smile. “My dear Yaakov, may the Holy One Blessed Be He give you long life and strength. How goes it?”
Yaakov shrugged, taking a seat. “Not good, Rebbe. Not good.”
The rav sighed. “How can I help you, my son?”
Yaakov looked up, surprised. “It was the rebbe who summoned me here!”
Rav Alter pulled at his beard. “As it is written: You cannot be saved from forgetfulness.” The repetition of this gave him just enough time to search his brain. An image was forming: an elderly woman with a blue hat covering a brown wig. Fruma Esther Sonnenbaum. Of course. She had practically taken up residence in his outer office, demanding that he convince her widowed son-in-law to return the calls of the matchmakers.
“Your mother-in-law, God give her health and strength, is very worried about you.”
Yaakov felt his heart sink. Was there to be no end to the demands and pressures from every quarter to find a new wife?
“Rebbe, I’m just not ready,” he said honestly. “Besides, what would it look like if I were to put Zissel Sarah behind me so quickly?”
“Is it your heart that isn’t ready, Yaakov? Or is it your mind?”
“I don’t know!” he cried, a bit desperately. “I just wish everyone would leave me alone!”
Rav Alter sat back in his chair, shocked. He had known Yaakov Lehman from the time he had entered yeshiva as a serious little boy with big, dark eyes that always seemed touched by sadness. It had been a great tragedy to be orphaned of his sainted father at such a young age. But to his great joy and admiration, he had been able to watch the sad child follow in his saintly father’s footsteps to become a respected and diligent scholar with a bright future ahead of him. Clearly, Yaakov’s mother-in-law had been right. Circumstances were indeed becoming desperate if Yaakov Lehman could express himself with this kind of chutzpah.
Rav Alter got up and walked around the desk, putting a fatherly hand on Yaakov’s shoulder. From there, he made his way to the enormous bookcase, pulling a large volume off the shelves. He pulled a chair up next to Yaakov’s.
“Are you lonely?”
“More than you could ever imagine,” Yaakov whispered. “More than I ever thought possible.”
Rav Alter nodded. “But you think to consider a new shidduch would be disloyal to the memory of Zissel Sarah. Is that right?”
“It hasn’t been long enough!”
“It’s been a year, my son,” Rav Alter said quietly.
Yaakov looked down at his hands, troubled.
“Yaakov, do you believe in the Torah and that it was written by God, Blessed Be He, who is all-knowing?”
“Of course, Rebbe!” his eyes darted miserably, wondering what he had said to warrant such a question.
“Is it not clearly written in the Torah: It is not good for man to be alone? How can fulfilling the commandment of the Holy One Blessed Be He be wrong? Would Zissel Sarah have wanted you to go against God’s laws? Yes, you were married once. But that marriage has ended. It is your religious obligation to find a partner, a helpmate. Now, look at this.” He opened the book and began to turn the pages. “You can clearly see that there is an obligation to procreate, even in later years. Rabbi Zerahyah HaLevi, the Great Light, commented that to procreate is a rabbinic obligation.”
“With all due respect, kvod harav, the Rambam doesn’t agree,” Yaakov answered softly, trying to make up for his former outburst with extreme deference. “He writes it is a recommended way of living but not a rabbinic obligation. Surely, with five children, two boys and three girls, I have fulfilled my religious obligation to procreate.”
Rav Alter ga
zed at him fondly but unwaveringly. “It is not a question of obligation but of wisdom. King Solomon writes: Two are better than one. Your own soul is telling you this, Yaakov, is it not? Besides, your children need a mother. And you need a helpmate.”
Yaakov raised his head and looked into Rav Alter’s eyes. “The rebbe doesn’t understand.”
“So help me, Yaakov.”
“I don’t deserve another wife. Not after what happened to Zissele. If I had been a better husband, perhaps I could have—”
“Could have what? Are you God who measures out the days of all His creatures, who shall live and who shall die?”
Yaakov sobbed, big racking cries that rattled his broad, manly shoulders. Rav Alter, shocked, patted him gently on the back, his own eyes filling with tears.
Finally, Rav Alter handed him a tissue and took one for himself.
“I understand how you feel, my son, but there are other reasons, practical reasons, are there not? Zissele was a teacher, no?”
Yaakov wiped his eyes and nodded. “She taught third grade in Bais Yaakov.”
“And now her salary is no longer coming in, is that correct?”
Yaakov nodded wordlessly. For the first few months, he had been entitled to certain insurance benefits and payments, but now they, too, were coming to an end.
“I understand that you have taken out heavy loans from all the free loan societies?”
Yaakov swallowed hard. “Yes, Rebbe.”
“And that every day you struggle to find someone to care for your children?”
“My mother-in-law has been an angel.”
“She is, unfortunately, very human and close to seventy-five, no?” He paused. “She can’t go on much longer,” he argued reasonably.
“She has been here? She has spoken to you?”
The rav nodded. “But only because I sent for her,” he lied to keep the peace, as God Himself had done when He repeated Sarah’s words to Abraham, changing her wording from “How shall I conceive, my husband being old?” to “How shall I conceive, being that I am old?” Forging peace between people always outweighed truth.