An Unorthodox Match

by Naomi Ragen

  “Rebbe, the truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t manage anymore on my stipend. I was going to ask you if you knew of a part-time job I could do a few evenings or afternoons a week.”

  “If that is what you want, I will, of course, look. But will you think about what we’ve discussed? Please?” Rav Alter continued gently.

  “Yes, Rebbe,” he answered, miserable beyond words.

  * * *

  He finished his day early, weighed down by uncertainty and dread. In order to learn, a person needed peace of mind. And his mind, like his life and his family’s, was in turmoil. Seek peace in your own place and pursue it in others, taught the Talmud, but it also taught that a wifeless man has no peace.

  His heart heaved in unhappiness and despair.

  He could not support his family without his wife’s income. But was the only solution to marry? Could he not go out and earn this money himself? Was that not, after all, the duty and responsibility of a man in the world?

  He discussed this with Meir.

  “It would be a drastic step,” his chavrusa answered. “Perhaps in such a case, it is better to ask for support. You could apply for welfare from the government. Almost everyone in Boro Park who is learning is at least getting a housing subsidy.”

  “Why are they entitled to help from the government?”

  “A widower with five children and no income is entitled.”

  “But you say everyone in Boro Park—”

  “Not only. In Monsey and Lakewood and Square Town.” He sighed. “They lie on their applications. Or the couples don’t register their Jewish marriages with the government. So that way, the wife is considered a single mother, and she is entitled to benefits, housing subsidies that pay off their mortgages.”

  Yaakov was shocked. “It’s disgusting. Is it not written: Be holy, because I am holy? This is cheating, stealing from the government.”

  Meir shrugged. “They all feel the end justifies the means. This is how they support their learning. Besides, you really are a widower, and you have no money. You would not be cheating.”

  He thought about it. Charity, nonetheless. He found the idea sickening. But if he could get some help with the rent, maybe some food stamps, for a little while at least until he figured something out.

  “And then, you could ask for help from kind Jews.”

  At first, Yaakov didn’t comprehend. “You mean schnorr?” He was stunned at the idea.

  Meir nodded. “You are an important scholar, Yaakov! If you abandon your learning, the secrets that will lead to the well-being of the whole world might well be lost, the time for the coming of the Messiah postponed! Think of the misery! Why not ask other Jews to help you? Isn’t your learning for their benefit as well?”

  Yaakov pondered this, tossing in his bed. He didn’t mind the government subsidies if he was honestly entitled to them. But future subsidies would not help him to clear up the debts of the past.

  As usual, when faced with any dilemma, he turned to his holy books, the only true source of knowledge. According to the Rambam, anyone who decides to study Torah and not work, making his living from charity, desecrates HaShem’s name and disgraces the Torah. Moreover: Any Torah that is not accompanied by work will lead to its own undoing and cause sin.

  But in another passage, the Rambam also wrote:

  Any person whose spirit moves him to separate himself and stand before HaShem, to serve Him in order to know Him … behold he has become sanctified as the Holy of Holies, and HaShem becomes his portion, his inheritance forever. And He will provide his basic necessities for him in this world, as with the priests and the Levites.

  Elsewhere, he found written that the tribe of Zebulun occupied itself with commerce in order to support the tribe of Issachar, who were Torah scholars. For this reason, according to the midrash, when Moses came to bless the tribes of Israel, he blessed Zebulun before Issachar, in accordance with the verse: It is a Tree of Life for those who cling to it, and those who support it are content.

  Something inside him cringed at this. After all, was not the great sage Hillel a woodchopper before he became the president of the Sanhedrin? And was not Shammai the Elder a builder? Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai was a businessman for forty years, and Abba Shaul was a gravedigger! He knew many other examples.

  He talked it over with Meir, who shook his head sadly. “Perhaps this was possible thousands of years ago when there were only a few tractates, but today, Torah learning is vast, a thousand years of opinions and interpretations. There is no way true Torah scholars can learn part-time. It’s futile. Their lives would be wasted. In our times, without support, no real Torah scholars would exist at all for the Jewish people. And if the community did not finance the study of yeshiva students, who would there be to teach and guide the next generation? And what then would happen to the Divine plan? To the universe? Was it better to neglect the most important work that he was put on earth to accomplish, and gifted by God with the abilities to excel in, work that would advance good in the world for all mankind, in order to work in a store selling cameras?

  Was it better? He pondered this idea. To earn a respectable living was better for him, for his family, yes. But for the world, no. And for the good of the world, he thought, I must be ready to humble myself. I must be ready to beg. But that, too, required training. That, too, was a kind of job, he thought. A job for which he had never developed any skills.

  There were always beggars at the synagogue and yeshiva asking for charity. He gave them what he could but had never paid much attention to the beggars themselves. Now he studied each one. How did they look? What did they wear? What words did they use in making their approach? Did they tell a story that evoked sympathy, or did they simply put out their hands?

  The put-out-your-hand approach, he saw, was the least remunerative. If you put out your hand or jingled the coins in a charity box, people automatically responded by digging into their pockets for a few coins. But if you dressed like a yeshiva scholar and had a letter of introduction from a well-known and respected rebbe vouching for you, they opened their billfolds or took out their checkbooks.

  * * *

  If Rav Alter was surprised to see Yaakov Lehman the very next day, he did not show it. “How can I help you, Yaakov?”

  Stammering and turning red with shame, he asked Rav Alter to compose and sign a letter of introduction for him to show to potential donors.

  Rav Alter listened patiently, nodding in wordless agreement.

  “Come back this afternoon, Yaakov. My secretary will have it ready for you.”

  Only after Yaakov Lehman closed the door behind him did Rav Alter allow himself a deep and painful sigh.

  * * *

  He did not reveal his plans to anyone, merely arranging with his mother-in-law to watch the children. “I’m going to Lakewood,” he told her.

  Hearing the name of the great center of Torah scholarship, she asked no questions. Talmud scholars often visited there to discuss weighty points of law with distinguished scholars.

  For Yaakov, Lakewood’s proximity yet its distance made it the perfect place to begin his new venture in obtaining relief from his financial nightmare. Only eighty miles from Manhattan, Lakewood had grown into a small city from a summer village near the Jersey Shore for well-heeled gentiles. Now it mirrored the great centers of Torah learning destroyed by the Nazis in Europe, its flourishing yeshiva complex encompassing over six thousand Talmud scholars, roughly the same size as Harvard. This devout community was the perfect place to try his luck, he thought. It was close enough so that he could catch the Lakewood Express bus on Forty-ninth Street and Eighteenth Avenue and be there in an hour and a half.

  It was the first stop for any serious Jewish beggar.

  Before leaving, he examined himself in his bedroom mirror, brushing lint off his handsome black suit, his Sabbath best, and rubbing his sleeve over the brim of his expensive black felt Borsalino hat before placing it on his head. He was startled. H
e looked tall and handsome and prosperous, he thought in sudden dismay. Why would anyone, especially a struggling yeshiva student, hand over his precious tithe money to someone who looked as if he had no cares in the world, letter of introduction or no?

  He rehung the suit inside its plastic bag and took off the hat, redressing in everyday black pants and a clean white shirt. In the back of the closet, he found an old suit jacket that was a different shade of black from the pants. It was worn at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the hat. It was an expensive item, usually gifted to young men by their brides’ parents or to lucky bar mitzvah boys whose parents could afford to show off. It was destined to be worn for years on every Sabbath and festive occasion over a black velvet skullcap, especially when davening before the King of Kings. Surely those he asked for charity would not hold that against him? But then again …

  He put it back into its box, replacing it on the high shelf in his bedroom closet. There, on the shelf just above, was Zissele’s wig hugging the Styrofoam head form. It was still shiny and clean, the dark brown curls dripping down the sides as they’d done on his dear Zissele’s pretty face. Her sisters and mother had disposed of the hats and clothes, but he would not let them take the wig. He couldn’t even explain to himself why. And each time he saw it, the vision kicked him in the gut like an enemy. He embraced the familiar violence. Surely, he had it coming. He left with only the velvet skullcap. Finally, he put on his long black everyday raincoat.

  When he neared the stop, he quickened his steps. The bus was already there. Men who looked like him, and women who looked like the wives of his friends and neighbors, had already begun to board. There was separate seating, the women moving to the back, the men sitting in the front for the sake of modesty. This made him comfortable and uncomfortable in equal measure. On the one hand, it was familiar and pleasing to his sense of propriety. But on the other, it was as if the whole neighborhood were accompanying him on this shameful journey.

  As soon as the doors closed, his jittery hands reached for his book of psalms. There among the sacred verses written by a King David lost, hounded, and afraid for his life, Yaakov found himself, reciting the moving words with a devotion and desperation that their author would have found familiar.

  “Are you on your way to the yeshiva?” the young man sitting next to him asked in a friendly way.

  Yaakov looked up, his heart sinking. He means well, he tried to convince himself without success, hoping he wouldn’t ask anything else. Although he didn’t doubt the utter rightness and necessity of the path on which he had now embarked, a massive residue of shame clogged his heart and made his face flush.

  “Thinking about transferring?” his seatmate continued.

  Yaakov leaned back, resigning himself to the interrogation. “Actually, I’m a shaliach,” he improvised, using the professional term for those sent to collect charity on behalf of others.

  “Ah, may God bless you with success.” The young man nodded, his face open and friendly with no trace of pity. That’s because he thinks I’m collecting for some institution. Or for some cause in Israel. If he knew it was for myself … Yaakov’s heart raced.

  “Where will you go?”

  His mind was blank. “I didn’t think about this,” he admitted.

  “Ah, so it’s a new thing by you?”

  “First time, yes.”

  “God be blessed. Well, definitely a person should go to the yeshiva, and then to the Brookhill area, where many frum people live who are also blessed with a fine income. Will you go door to door?”

  Yaakov swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Is that your advice?”

  The young man smiled. “Don’t look so worried! People there are so generous. This is known. So the town has to be careful. Everyone who wants to collect tzdaka first has to get a certificate from Tomchei Tzdaka. Without that, no one will give you a penny.”

  “Tomchei Tzdaka?”

  “Yes, the town’s charity committee. They investigate. If someone says they are collecting for a yeshiva, they call the yeshiva. Or if they say they are a yeshiva student collecting for themselves…”

  Yaakov turned a deep red, but his companion didn’t seem to notice, chattering on, “They will ask you how many students are in your yeshiva, and who is the rosh yeshiva … you know, questions to check. And when they see a person is telling the truth, they give him his certificate.”

  “But I already have a letter from my rosh yeshiva.”

  “I am sure you are a righteous man. But others…” He scowled. “In Lakewood, they have experiences you shouldn’t know from, people who make up letters, forge signatures…”

  His heart sank. He had no choice then. “Where is this office?”

  “Not too far. You can walk to it from the bus stop. I’ll show you.”

  When he finally got off the bus, he thanked his companion profusely and followed his directions. He walked and walked and walked, his heart beating at an exhausting pace as his mind filled with frightening images of angry confrontations with balabatim demanding his certificate, people who would have shouted at him insolently when he was unable to produce one, chasing him away like a charlatan. Sweat broke out all over his body as he imagined it. Silently, he blessed God and his traveling companion for having saved him.

  More than once, he lost his way and was forced to ask directions once again. When people heard Tomchei Tzdaka, they examined him curiously, their eyes widening in what he hoped, but could not be certain, was compassion. By the time he arrived at the nondescript office building, his white shirt was drenched in sweat. He took off his coat, hoping the shirt would dry and that at least there was no odor. He felt tired and near despair.

  There was a small waiting room with a bench and a few chairs, almost all occupied. The faces that turned to stare at him when he entered had unkempt, scraggly beards, and eyeglass frames held together with Scotch tape. He noted that most wore clothes that had not been washed recently and which perhaps had never been ironed. They examined him at their leisure, leaning back in their seats with the air of retirees who had no place to go and nothing to do. Yaakov nodded, trying out a tentative smile. They smiled back, their sad, neglected teeth crooked and discolored.

  Despite his tired feet, he could not bring himself to join them.

  “First time?” one of the men asked him in Hebrew.

  Yaakov nodded.

  He patted the seat next to him. Yaakov hesitated, then sat down gratefully. “Exactly! Take a load off your feet and don’t look so sad! God made us beggars so that rich Jews won’t go to hell. What would Jews do if no one needed their charity? Besides, this is God’s choice, not mine. He could have made me rich, but He didn’t. He made me what I am, so I do the best with it. I try to make them laugh. They like that, a joke. Makes their wallets open easier. If you are taking their money, at least leave them with a smile!” His eyes narrowed. “If that doesn’t work, then I take out this picture” He unfolded a photograph of ten bedraggled children which he displayed without explanation. “Until I get something out of them, I don’t move. I’m like a piece of furniture.”

  Yaakov didn’t know how to react to such talk, which he found undignified, bordering on trickery. He was happy when he heard the door open and saw a young yeshiva student sitting behind a desk, talking to a potential beggar. When his turn came, he was asked to fill out a questionnaire: name, address, synagogue, marital status, number of children. There were little boxes to check next to a variety of needs that included wedding expenses, health, or emergency. He filled it out and checked emergency. When it was his turn, he handed the paper to the young man behind the desk who studied it with a frown.

  “I have a letter of introduction from Rav Alter,” Yaakov said hurriedly, wanting to reverse the downward turn of the man’s mouth.

  It worked. He looked up and smiled broadly. “Rav Alter!” He motioned to Yaakov to hand it over. He read it quickly, shaking his head in commiseration.
A few times under his breath, he whispered, “Nebbech, nebbech, may God watch over us.” When he finally looked up, his eyes were filled with sympathy. He handed Yaakov the certificate and shook his hand warmly, wishing him well. “May you know no more sorrow.”

  Yaakov thanked him, the kindness a balm to his wounded pride. When he turned to leave, he saw that his empty seat had already been filled by another hopeful beggar. Lakewood, it seemed, had no shortage of those down on their luck.

  Out in the street, his tired legs moved slowly, without enthusiasm, his heart slowing down to the pace of his tired brain. While in the study hall, his mind was quick and supple, filled with a wealth of ideas and facts and intellectual vigor; now he felt dull, even stupid. He could hardly remember what he was doing in this place. His needs had become primal. Where can I get a drink? he thought. Something to eat? Then he remembered the brown bag his mother-in-law had shoved into his hands as he went out the door. He searched for it in his black leather briefcase. Gratefully, he opened it, reaching in and unwrapping the cold chicken smothered between two thick slices of challah. There was also an orange and a small cardboard box of juice. Making the proper blessing, he stuck a straw into the juice and drank gratefully, draining it to the last drop. Then he looked around for water in order to ritually wash his hands before reciting the blessings over his sandwich, but there wasn’t any. The sandwich crumbled in his hands, little pieces falling to the ground. He bent down, about to clean them up, when he noticed a train of ants that had quickly formed a line and were industriously handing the tiny crumbs to one another with admirable fortitude and industry. He moved his leg carefully to keep from harming them. The wonder of all God’s creatures! “He gives sustenance to all that live,” he recited with piety, thinking of the compassionate Father of all creation who had placed him and his sandwich in this exact spot to help these tiny creatures. He was glad for them.