Chaim Grade’s ‘Sons and Daughters,’ Chapter Eleven

On an empty table stood a tall, weighty copper candelabrum, engraved with ornamental flowers and buttons—the sole object of beauty in that barren room. A wall clock gazed out with a deadened yellowed face, its pendulum swinging—at the fierce, monotonous pace of a dutiful soldier marching alone: One-two! One-two! There was no rug on the floor, no curtain over the windows, not even a sofa with a plush cover to absorb the clock’s fierce clanging. Instead of chairs, long rough-hewn planks lined both sides of the table. The glass panes were missing in the bookcase doors. On the spot of earth near the brown brick oven lay a stack of wood with pieces of bark for lighting a fire. The Ostroleka rabbi was known to keep his distance from the villagers, and in much the same way, his little home stood at quite a remove from the other huddled houses. No matter how hard the family tried, their oven would not retain heat, and the rabbi possessed that same coldness and aloofness, looking more like a common village Jew. He sat on a chair at the head of the table, one hand on his forehead, the other on a closed Talmud, as if to keep his unexpected guest from knowing which tractate he was studying.

The guest, in his rabbinical shtreimel and fur coat, had been sitting at the table for some time and still didn’t know how to start the conversation. Like the Ostroleka Yom Tov Lipa, the Morehdalye Sholem Shachne wasn’t the sort with a knack for making small talk, or spouting rabbinical aphorisms, or even steering a conversation toward the Torah in order to show off his learnedness. But the silence was lingering too long, and left with no choice, Sholem Shachne began to speak. “Ostroleka Rabbi, I hear you’re due a mazel tov; your eldest son is engaged. Who’s the father of the bride?”

“A rabbi,” Yom Tov Lipa replied, with little enthusiasm. “The Korniker rabbi, Reb Nissen Pinnes.”

“The Korniker rabbi? Reb Nissen Pinnes?” Sholem Shachne creased his forehead, turning his skin into a map of dots and lines for towns and rivers. “I must admit, I’ve never heard of this community or this rabbi.” He said this without arrogance or disdain, but with, perhaps, a bit too much astonishment.

A peeved smile flickered on Yom Tov Lipa’s lean and angular face, and he replied in a deep grumble. “My mechuten is not known as a legendary Torah scholar or community activist. For me and my son, the most important thing is that he’s devout and his children obey him. That’s why my son has waited so long. He wanted a bride from a suitable family.”

In these words, Sholem Shachne heard what he’d already guessed at earlier: Yom Tov Lipa would never have allowed his child to marry into Sholem Shachne’s family. Both rabbis sat quietly for a while, listening to the stillness of the snow-covered valley outside, shrouded in the foggy breath of the surrounding wooded mountains. The clock’s pendulum persisted with its stern, monotonous clang. Finally, Sholem Shachne spoke again: “Ostroleka rabbi, by regulation of the gatherings in Vilna and Grodno, I’ve come here to collect funds for the Vaad HaYeshivos.”

“No purpose in collecting money in Ostroleka. The people who can afford it and want to give have already sent their money,” Yom Tov Lipa replied. Annoyed, Sholem Shachne tugged at his beard.

“So you’re telling me I’ve traveled in vain,” he said gloomily, then quickly reversed course. “Actually, perhaps I haven’t. If you’ll settle a question I’ve been wrestling with, then my trip won’t have been for naught. I’m sure you know—as do all the rabbis in our area—that my children don’t wish to follow in my footsteps. God knows, I’ve done all I can to set them on the right path, no less than you did. So why were you successful when I wasn’t?”

“How should I know what’s happening in another’s home?” Yom Tov Lipa said, seeming to address his two mute friends on the table: the black linen-covered Talmud and the copper candelabrum. “But since you’re asking me, here’s what I think: Perhaps your children saw too much luxury, too many worldly pleasures, in your home, so now they desire more?”

For a moment, Sholem Shachne just sat there, bewildered. “How many worldly pleasures have I indulged in,” he said resentfully, “that my children should take me as a model and go looking, as you claim, for even more?”

But the Ostroleka rabbi was unmoved by his guest’s anger. He sat up stiffly, speaking toward the bookcase in the corner of the room. “The children of rabbis hear from their fathers that this world is a gateway to another world, that life is like the shadow of a bird flitting by, and that only those who’ve prepared on the eve of Shabbos will have food for the eternal Shabbos in the world to come. But after these fathers have finished uttering all these wise and sincere words from the Sages, the children observe how these very same fathers literally kill themselves to have Shabbos and holiday indulgences—drinks, rich soups, fish and meats, tzimmes, kugel, and taygelach; sweet pastries, fruits and compotes of all kinds. The children see how their fathers, the rabbis, squabble with their towns for a raise in wages. They sew themselves fur coats, clothing of silk and satin. In the summers, they go on vacation, where they graze like cows. When it comes time to marry off their children, they speak of tremendous dowries and throw weddings fit for barons. As for Jewish law, they’re fine, of course, no problem there. After all, they eat only the most strictly kosher meat and drink only the most strictly kosher wine. When they sew new clothing, they’re careful to avoid shatnez. But the children are more forthright than their fathers, so they question: If the soul is what’s most important, does it really need so much rich kosher meat? And if we wear clothes that, even without mixing wool and linen, are nonetheless beautiful clothes, won’t that lead to pride? And to push to become a rabbi in a larger city, with greater pay and greater honor, to be prepared to fight with opponents over this—is that permitted? When children see this, they say, ‘Well, if we’re permitted kosher worldly pleasures, why should we not be permitted non-kosher worldly pleasures?’ ”

Yom Tov Lipa’s sorrowful face lit up with his loathing of these well-to-do religious functionaries, and his voice boomed and echoed like the felling of trees in a distant forest. “Even this habit of rabbis, traveling around to yeshivas in search of a distinguished scholar to take as a groom for their daughter, it reeks of arrogance and loathsome pleasure-seeking. And if the rabbi can’t find the appropriate scholar, he lets his daughter linger, or else he stops caring whether she marries someone who’s not observant. I didn’t have dowries for any such exceptional scholars. The young men I found for my daughters are by no means earth-shattering intellects, but they’re sincere, and they’re devout. Now, my oldest son—you know, of course, he’s one of the brightest boys in Mir and could have become the son-in-law of a big-city rabbi. But he looked not for a family that could pride itself on its scholarliness, or its pedigree, or its wealth—but for a family with no division between parents and children; a family in a quiet settlement, where he’ll be able to sit tranquilly and study. I hope his younger brothers studying in Kletsk and Radin will follow his example.”

“And how do you get along with your congregants?” Sholem Shachne asked, no longer able to resist taking his own shot at the Ostroleka preacher—who held sway over his children, yes, but could not say the same for his worshippers.

But the provincial-looking rabbi replied, with utter confidence, that while he didn’t fight with his congregation members, they knew well what he thought of them. “The Jews here assume that by fasting on Yom Kippur they atone for a year’s worth of feasting and guzzling.”

“But your answer doesn’t account for everything.” Sholem Shachne rubbed his hands together. They were cold, but his heart felt even colder. “I know Jews who fast every Monday and Thursday, make do with a crust of bread between fasts, and even these Jews have children who sometimes stray.” He sat silently, head tilted, and thought to himself: On a cold day like this, the Ostroleka rabbi doesn’t think to offer his guest a glass of hot tea. Still, he did not regret his trip to this godforsaken village. He now knew something he hadn’t before. Bluma Rivtcha wouldn’t be a suitable match for this rabbi’s son even if he weren’t engaged. “Ostroleka Rabbi, I can’t travel back today. I’m exhausted from the trip. Besides, I heard that the nearest train stops at your station only after midnight. Which means I’d have to ride to the station through dark woods. Is there an inn in your town?”

“There is not. You’ll have to sleep here.” The rabbi stood, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He stepped toward the corner with his bookcase and rapped his fist several times on the wall. The knocks echoed as in a wasteland. “I’m calling my rebbetzin from the room where you’ll sleep. It’s warmer there. You can use your fur coat as a quilt,” Reb Yom Tov said, and retook his seat. He propped his hands behind his head and sank back into silence, his eyes wandering to the tall copper candelabrum. He looked like a man meditating in the woods, immersed in a mute and mystical prayer.

Into the room came the rebbetzin—an elderly woman, heavy as if swollen, with a wrinkled, anguished face. But her eyes shone with goodness, and with the joy of one who’s survived a serious illness, grateful to God for the chance to see the light of another day. The rebbetzin wore a heavy sheitel, a long black dress, and a gray wool knitted sweater. Her arms dangled weakly; her shoulders arched backward as if she were unable to straighten her spine. But she gazed upon her husband with such a pair of eyes, as if she knew her life were owed to him and his prayers. And he, in return, stared back at her with love and affection. His voice changed markedly; he spoke in a soft and gentle tone. “Be so kind, Faiga, have the children bring in something warm. The Morehdalye rabbi will stay with us tonight.”

“The food is ready,” the woman half groaned, panting as she spoke. She was evidently suffering from rheumatic pains, as well as asthma. “The guest will have to forgive us that we don’t serve with the kind of abundance as other places.”

Sholem Shachne understood that his fur coat and shtreimel made him appear wealthy. So he replied, “Not at all! Here in the Ostroleka rabbi’s house, I feel just like I’m at an inn.” Uncharacteristically, Sholem Shachne launched into a conversation with the poor, sickly woman in an attempt to lift her spirits. “I heard you’re due a mazel tov, your older son is engaged. You and the Ostroleka rabbi should say a prayer of thanks each day for the miracle that all your children—may no evil eye harm them—have remained loyal to the Torah.”

“We’re simple people,” the woman rushed to answer, as if she really were afraid of an evil eye. “My father and my father-in-law, may he rest in peace, were workers, not rabbis. So we thank and praise God that we’ve been given sons and sons-in-law who are Torah scholars.”

The rebbetzin left the room, and eventually—without waiting for a prompt from the Ostroleka rabbi—Sholem Shachne removed his coat. Then he continued to sit there in silence at the table, as if in a contest for who could refrain from speaking the longest. Meanwhile, he pondered, immersed in his thoughts: Could that be it, that because this family descended from workers their children are not yet weary of their lineage, so they’ve clung to the Torah—while my children, with generations and generations of scholarly ancestors, have already had their fill?