“And Jacob loved Joseph, his youngest son, more than all his sons, and made him a coat of many colors.” The coat of many colors was undoubtedly luxurious, and very beautiful. For if it were not, why would the Pentateuch mention it as a sign of Jacob's great love for his son Joseph?

I envied not Joseph, not for the coat of many colors he had been given, nor for his father's love for him, who loved him more than all his brothers. I did not envy him; in fact, I even pitied him. In my heart I felt pity for him, as one pities his fellow man, doomed to share the same fate.

I was my father's youngest child, and he loved me more than all the others. I experienced this first-hand and I know what Joseph went through. I could certainly relate to Joseph with respect to my own identity. I, who am merely the son of Rabbi Meir Kodesh from a small village in Lithuania, was neither content nor pleased with my life. How much more so was Joseph, the son of Jacob, the grandson of our forefather Abraham. Our forefather Jacob, I imagined, did not allow his beloved son, poor Joseph, an idle moment for playing games and fooling with children's tricks or pranks.

My father watched over me - loving me the way he did - lest I waste, Heaven forbid, an hour of Torah study, prayer, and doing good deeds; lest I heed the call of Satan the destroyer in the form of the evil inclination. The evil inclination, which has existed since the days of Creation, is what tempted our foremother Eve to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

It is that which schemed against our forefather Abraham to try and keep him from fulfilling God's commandments to bind his son; and it certainly did not leave Joseph, the son of Jacob, alone just as it did not leave me and all Jewish children alone.

It is the evil inclination, cursed be it, which cannot but tempt Jewish children, innocent ones, to stray from the path of righteousness. It is the evil inclination, which would entice me to neglect Torah study, scram from the synagogue during the repetition of the Amidah prayer by the cantor, and slip away to the backyard to play with 'buttons' instead of responding 'Amen' along with the congregation?

I was aware of all this and, nonetheless, I am not ashamed to confess: On more than one occasion I was seized by the evil inclination - my soul failed me and I heeded its call to engage in child's play, which my father and rabbi and all great and wise Jews viewed as foolishness and considered invalid - bearing no interest in this world and certainly yielding no principle in the hereafter, a world of good.

The fact is, my father was also familiar with all the deeds of the evil inclination, and stood by my side to help me defend myself and ward off its evil counsel. Surely this resembled the ways of our forefather Jacob with respect to Joseph, his youngest son.

Verily, from the depths of my soul I could hear Jacob speaking with his beloved son, that same morning conversation between a righteous father and his spoiled son, lying back in his warm bed and indulging in a pleasant morning hour's sleep and sweet dreams. While Joseph was still pampering himself in the tent of his mother Rachel, the fairest of all of Jacob's tents, his father's hand, a bony, cold hand, stroked him “Arise, Joseph my beloved son. The time of the morning prayer is nigh. The herds have gone off to graze, and you, my son, are still immersed in slumber. You have slept enough. Remember the first paragraph in the 'Shulhan Aruch', the authoritative code of Jewish laws: 'Spring like a lion to the service of the Lord'. My son, get out of bed, strong as a tiger and swift as a deer, or shall we pray with the second minyan today, and cover another page of Gemara before the service?” Joseph felt lazy; oh, how lazy he felt to leave his warm bed and his beautiful dreams behind!

He tried to ignore his father's just words and to toss and turn to the other side of the bed, but his father Jacob's stroking became more frequent and more vigorous, not quite petting, and not quite patting. Sweet dreams faded and vanished as Joseph got out of bed against his will, covering his head with the skull cap which had slipped off during his sleep, muttering the prayer of thanksgiving, while he was bitter about that 'hidden treasure', that pleasant morning hour's sleep that was no more...

That is how I imagined Joseph, without the evil eye, and I pitied him. Joseph, the youngest child, was also extremely fair to look upon, as it is written: “Girls stepped up to gaze”, which Rashi interpreted as meaning that damsels would stop to stare at his beauty. However, he had the ill fate of having to sit, at his father's command, all day and evening in 'the Lord's tent' with a page of Gemara open in front of him.

In my imagination I envisaged Joseph swaying with all his strength to drive off evil thoughts - the devil's work, humming the teachings of the Sages to a sad melody. How delightful would it have been had the wickedness of the evil inclination in his heart succumbed to the swaying of his body and been frightened by his melody, and not pulled him away like a marionette toward the sons of maidservants.

These children would play happily near the tent with 'buttons,' polished stones and shards of porcelain, to their heart's content. His heart went out to them, his body pressed against a big, hard stone which Shem - the son of Noah who was known to be the world's first Torah scholar - had sat on in his day. After Shem, continuing Torah study on the very same stone were Abraham, Isaac, and his father Jacob.

I was ten years old, a student of the Gemara for three years already, like the rest of my peers in the village. Valiantly, we all swam in a sea of Talmud; the melody of the Gemara was caught up in our throats and we were well-versed in endless pages of Talmud from the following tractates: Ketuvot, Gitin, Beitzah, Baba Kama and Baba Matzia. These were real assets, invaluable words of Torah seasoned with the commentary of Maimonides and the dialectic annotations to the Talmud. The diligent among the young scholars were quick to thumb through the interpretations of the Sages appearing at the end of the books of the Talmud: the interpretations of our teacher, Rabbi Meir Schiff, the 'Pnei Yehoshua', and the like. 'Towers' of Torah pages which only learned men climbed and ascended were in their possession.

This was the way of Torah in Talmudist Lithuania during my youth. This was the purpose of our lives; we studied Torah from early morning until late in the evening. I also studied in this fashion, and was not much different from my peers where Torah and wisdom were concerned. Only in my father's eyes was I so wonderful because he loved me more than all his children, as I was his youngest child, his last hope to raise a son learned in Torah who would perform good deeds.

Alas, his grown-up son and daughters did not choose to follow in his footsteps. Their hearts were filled with other ideas, and they left our father's house, taking the wrong path. My father, the sharp-witted scholar who could deeply ponder questions of Torah, presenting the issue in the clearest terms and employing deductive reasoning so keenly, never took the time to examine the ways of my grown-up brother and sisters, to ask them about their beliefs and inquire as to what they regarded as sacred to the point of self-sacrifice. He knew one thing, that it was the wrong way, the ways of the Gentiles.

His righteous forefathers, the Hassidim of the Habad sect who were honest, respectable merchants, did not fathom such ways, and such scholars and God-fearing men earned their honorable place in the annals of the righteous. In the eyes of my father, his daughters' struggle and war against the Russian czar and the world order of the rich and poor was an abomination. Is it not written in the Torah: “Poverty shall not be removed from the land?”

He absolutely abhorred people who cast off all restraint, particularly those who would throw off the yoke of kingship. Czar Nicholas II, who reigned on his throne in St. Petersburg at the time, was a wicked one, the descendant of wicked ones who hated the Jews and issued evil decrees against the children of Israel. But this was nothing new, not to my father nor in the eyes of the other learned Jews in the village.

Such was the custom of the kingdom, to restrict Jews and to oppress them. Thus said our Sages of Blessed Memory: “All those who make trouble for Israel become rulers,” and every year we read from the Passover Haggadah: “On more than one occasion, one rose to destroy us; but in every generation, there are those who rise to destroy us and the Lord, Blessed Be He, delivers us from their hands.” How was this anything new? This was the Diaspora and was expected. The entire world knew this, even a baby in its crib! It was only his daughters that stubbornly insisted on changing the world of the Six Days of Creation.

My father derived no satisfaction from his daughters. On the outside, they appeared to be good girls – comely, with golden hearts that would have pity on any poor or depressed person, and they were wise. Remorse tore apart my poor father, and he regretted the grave error he had made in their upbringing. What did he think would come of this nonsense - heeding the counsel of a woman - my mother - to send their daughters to attend the village school? This was an evil kingdom, which was not content with the laws and evil decrees it constantly issued against the Jews in order to extort money from them through taxes and rates and bribes. But it did not make do with these, and sought to take their souls as well.

From the wicked shall emerge forth evil, and the same school in the village which opened and was supposedly suitable for Jewish children became a grave and a net to ensnare the feet of Jewish children, to lead them astray from the path of good: Not 'Jewish children' but rather 'Jewish girls'. For although the same school accepted both boys and girls, no Jew in the village was unwise as to hand over his son to Moloch - to take a child out of the 'heder' (religious elementary school) and out of the yeshiva, and have him waste his time supposedly learning the teachings of the Gentiles.

Things had not gone that far yet. The sermon delivered by 'the rabbi on behalf of the kingdom' (as distinguished from the true rabbis whose honor and purpose lies with the Torah) one Sabbath - praising the Enlightenment and speaking of the 'home-owners' who had the heart to send their children to study the language of the land and the wisdom of arithmetic, the wonders of geography and the genesis of trees and stones, animals and beasts, insects and reptiles - was also ineffective.

'The rabbi on behalf of the kingdom' was skilled in delivering public sermons at the command of the authorities. 'The law of the land is binding,' and the Jews of the city had no choice but to unwillingly accept the torment of this type of sermon, which contained neither the flavor of Torah nor the sweetness of a moral, like typical sermons did. Rather, what was the substance of the lecture? Prattle about 'fairy-like Enlightenment' and about a new age that had descended upon the world, that it was precisely the wisdom of the Gentiles that was appropriate for that day and age.

It followed that by law and common sense, the Jews of the village must take their sons out of the heder and the yeshiva and send them to the same so-called 'house of Torah' which the kingdom had set up for them. In this place, new teachings awaited them, which their fathers and their fathers' fathers had never known, with the same 'uchitel' (teacher) who had come to our parts to teach. Only the Lord of Hosts knew where this fellow had come from, to impart his teachings to so many pupils.

The 'home-owners' smiled when they heard the name of the 'appointed head of the yeshiva' (as opposed to a true head of a yeshiva), who was none other than an old-looking young man with spectacles whose 'pince-nez' (glasses) would slip down his nose whenever he sneezed or spoke, and miraculously was left dangling thanks to a silk thread he wore around his ear, saving it from being completely broken.

This young man was the talk of the village, and was the laughing-stock and object of jokes. Since this 'uchitel' was a source of total wonder, his very Jewishness was questioned. He spoke Yiddish like one of us, and even spiced his words with a Biblical verse or with a saying of the Sages as any one of us, but had the manner of a Gentile, being absent from the synagogue on weekdays. Even on the Sabbath, he would arrive around the time of the reading of the Torah and would finish praying, wonder of wonders, at the same time as the entire congregation.

Instead of a hat, he covered his head with a sort of cap that had a gleaming visor, with a silver insignia in front. He carried a very thin stick which he would roll around in his hand while he walked, which was not functional as a support for someone who required a walking stick, but rather used as an object of ostentatious display which the sons of the Polish landowners would flamboyantly wave before 'shiksa' on-lookers.

And while on the subject, this very same teacher would talk to the wife of the drugstore proprietor a great deal. You could find him at the drugstore every spare moment, as if his entire body was ailing and required medication every day of the week. To make a long story short, this describes the man and his nature. Was this 'uncivilized' man to be entrusted with the souls of Jewish children? There was no substance to this in reality, since no Jewish child, as noted, actually transferred schools from the heder to the village school, with the exception of Dr. Zebadia's son, who never mingled with the Jewish children, and ended up just as he had started off, an 'apostate for spite', going about bareheaded, and speaking to his father and mother, as well as to his Gentile nanny, in the language of the Gentiles.

All the same, lo and behold, the power of Satan! Although that teacher failed to lead a single Jewish boy astray from the straight path, the number of students attending the school near the 'non-Jewish place of worship' (the church) gradually increased, namely the girl students. Word in the village had it that knowledge of Russian was considered a great virtue for matchmaking.

Rumor spread in the women's section of the synagogue that matchmakers considered the ability of the maiden in question to speak the language of the land to be one of the virtues of a bride instead of a dowry or at least lowered the cost of the dowry by a few hundred rubles. After all, this was a big deal. There was not a home where maidens could not be found, and there was not a Jew in our city with dowry money in his pocket.

If this is how fathers were, how much more so were the mothers. After all, by their nature, mothers would worry about a match for their daughter, almost from the day the baby was born: a few prayers and supplications, a few heartbreaking sighs, a few tears shed which would wet the 'Offering of Meal' siddur in supplication to God Most High - who joins couples and decrees who shall marry whom - to send their daughter a worthy mate.

Whether this selfsame daughter had come of age or was still a baby playing in the sand, engaging in child's play, was all immaterial. It did not matter if parents worried over their daughter marrying early or late, for prayer - and not simply waiting for a miracle to happen - could fulfill at least some of their wishes .

Every penny counted in raising dowry money: A sheet that could be sewn into a gown - a towel, a tablecloth, or a feather-filled cushion. Nonetheless, all these could not cover the entire expense, for there were many daughters, thank Heaven, in a typical Jewish household, whose members often went hungry.

The Lord of Hosts saw the plight of the daughters' parents and generously endowed these maidens with virtues: There were fair ones and there were smart ones; there were those skilled in handicrafts such as sewing and weaving; there was the type that was a natural in trade who excelled in her father's shop; and another, who spent a lot of time in the kitchen and had a refined taste in baking and cooking.

The common denominator of all these virtues was that word got around about them among the public so that mothers of grooms were eager to bring into their homes brides so blessed. They would manage to persuade their husbands to lower the sum of the dowries set for the groom.

Ever since proficiency of the Russian language became regarded as a virtue of damsels, my mother started to coax my father into allowing Mina Haya, my 15-year-old eldest sister, to join the neighbors' daughter who attended the school, leaving her house each morning carrying a pile of books and a notebook.

At first, my father dismissed my mother's argument as weak and considered it an affront. He said, “The good and merciful God, who provides in His goodness, sustaining great and small - would He turn His back on those who performed His will and not provide them sustenance to raise sons and daughters in the way of Torah, to enter matrimony, and to do good deeds?” He had no need for these frivolities, and would not lead his life or run his household according to what his foolish neighbors might say. His daughters would not share company with a boy wearing a pince-nez, frittering their time.

Father and mother each held their own strong opinion. But a living was becoming more difficult to earn, and many were the Jew's needs in those trying times, until my father submitted and gave Mina Haya permission to accompany the neighbors' daughter. It was my father's moment of weakness; he did not forgive himself for the rest of his life. “The fool believes everything,” he would utter to himself in his sorrow.

Mina Haya proved to be a smart student. In just a few days, she learned the entire Torah, which took her friend months to learn, and she earned a citywide reputation as a bright knowledgeable person. Even mother, being a mother, was not modest about her daughter's success in school, and sang her praises when her daughter was not around. And so Mina Haya, in this manner, was lured to this 'impurity', attended classes, completed her studies and received all sorts of honors, certificates, gifts, books and the like.

As far back as when she was seventeen, my father felt that she had overdone it, and tried to save his daughter from the claws of the wicked, but is was too late. Moreover, two years later, the second daughter, my sister Peska, also took the path of her sister and began to attend the school – with a predictable end, a rather shameful and painful one at that.

As the girls grew up, my father's grief intensified. In less than two years, Meir Kodesh's daughters were found to have rebelled against the kingdom of God. Woe to such reproach! The eyes of God watch all those rebels - men and women - who have gatherings in the forests and speak ill of the Russian king and his subjects. Mina was almost arrested committing such an act, when the Cossacks encircled Firgeh Forest, the designated place of secret assemblies, where countless couples would flock under the guise of a field trip, as if to catch a breath of fresh air.

When they arrived at a small lake in the forest, these couples would gather in a great assembly, young men and women, many from respectable households. It was no secret that even Hirschkeh, the son of a Hassidic rabbi, joined the same group, despite the disappointment of his father.

What were they doing there until after Havdalah (the benediction over wine, spices and a flame at the conclusion of Sabbath days and festivals)? Things that were uttered there by the great rebels remained a secret, which were not revealed to any but the most trustworthy people, friends and confidants.

By contrast, those same melodies and tunes they used to sing there in unison became publicly known. They were melancholy, sad melodies - songs of want which they used to sing about the troubles of poor seamstresses who would sew nice dresses for the daughters of the rich lords, when they themselves wore rags; and songs about the cobbler who would supposedly talk to his hammer and awl, telling about his impoverished condition. Apparently, these were things everyone knew and were no novelty. Nevertheless, they were exciting and stirred people. That is the power of a melody, such that if you were to sing about things everyone knew to the tune of a new melody, the lyrics would become as new, and invoke anguish and longing, or the opposite… great joy. There were also other melodies that the young men and women would hum in company or in solitude - all sorts of oaths and vows against the emperor and his men, songs of rebellion and of insolence against oppression, which they would sing angrily and vehemently, thereby lifting the hearts of these rebels against the kingdom.

All these melodies did not remain a secret. On the contrary, they spread by word of mouth and caught on quite well. Many of the townspeople were music fans. The same melodies were played morning and evening in workshops and stores; older sisters would put their siblings to sleep with these tunes; and yeshiva students, by contrast, would sway over the pages of the Gemara in the heder, diligently pondering a difficult Talmudic subject to the melody of the same holy oath which the 'gang' took to fight the czar to the bitter end.

There was the incident involving Meir Motis, who led the Mussaf service during the High Holidays, who stood and introduced a new addition to the version of the Mussaf service's song of prayer and sang “providing sustenance in his mercy” to the tune of a melody the 'gang' would sing.

This was a novelty and came as a surprise. Many 'home-owners' turned up their noses in revulsion but, on the other hand, there were many who actually praised the cantor, since there is a most important principle in the Torah – 'invoking sanctity.' Meir Motis did well, so they say, in elevating a weekday melody to a level of holiness. They supported their argument by citing those who would sing the holiest, most elevated of melodies in the Hassidic rabbis' courts, who sought and discovered melodies of Gentile shepherds, and elevated them to holiness with Hassidism and steadfast devotion to our Father in Heaven. Verily, they earned the mark of distinction reserved for the righteous.

Let me now describe the typical household scene of the home-owners of the town, and also in my home. At the same time, each home was different. Behold, the households of Uncle Samuel and Uncle Jacob Gefen were hard hit by the same injury, the latter being a learned Jew who proposed sharp-witted new interpretations of the Law in a work he composed entitled “These are the Generations of Jacob”. The home of Yitzhak Moshe, the butcher, was not spared this affliction either, nor were dozens of other 'home- owners', all God fearing, all perfectly faithful.

Their sons and daughters were similarly influenced by these affairs of the kingdom, neglected study of Torah to a greater or lesser degree, and were lax in observing the commandments. Nevertheless, it was not the end of the world for them, neither did their households cave in on them. Indeed, they all remained steadfast to their father's morals, rebuked their sons and daughters and, when they discovered that their words came to naught, they yielded like merciful fathers. Their hearts bled in secret, and they put on a smiling face in public, the way fathers lovingly accept all the childish deeds of their children. Such fathers entertained hopes for their children's future: “When they grow up, they will be wiser.”

Not so with my father! He followed a straight path and was stubborn and zealous about his beliefs. He was soft-hearted, and was easy to please in financial dealings and lay matters. However, when it came to beliefs and opinions, his heart hardened and he became uncompromising. He was not comforted by misery in company, and fought for what was sacred in his eyes to the point of self-sacrifice.

He was a compassionate father. If one of his children were sick, he was restless, and there wasn't anything that was too difficult for him to do for the sake of his sick child: Ease his pain and give him strength with the help of all types of medication; amuse him and make him smile.

However, that same compassionate and merciful father withheld his love and mercy even from his loved ones when it came to throwing off the yoke of the kingdom of Heaven or taking matters of holiness or age-old traditions lightly. No compromises were to be made as far as he was concerned. He could not and would not understand neither the spirit of his son or daughter nor the spirit of the times. These matters were to be performed unconditionally and he moved not a hair's breadth from his position.

There was no room for both worlds under one roof. Like father like son, the good deeds of parents are a good omen for children. Sons and daughters would take after their fathers in their zeal and their faith in the Torah to which they were steadfast and would observe the Torah with all their souls and for which they would sacrifice their lives. Father endured even the most difficult tribulations of his life; his son left the house, going his separate way, and he did not stop him, even though deep down, he loved him profoundly and missed him greatly, leaving him with broken body and spirit.

Parting from my sister Mina Haya went exactly this way: One day, at the end of the Sabbath lunch, my sister made an astonishing announcement: Tomorrow at daybreak, she would take the morning train to the city of Vilna. She would be going to Vilna to study midwifery. She related that she had already written and received an acceptance letter. She even saved money for train fare from the pennies she received from mother for minor errands. Her friends gave her an address of a cheap hotel in Vilna where she would stay.

She made the announcement with such incomparable stubbornness. Silence - stillness following the shock - prevailed in the house. Afterwards, my mother began to cry bitterly, and all the children sitting around the table joined her. I was a baby and was not yet aware of what was happening, but I remember that I started to sob very loudly and my oldest sister embraced me and calmed me down the best she could.

Only my father remained collected, like the calmness of the Sabbath. He quieted all the sobbers, reminded my mother of the sin of being sad on the Sabbath, and my mother stopped crying and also brought my father a small glass containing the 'remaining water for ritual washing' with which to wash his fingertips before the grace after meals.

Following the grace after meals, my father would retire to his room, as customary on the Sabbath and rest, indulging in the enjoyment of the Sabbath. After an hour he would arise. This week, he followed his custom. Since my mother remained in her room and complained of a headache, father drank tea alone, and perused a book of morals.

He then left for the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers. He returned home, performed Havdalah, said the blessing over spices, said the verses to the two versions of Elijah the Prophet, one a Lubavitcher Hassidic tune and the other a Copost Hassidic melody. Even though the Lubavitcher Hassidim and the Copost Hassidim were of the same flesh and blood - all Hassidim of the Habad sect, they had separated nonetheless, and Copost Hassidim sang Elijah the Prophet to a different melody on Saturday night. My father did not take part in this dispute, which separated hearts - between my uncles - even in my grandfather's house. My father would chant both versions in order to discharge his obligation.

Only after the entire ceremony did he go to his room and remain locked up there for an hour. A profound sadness and a void which could have filled the world pervaded the house. Everyone whispered as if there was a poor sick person, Heaven forbid, in the house. After an hour, my father came out of his room and entered the dining room. In his hand he held a twenty ruble note. He called his eldest daughter, who was locked up in her room after making her shocking announcement. My father gave her money and told her, “This is for your initial expenses. You will receive this allowance every month. Be careful with your studies since it is sanctified work in which lives are at stake. Go in peace and be a faithful Jewess; be careful not to violate the Sabbath, which has the weight of all the sins in the world,” he said, extending her a hand. My sister fell upon his neck weeping. I believe this was the first time I saw my eldest sister crying with such emotion. My father patted her head and went to his room. The next morning, he did not go out to accompany her and left the gloomy task of parting from his daughter to my mother.

A few others followed in my sisters' footsteps, whether to study midwifery or other skills taught in the big city, where they learned a new lesson in wont and in poverty. They observed the commandments in a different way of life but with the same devotion and love of Torah as their perfectly faithful, God fearing fathers had.

My father was unfortunate. When it came time for my older brother to study in the yeshiva, my father tried, for the first time in his life, to deviate from an age-old custom and suffered a double punishment for this sin: mental anguish and deep remorse.

Rumor spread to our city that in the same 'holy community' of the city of Lida, the city's rabbi, Rabbi Jacob Beinish, the founder of the Mizrahi religious Zionist movement, had opened a new type of yeshiva. In this yeshiva, in which Talmud, Gemara and writings of Rabbinic authorities on Halachic matters were properly taught, subjects of secondary importance were taught along with Torah. The Russian language and arithmetic, the same 'Greek wisdom' for which the Sages had (cynically) set an hour which was neither day nor night. In this yeshiva, an hour of study was devoted to this subject every day.

What was the purpose of all this? To withstand the tide of the spirit of the times, and to subdue Satan from within. If it had already been decreed that Jewish young men would devote their time to Zionist wisdom, it was better that this be done under the kosher supervision of an ultra-Orthodox, God fearing head of a yeshiva.

My father heard this story, which left a deep impression on him. Adversity makes a man wise, and what good did his stubbornness toward his daughters do him? Instead of sending his son to the Lubavitcher yeshiva, as was the practice of fathers, he sent him to the city of Lida. For the secret had been discovered, and it became common knowledge that a few of the best young men had left the yeshiva in Libavitsh, preferring an external wisdom, in their manifold iniquities. After all, his son Shmuel, a sharp-witted young man, had a good memory. Who could guarantee my father that even Shmuel would not be led astray, Heaven forbid, by that same spirit of apostasy, and would not leave the yeshiva in his thirst for knowledge the Gentiles possessed? The rabbi of the holy community of Lida was right. Young men would 'taste' of that knowledge, and yet have their fill of the Divine Torah, thereby enjoying the best of both worlds. In this manner they would cheat Satan, who seeks to plot schemes in order to lead wise students astray from the path of the upright. Still my father often felt quilty for having deviated from this age-old custom, that he was not sending Schmuel to Libavitsh, in accordance with Hassidic custom.

He did not derive satisfaction from Shmuel either. My older brother was a very handsome young man, who excelled in the aptitude for writing. Verily, he was a great scribe. Father, who was also eloquent and spoke in rhetorical language, very much enjoyed reading Shmuel's beautiful long letters which he would send from the yeshiva. They were written in the holy language in poetic form, sweet as honey and, most notably, in beautiful, ornate handwriting. In those days, the shape of a letter carried the same weight as the content of a verse, and writers would write ornately, producing very small and beautiful letters. People would envy this work of art and they would try and imitate it by writing nicely, adding their own touch. My brother inherited from his father language and writing, and his letters would pass from one person to another at the Hassidic minyan. Educated home-owners enjoyed reading his letters, and the fathers of daughters even sighed “Shmuel is a fine young man. He is very handsome and speaks wisely,” repeatedly praising Shmuel before his wife and growing daughter.

Indeed, my father was not a lucky man, and the hope he had in his son also met with disappointment. My mother, upon seeing my father saddened and complaining that satisfaction had departed his home, accused the Evil Eye. “People have smitten us with their evil eye,” my mother would spill her heart before Tzippa, her sister and neighbor in the house, shedding a tear on her sleeve and adding: “I always told my husband that it is better to never show a smiling face than to arouse the jealousy of others. However, he thought everyone rejoiced in his happiness, but he in fact sparked the envy of many.”

What had taken hold of my brother? He did not heed the advice of his sisters nor was he involved in the affairs of the kingdom - to dethrone the czar, create a world of compassion and raise the poor from the dung heaps. My brother chose a different path, which was also crooked in my father's eyes. My brother Shmuel took the path of Zionism, which to me meant immediate redemption. From the yeshiva he brought to my father the message of those seeking Zion. The same rabbi who founded the Lida yeshiva was a member of the Love of Zion movement and his heart yearned for redemption in the land of our forefathers. He permitted his students to dream about the revival of the Jews in the Holy Land and to express the sweet longing for Zion and Jerusalem through a Gemara melody.

Good men who were sharp-witted and learned in Torah abandoned their pages of Gemara and went their way to learn a trade or whatever they might pursue. My brother Shmuel, however, was among those who abandoned the Torah and, if that was not enough, rumor had it that he was a sinner - a sinner himself who also caused others to sin. He was eloquent and had a strong influence on his friends.

He hung around, tempting yeshiva students to go to the city of Vilna, and train themselves to work in manual labor with which to make a livelihood upon making Aliyah and which Palestine was in need of. Innocent young men were lured and went with him to Vilna. But these men sinned and relented. Not having a cent in their pockets, they did not eat for days in the big city, slept in hostels for the poor, and ate a little jam until they ran out of strength and their spirit broke. As the saying goes: “Where the repentant sinners stand, the holy righteous may not.” The young men completely repented, studied the Six Orders of the Talmud and writings of Rabbinic authorities on Halachic matters, but did not forsake Zion. They preserved the love of Zion in their hearts, and urged praise for Palestine.

Only this stubborn character, my brother, did not return to the yeshiva. Only sixteen, he had become obstinate. Many things happened to him and he underwent various trials and tribulations. He experienced hunger, along with his sisters who lived in the same city. They shared their morsel of bread with their brother, who abandoned Torah. Finally, luck came his way when he found himself a job setting letters in a printing press. He toiled at hard labor and barely managed to make a living. My father's hopes that my brother would come to his senses and return to his home and his Torah were in vain. He did not return to the yeshiva, and my father's anguish grew.

As at other times, my father tried to do something about it. He would close his shop and go to the city of Vilna to have a word with his son and turn him back from a crooked path of folly, but he always returned from that journey angry and despondent.

Finally, he left his son alone and stopped traveling to Vilna. My father became silent, and did not say a word about what had gone on between a stubborn, zealous father and a stubborn, zealous son.

Their last such meeting was held in an attic, in a dark room filled with mildew. It was Shmuel abode in a poor Vilna back street . My father had returned from evening prayers, and my brother had returned from work. The two dined together and sat near the fire to warm their frozen bodies in that wretched apartment. At this point they became embroiled in a major dispute and did not reach a middle ground. Father argued against Shmuel, citing the persuasive argument of the commandment to honor one's father and mother bearing the same weight as many other commandments, a virtue awarded with a long life and all things good. He even said that he did not intend to make him go back to the yeshiva against his will. On the contrary, if Shmuel's soul did not crave Torah – only to exploit it, that is, to earn a living at the rabbinate's expense – he could come back home with him, put his shoulder to the business and set time aside for Torah like other married yeshiva students who would study Torah and persue an occupation, enjoying both worlds.

Father spoke more and more with a dual tone: one of conciliation and one of rage, but neither were of help. My brother was eloquent, an eminent Zionist preacher. He became embroiled in a major argument with our father, and answered him point by point. He cited the Gaonites (title of the heads of Babylonian Talmud academies) who were lovers of Zion for all generations, who acted to rebuild Zion on its ruins. He described the affliction of the Jews in the Diaspora - evil decrees from without and degeneration from within. Men were guided by greed, and the earth beneath would tremble. Greatly excited, he concluded with a verse by Bialik: “Will the dead come to life even when a shofar is blown and the standard be raised?”

Getting to the point, the walls of this attic never heard such vulgar, explosive statements, sharpness of tongue and effusion of spirit which eventually exhausted my father. It was a wee hour of the morning when Shmuel saw his father fall asleep in a sitting position at the edge of his bed, his head resting against the wall, his sleep troubled by his heavy breathing. It grieved Shmuel to see our father's anguish, and took pity on him. He covered him with a warm blanket, and he himself sat on the other end of the bed, trying to keep warm with his old coat. This was how he slept until it was time for morning prayer.

At daybreak, father woke up startled, and realized that he had slept a troubled sleep. He saw his son sound asleep, pale and thin, that same tattered coat covering him. His soul grieved. He then conjured up scenes of the debate and the rebuttals made by Shmuelkeh, employing both valid and invalid arguments. Very gently, he removed the warm blanket from his body to cover Shmuel in order to keep him warm. He dipped his hands in a bowl of water in the corner of the room, whispered the Recitation Verses (Psalms 145-150, recited during the morning prayers), boiled a cup of hot water on a soot-covered kerosene cooking stove, and wrapped himself up in a tallis and tefillin.

My father prayed with a broken heart and broken spirit. In the meantime, Shmuel awoke. He gave father a conciliatory smile, and also hurried to wash his hands. Shmuel pleased his strict father as he also stood for a short prayer, putting on his own tefillin. Afterwards, each went his own way; my father went home to his afflictions and his aching soul, and my brother to the Ha'Olam Bureau, the Zionist publication where he was employed as a proofreader and enjoyed his work. Zionists would read Ha'Olam to drew comfort from the teachings of Herzl. For his part, my brother aided their cause, while making a living under difficult circumstances.

After my father returned home, he grieved, but seldom revealed his suffering and anger, preferring to remain silent, containing his grief. Moreover, from that point on, he started turning a blind eye to the compassionate deeds of my mother who would send the children who had left home an allowance now and then to get by. My brother and sisters divided the present of their good mother, and their souls were enlivened from afar. My father knew of the matter but did not rebuke her. His heart was not hardened, but the heart of a compassionate Jewish father who would not hold back an additional allowance to his children who had left home. Only He Who can read man's thoughts knew why his soul grieved so.

Mother bore seven children and but five had survived. Two had died too young for my father to be proud of them. Shlomo Zalmankeh, the youngest child, had not yet been plagued by Evil. No wonder all his love and hopes, anxiety and bitter experiences with his son Shmuel and his daughters were at stake, and all depended on his educating me. My father decided not to repeat the same mistakes.

He carefully pondered the matter, and reached the general conclusion that all the evil that had befallen his household was due to friends who had been a bad influence. He decided that I would not be drawn into the trap of no-good friends. One must not split hairs where a soul is at stake, and one must not be lax when it comes to Torah study. In that regard, my father could be counted on. In the words of the Jewish psalmist: “They (the Lord's judgments) are more desirable than gold, than fine gold”.

My father allowed himself to drastically break away from the age-old custom of the town, observed in Lithuania for generations: dividing the period of Torah study among a few teachers in the city, by the age of the child and level of study. It is said, “Five-year-olds will study Bible”, and you couldn't find a more decent, honest teacher for beginners than Moshe Wellweiss.

Everyone knew that Moshe Wellweiss was a musician, a joker, who would make brides and grooms happy with Hassidic melodies and humor. But his wife and their eight children could not be supported with jest and Hassidic melodies. He became a nursery school teacher, and earned a living as a teacher in addition to earning a living as a clown. Opinions were divided: There were those who said Rabbi Moshe Wellweiss, with all due respect, was not a great Talmudist, which is why he taught only toddlers, whereas others said this was not so. He was learned enough in Torah to teach older students Bible, Rashi commentary and even Gemara.

So what was the matter? Small children were very fond of Moshe Wellweiss, since he himself had the soul of a child and would laugh wholeheartedly at any bit of humor, like a baby all excited by something he sees for the first time. Anyhow, there were two primary times, the time every child in town needed to be able to properly read Hebrew and the other, to begin translating a verse from the Book of Genesis. Once a five-year-old could understand a verse from the Pentateuch, what was the purpose of his being in Moshe Wellweiss's 'heder', the teacher for beginners?

For the 'heder' where Bible and the beginning of the Gemara were taught was in a small house on the verge of collapse, the house of Moshe Zondil. He was also known as the intermediate level teacher, a hint that Moshe Zondil was an excellent teacher for beginners, but was not yet a Talmudist.

His students did not have it easy, and they received both the carrot and the stick for their sins and sinful intentions. He was strict and would scold his pupils over important and trivial matters alike. Nonetheless, he had such an influence that many a student - in fact all the married yeshiva students of the city, themselves fathers - would go to Moshe Zondil's place after the Sabbath morning service to properly greet him with a “Good Sabbath Rabbi,” as if they were still his 'heder' students, still influenced by his teachings.

Sharp-witted and very diligent children studied Bible with Melamed's 'heder' only one year. From the second year, they would advance to the most purposeful course of study with Rabbi Moshe Mordechai, where they would study until their bar mitzvah. Mediocre students studied Bible for two years, and those requiring remedial instruction studied three years or more.

When a student versed in Judaism came of bar mitzvah age or older, he had two options: study Torah or choose an occupation. If he opted for Torah, there were small, crowded yeshivas which were always ready to accept yeshiva students who were diligent at Torah study. Communal workers of every respectable town established small yeshivas for yeshiva students, or large yeshivas for older, married students who craved to study Torah and preferred to be immersed in Torah study to mundane matters and concern for their livelihood.

Whenever a town in Lithuania built a yeshiva under its jurisdiction, the pious women would rally around the flag to sustain these students to provide them their daily bread. There was not a household in the town which did not offer a 'hosting day' for a yeshiva student one day of each week. It was no disgrace (God forbid), to partake of a stranger's meal. On the contrary, these lads earned their hosts the merit of having fulfilled the commandments to promote Torah study and sustain wise students, the most important commandment and the greatest merit. As the Sages once said: “The study of Torah is more important than anything else.”

This was the way of Torah in my town. This is how Jews were brought up in Lithuania, in the ways of Torah and in worldly affairs, where Torah superseded the latter. There was not a male in the town who tended to the business of his father or his father-in-law before having had his fill of Torah and before his soul was instilled with the fear of God. How was I, Shlomo Zalmankeh, the son of Rabbi Meir, different from all the other lads? I attended class in Moshe Wellweiss's 'heder' together with my peers, I participated along with my classmates, and we murmured in unison: “kamatz, aleph, patach, beit, tzereh, gimmel, shuruk, daled (names of Hebrew diphthongs)”. We all studied the melodious sounds of the letters of the alphabet, which would sweeten the yolk of Torah.

Along with the rest of my class, I got to the siddur and to the Torah portion of Lech Lecha, after which I advanced to be taught by the strict Moshe Zondil. There, we studied the Pentateuch and Rashi, in the course of which I was properly and fittingly slapped on the cheek. On the Sabbath, we would read 'Ethics of Our Fathers' to the melody of the Day of Rest. We clung to the Torah, but did not desist from playing children's games. We played hide-and-seek and, slowly but surely, we advanced to the heart of the matter, to the first pages of the very easy part of the Gemara, the Beitzah tractate - revolving around an egg that was born on a festival, with the subsequent dispute between the strict school of Shamai and the lenient school of Hillel. Up to this point, everything was in order, nothing new under the sun as far as I was concerned.

I finished my second year in Moshe Zondil's 'heder' (my father was a Bible fan and did not disturb me during Bible class until I had learned all twenty four books from start to finish), and already Rabbi Moshe Mordechai, the Gemara teacher, was pinching my cheek in the synagogue - a harbinger of things to come. God willing, I would be one of his students next year, hopefully a good year. And then, as when God overturned Sodom and Gomorra, something happened in the town which had never before occurred - a miracle. Rabbi Meir, a fervent Hassid of the Habad sect, took a separate path from the ways of his fathers. Instead of sending his son to the Gemara 'heder' taught by Rabbi Moshe Mordechai, he retained a rabbi to teach him privately. He was no ordinary rabbi, but precisely the young 'mitnagged' (opponent of the Hassidim) rabbi, who had spent many years in the Slobodeka Yeshiva, the famous yeshiva of 'The Moralist' . The condition was that the young rabbi would teach me a page of Gemara three hours a day, and my father was prepared to pay the rabbi a fortune in tuition, twenty-five rubles for a half hour. What was the purpose of all this? To keep his youngest son at arm's length from friends who were a bad influence, God forbid.

My father did not rely solely on others, the young rabbi included. Not only did he put all his money into my education, he devoted every spare moment of his life to me and to my Torah study. Heaven forbid that he should err this time, as he had in educating his older son. He assumed the duty of being at his youngest son's side in the fierce battle against the evil inclination, which incites and is seductive. I was always with my father. I would pray the first minyan with him, even on weekdays. Have you ever seen a child my age getting up for the first minyan at sunrise? Others would be fast asleep, while I would accompany my father to the synagogue. Wisdom belongs to the morning, with double the gain. In the meantime, only an hour was left to thumb through a book of morals or the Lubavitcher Rabbi's 'Tani' book together with father. My father had a hidden intent, that the 'mitnagged' rabbi would not have an evil influence on me. Talmudic erudition is one thing and Hassidism is another. One should beware of a married yeshiva student prodigy, that is, respect him but suspect him.

All this applied to weekdays, the days of Creation, when father would divide his time between many business matters, family matters, Hassidic devotion and community matters. On the Sabbath, the day of rest, things were different. This was a completely holy day for me, the beloved youngest child, to peruse the book after lunch and visit the rabbi's home to hear him share a reliable testimony on the ways of Torah as well as sip a cup of 'Kosher for Sabbath' tea served by the young wife of the rabbi.

You would think poor Shlomo Zalmankeh, bound to his father's love with his life passing him by, neither children's games nor friends, no childhood mischief or pranks. Yes, but no! The truth was that I had two spirits dominating me as a child, and the one contradicted the other.

I was a mischievous child who invented games and played pranks. Playing with friends provided me with excitement and Haim Bar, the attendant, had several additional occupations. He was also a watchmaker and an expert umbrella repairman. But all three livelihoods were not enough to sustain his large family. This Haim Bar was my archenemy, who pursued me to the bitter end and did not let me run around the pulpit in the synagogue like my friends did. This Haim Bar called me by the derogatory name of 'Purim grogger', and one of his claims was that the minyan was quiet and peaceful until Rabbi Meir's 'jewel' stepped in. Woe for the calamity as soon as this 'jewel' - that is myself - entered the synagogue! Noise and commotion and screams and children running around all over the synagogue. I could not but admit that Haim Bar had gotten carried away by his anger. It was no fault of mine that my peers were drawn to me and would 'anoint me king' , and that I would frequently play war as kings do? This is the way of the world, with the war cry sounded in preparation for battle, for wars have not been waged quietly from time immemorial.

However, I also enjoyed solitude. I always had a fervent imagination, and I could lose myself in daydreams and conjure up pictures of anything I wanted. Moreover, a product of my imagination that got into my head, which I fancied, could not be put out of my mind, like other children who would get caught up in a momentary imagination. I was different. A fantasy which I was fixed on I would pursue for days and would immediately put all my energy into it.

I had a long daydream in which I was in an ideal world, my own private world, where I was my own master. Of course, in my world of make-believe, I indulged in all the honors and delights in the world. I was a prince and a world-renown genius of Torah, like the Gaon from Vilna in his time, righteous as Righteous Joseph and handsome as he, wise as King Solomon and rich as Korach. I did whatever I pleased with my treasures and with the Divine wisdom that inspired me, all drawn from my own strength; how much more so from the day I found books belonging to other imaginative people, who added stories embellished with animals and birds, trees of the field and creeping things.

Over time, I accepted my fate, through solitude and private lessons. A small room was designated for me at home, a room which signified pure holiness to me and my Torah. My father even decided my daily routine, which was unlike that of any of the other children my age. In the morning hours, when everyone would agree the mind is clear, my father would wake me and humorously say: “Arise, Arise Rabbi Shlomo Zalmankeh. Arise, Arise thou lion cub of Judah!” This was an allusion to the first paragraph in the Shulhan Aruch: “You shall serve the Lord with lion-like resolve”.

By the time the 'cub' rubbed his eyes, trying to get another moment's sweet slumber, his ears would awake to the sound of a tablespoon striking a glass: a clear sign of that sweet beverage my father would bother to prepare for my pleasure out of his love for me and his desire to refresh me, to give me added strength and intensify my desire for Torah. This drink was known as 'eggnog', and was made of two egg yolks beaten and mixed with very fine sugar, like those spices from the Pitum Haktoret (ingredients of frankincense) prayer.

Father would hum that prayer, a customary prelude to the morning prayer, while he mixed and prepared the eggnog. After the yolks were beaten and mixed with the sugar, forming a thick solution - the color of amber and having 'the taste of Paradise', father would pour milk into this glass, which filled with a yellowish liquid, creating a thick sweet foam which tempted the palate to taste this sweet liquid.

No one else could prepare eggnog with such confidence and ease of mind. My father earned a reputation and was considered an expert in preparing this masterpiece, something he could take pride in. (I still wonder about the origin of the term 'eggnog' and the association between the great Gog and Magog who are nothing but murderous blood spillers, who would be revealed to the world in the punishment to precede the End of Days, yet that morning drink reinvigorates and gladdens the soul.) Getting to the point, somehow, with the help of “He Who removeth slumber from my eyes”, I was rescued from the throes of sweet morning sleep, and my lips whispered the thanksgiving prayer which does not mention the name of God (and therefore may be said without washing the hands). In the meantime, I would get dressed and prepare myself for the ritual washing of the hands, perform all the morning mitzvahs pertaining to the body, and would be prepared to sip of that ever so sweet 'eggnog', which tasted like ambrosia. Father would sit comfortably beside me, slowly sipping a glass of hot water and taking a slice of that splendid butter-flavored roll my mother baked. Lest you should ask “Partaking of food before the morning prayer, how could you?”, rest assured. My father performed the mitzvah ordained by the Lubavitcher Rabbi, that is, the decree to 'carefully watch yourself' which commanded that one not let his body grow weak, lest this result in weakness of the heart, which my father had started to feel in recent years. We finished drinking our eggnog and sipping a cup of tea. The hour of morning prayer was nigh. But father was in no hurry to part company, for we still had that page of Gemara Kala ahead of us, which we would study together as a prelude to the morning prayer.

It is natural for babies to observe grown-ups and try to be like them, imitating their manners and lifestyle. Haven't you seen baby boys playing around, wearing their father's long pants and their grandfather's spectacles on their nose? And what about all those girls who would supposedly display motherly love to a lifeless doll? This is how young boys and girls behave, assuming the manners of their fathers and mothers. Children play grown-ups, and adults do not hold them accountable.

Things in my childhood were different. After all, our Hassidic forefathers intended to spare us the punishment of a childhood devoid of the fear of God and suppression of desire. In their love and out of their concern for our souls, lest they be blemished, they imposed upon us, from early childhood, the yoke of the Divine kingdom and of Torah. Mature and discerning sons were quick to outgrow signs of childhood, and the sooner the better. We were aware of this and wanted to be like adults in every way. Many boys would wear long pants, and a small fringed tallis was visible in all its holy splendor, hanging out of our clothes as if to declare the mitzvah to wear a tzitzit. We prayed with intent, swaying our bodies and closing our eyes so as not to let Satan interfere with our concentration of thought. Like real adults, we beat our chests with little fists as hard as we could during the confessional and, one by one, with broken hearts and tears in our eyes, declared all our many sins, including those we could comprehend and those we could not fathom - sins we had committed as small children, sins we did not commit, and sins whose meaning we did not know.

We did not fall short of our forefathers in the study of Torah or in our excitement over a Gemara melody, be it gay or sad. Like them, we performed the meal related customs and dipped a slice of bread - over which we had recited the blessing - in salt, making noise as we cooled off our soup, grabbing a quick bite on weekdays but nothing over and above what we required for minimal nourishment to avoid neglecting study of the Torah. However, we ate at ease on the Sabbath and festivals in order to experience the delight of these special days.

During breaks from Torah study, we would work in our fathers' businesses and were permitted to learn the ins and outs of business and trade. These hours when we were engaged in business were a break away from the monotonous life of Torah and mitzvahs. On busy market days and fair days, there were also many Gentiles in the shop. Every buyer would haggle craftily, come and go, and then return. In the meantime, his evil inclination would tempt him to steal. On such days, we would not go to school and would run errands for our parents, who were poor, miserable salespersons. We stood with them during such time of stress, and served as full-fledged helpers. We arranged and weighed the merchandise and, most importantly, we were very watchful and never took our eyes off the buyers who would handle the goods, supposedly examining their quality, slipping it into their canvas bag at a moment when our attention was distracted. The quick among them would escape from the shop during busy hours, with the spoil in their hands, depriving our parents of their livelihood. At such times, we were adults in most respects. “How good it was that everything had its time.” Our time would come when we would grow up, God willing, marry and perform good deeds and pleasurable acts allowed only grown-ups.

Nevertheless, there was an underlying matter in dispute between fathers and sons over one sign of adulthood: We had a strong craving for this mark of maturity - possibly a lust - which we believed we were entitled to for our merits in swimming the sea of Talmud like adults with great perseverance and refined dialectic. Why were our parents and teachers so adamant precisely on this matter, to forbid us this pleasure with the excuse that it is improper for minors, heder pupils, particularly Moshe Mordechai's students? We did not understand, even when we were offered very convincing explanations: Physical punishment - being slapped or flogged. There were parents and teachers who would resort to this form of punishment in front of classmates to serve as a deterrent.

It shall be presumed that the discerning readers among you have already gotten to the bottom of this desire which we craved as children, which was none other than the desire to smoke. Today we are all wise and know that smoking is merely a bad habit, the temptation of the evil inclination to encourage squandering the money of men and ruining their health. In those days, doctors were not yet aware of the dangers of this epidemic. Far from it, smoking a 'papyrus '(cigarette) was considered a custom radiating importance, and we kids were stricken with this desire and were not wise enough to abhor it and abstain. On the contrary, the best and most faithful among us - sin-fearing, steadfast to the Torah and praying with intent - would succumb to the sin of taking a small bit of tobacco from our fathers' table and, with no one watching, learn how to roll the thinnest piece of paper with our fingers into the shape of a pipe, a receptacle for tobacco, glue the end of that pipe with saliva, and lo: They held a 'papyrus' in their hands, which needed only to be lit. One sin leads to another; since that 'papyrus' had to be lit so that no one would see it, we had to snatch a matchbox from our mother's stovetop or from anywhere else while no one was watching, get away with this forbidden spoil to a place out of sight. This was the time and place to learn the secret of inhaling the smoke through the throat and blowing it out through the nostrils, requiring a high level of mastery, and we little ragamuffins would compete to see who was better at inhaling smoke, exhaling, and blowing the smoke out.

In my manifold iniquities, I was no better than my friends. At first, this improper act was not the most pleasant experience. I felt the bitter taste of the smoke that entered my nose; I coughed; my eyes swelled with tears; and I would spit out the moist tobacco which touched my palate with an acid taste. Despite it all, I endured it and did not desist from that same wasteful act, but persisted. Who knows where these deceitful acts of mine could have led me had my lusts driven me from one sin to another - to excess. 'Usually the thief is caught in the end.' But thanks to a miracle, I did not incur the punishment I deserved on account of this sin. And in this regard, I must tell about my Aunt Rachel - the widow Rachel, my father's sister.

I had many aunts, on both my parents' sides, whether fair and good-hearted or quarrelsome and embittered. What they all had in common was that they were all spoiled, hostile to each other all year round, who would make up during family get-togethers on holidays and festivals. Aunt Rachel was one of a kind.

My grandfather had been blessed with many sons and daughters, all but one of whom he had married off in his lifetime and for whom he had built homes. He did not live to marry off his youngest child. It was my father's duty, as the eldest child in the family, to marry off his youngest sister to a learned man, comme il faut. Father went to Libavitsh and returned with a fine young man, a choice groom, learned and of good upbringing, visibly intelligent and sensitive to Hassidic teachings and melodies. However, he was delicate, all wrapped up in spirituality, tall and pale, who would eat little and be immersed in meditation, business and vain pleasures of this world being the last thing on his mind.

My father went to great lengths to have lenders loan him money and opened a business for Rachel and her husband, a sort of department store. It was a small store, four by four, with no window and very hot. Miraculously, however, buyers who chanced upon this small store entered empty-handed and left with bags full of various merchandise such as salt-herring, a tin pail for the home and yard, kegs of tar for carriage wheels, varieties of embroidered work and lace for wedding veils or coffin decorations (for Gentiles). Perhaps it can be deduced that the business did not lack various types of tobacco for filling pipes and for rolling cigarettes.

It is common knowledge that proprietors make little profit from selling tobacco and papyruses (cigarettes), since the hand of the kingdom would reach into this business, taking the lion's share of the profits and leaving the storekeepers with the most meager profit. Moreover, that covetous authority would impose an excise tax on tobacco venders, who had to obtain a special license which cost a great deal of money. Nevertheless, the crowded shelves of my Aunt Rachel's store was not short of this merchandise.

Why was it Rachel's store? After all, it was my Uncle Mendel, her husband, who was obligated to provide for her by law and by custom. Halacha and custom were one thing, and human nature was another. My Uncle Mendel did not like doing business with Gentiles. He had hardly learned their language and had never learned to do business. He was very conscientious in business, and was extra careful about swindling and tricking anybody. It was his policy not to charge more than five pennies for merchandise which cost five pennies. Apparently, his deeds were worthy of recognition. Praise is one thing and bad luck is another. Uncle Mendel hurt his own livelihood, as Gentiles were skilled in haggling and lowering the price. This was the nature of a buyer, to suspect a Jewish merchant of jacking up the price of the merchandise, and anyone who watched his money would bargain with him.

Buyers were wont to bargain with Uncle Mendel, but they did not succeed, for they could search for bargains elsewhere. They might find what they were seeking, and they might not. In the meantime, there were fewer and fewer customers in his store. Aunt Rachel was sharp-tongued and knew a thing or two about shopkeeping, and tried her best to persuade her young husband to stop his charity work at the shop. Doing deeds for God was one thing; doing deeds for men was another. It was difficult for a Jew to make a living, and still Gentiles would envy the Jew's livelihood. If a seller did not act wisely to lure buyers to purchase the merchandise in his store at a fair profit, how would he earn his livelihood?

And the Jewish shopkeeper's needs are many. Mendel listened to his young wife's moralizing, trying to straighten things out in his head. She was certainly right! A livelihood was no light matter, as proven by the following: The Lubavitcher Rabbi, may he live long and happily, would spend hours upon hours alone with his followers, hear their wishes and their bitterness regarding matters of livelihood, and would give them his blessings. To quote the saying of Our Sages of Blessed Memory: “He who does good deeds at all times is one who supports his wife and children.”

For did Mendel not assume this duty when the Ketubah (Jewish marriage certificate) was read under the wedding canopy? A Jewish man's obligations are to earn a livelihood and provide for his family's needs. In other words, his wife Rachel was right, and he appeased her and made promises regarding the future - that he would eventually learn to do business, even though business was a mystery to him at the time. My Aunt Rachel accepted the promises her husband made and even tried to reassure him. Being shrewd in business was a skill in its own right, and was something that needed to be learned. In the meantime, he would go home, drink a hot beverage and browse through a book, and she would take his place in the store.

My aunt loved her husband with all her heart and, when he was not around, would praise his integrity and overlook his weak judgment in matters of business. They got along well; Mendel would occupy himself with Torah and fear of heaven, and she would make up for his deficiency in the vain pleasures of this world. My aunt was content with her lot and was expecting a baby.

However, my aunt would not reap satisfaction. A disaster suddenly befell her: In the synagogue, wrapped in a tallis and tefillin, Mendel kneeled over and died. Mendel was eulogized and declared a saint and a Tzadik (righteous man) who had ascended to heaven in the prime of his life in a holy blazing fire. Residents of the city paid him respects and held a funeral the likes of which had not been seen in the town for many years. His grave was dug next to the old rabbi's 'tent'. Unfortunately, all the honor bestowed and praises heaped upon him did not alleviate my Aunt Rachel's cup of sorrow in the least.

After her initial shock, she fell silent and said not a word. She hardly shed a tear and would stare in wonder at the masses of consolers who came to her house during the first days of mourning and afterwards too. Even during the prayer for the dead in which the name of the deceased is mentioned - a sign for women in mourning to break out with heart-rending wailing - even then, my aunt remained silent and quiet, as if her husband's death had not yet sunk in. Only after the thirty days of mourning, she began to weep over her beloved husband, and her sorrow only grew daily: Rachel was not to be comforted.

There was a Divine decree to the effect that the future of the deceased would be forgotten. My aunt would not accept this decree. On the contrary, she began to unload her distressed soul in many ways, lamenting and eulogizing her husband's faultless soul and remained in a continuous state of mourning. In her heartfelt distress, she even uttered severe criticism of and made claims against members of the family in general and my father, her eldest brother, in particular. A person should not be held accountable for the harsh words he utters in his grief. Rachel made such accusations against my father, saying he ignored his brother-in-law by not insisting on consulting with doctors about strengthening Mendel's heart. Over time, she hurled more and more accusations bearing the weight of the original sin: Why had he not performed a sufficiently thorough check of Mendel's past and lineage? Perhaps he had not heard that his whole family was frail? That even Mendel's mother died in her youth, and that he inherited her weak heart. These were mere words uttered in rage, which my aunt herself regretted and for which she requested her brother's forgiveness, not having intended to reproach him, God forbid, but that her troubles had come from a broken heart. My father granted her complete forgiveness, and made sure to support her.

Rachel unwillingly returned to the store, but with a heavy heart. She no longer lured shoppers to buy; no longer stood next to them when they sorted through the merchandise; no longer spoke highly of the merchandise and stopped being an aggressive salesperson. Consequently, on account of her deep mourning, she neglected the business and her livelihood was drastically affected. Few buyers would now frequent her store and, financially speaking, she was in dire straits.

My aunt cut back on expenses, and did not pay the three-ruble fee for the license to sell tobacco, which the kingdom would exact for its coffers. She relied on miracles to keep the royal emissaries from catching her red-handed, those same 'angels of terror' who were the various inspectors that would suddenly peer into stores, inspect the license to sell tobacco, checking countertops and drawers, in case the Jewish shopkeepers concealed 'forbidden merchandise'.

My aunt would shake like a leaf for fear of the 'aktziznik', the royal inspector, who might suspect the innocent. She viewed any Gentile with an imposing figure who entered her store carrying a briefcase under his arms with suspicion, and this disturbed her.

Each evening, she collected the forbidden merchandise into a wicker basket, which she would take home and return to the store the next day, keeping it hidden in a special drawer. Licensed shopkeepers, by contrast, would arrange their merchandise on shelves to capture the attention of buyers.

Over time, Rachel let her fear get the best of her and dared not keep any forbidden merchandise in her small apartment in our neighborhood. Instead she hid it in our house, since father was more loyal to her than anyone in the world. The officials did not suspect father of trading in tobacco. Still, being extra cautious by nature, father did not store that forbidden tobacco in a place that was visible, not even in his own house. Instead he kept it in a black bookcase safely closed with a big heavy lock. What safer place was there than the top shelf of the bookcase which was located in the large parlor, where no wicked 'aktziznik' would ever think of searching ? This was a very large bookcase which had always been designated as my 'tent of Torah', being the beloved youngest child. I spent many hours of the day in this room, in solitude, engaged in Torah study. My father would tend to his affairs and my mother would go to the fabrics store while I, little Shlomo Zalmankeh, was left all alone in the parlor, the Gemara properly open in front of me in line with my father's wishes.

Perhaps father had never intended to conceal his hiding this treasure in the bookcase. Why would he conceal anything from me? Would I inform the 'aktziznik'? At the same time, there was no point being forthright with me regarding this ordinary affair which was none of my business.

One way or the other, it was not father that revealed to me the secret of the tobacco treasure. I accidentally discovered it on my own. I loved to rummage through that top shelf; perhaps I would find another book in the holy language (Hebrew), one of those small books containing stories as sweet as honey, offering diversion from the difficult subjects of the sea of Talmud. Everyone knows that the last section of the order Nezikin (the fourth division of the Mishnah) was a difficult part of the Gemara to study; those far wiser than me had wrinkled their brows trying to understand these words of Torah which were more profound than the sea is deep. Even though I was already over ten years of age and had completed three years of Gemara study, studying those same profound pages was no easy task.

When I opened up the Gemara, the text of a paragraph of the Mishnah lay before me, what appeared to be only a few lines. That same paragraph was supplemented by extensive annotations to the Talmud, evidence of the heated debate, profound views, and difficult problems surrounding the subject. Do not pity me and do not feel sorry for me! I loved the last section; I explored its depth and, with the sharp-wittedness of a child, brought up new problems and answers to difficult questions - Torah dialectic. It was just that at times I was overcome with a desire to take a study break and to peruse those secular books in the Hebrew language which I once inadvertently found in the bookcase, and I strongly yearned to read them and be entertained by their stories.

I did not imagine moving the long ladder and reaching the opening of the attic. It was not within the ability of a ten-year-old boy to move it, with its huge rungs, from place to place, what with the fear that my father might catch me red-handed. Nevertheless, on account of my inclination, I overcame this fear and found an opportune time when my father was not at home. When my mother had gone out to weed the vegetable garden in our yard, I thought it to be the right time to make the great ascent to the top shelves of the bookcase. How? I moved the table on which the Torah rested and placed it up against the bookcase. I placed my chair of honor on the table and, with a measure of skill, added on top of all that my father's foot stool. It was like a three-story construction built with turrets. I climbed the odd-looking turret, encouraging myself to make the great ascent, holding on to the bookcase and all its contents. That is how I reached the last rung and started feeling around in the dim space between the ledges, hoping to pick up books and Rashi commentary on Talmud, which I yearned for so much.

My pawing fingers stumbled upon a peculiar package, soft and odorous, containing no books. Overcome by my curiosity, I opened up the package, with no ill intentions, God forbid. That is how I discovered the tobacco treasure hidden away from the wicked bribe-seeking overseer. I suddenly felt an urge to roll myself a cigarette from that same worthy find.

The evil inclination disguised itself in a robe of piety, and reminded me of the talk of Rabbi Moshe Mordechai, the famous Gemara teacher. He would say: “How delightful is a cigarette puff which settles a very difficult subject in Gemara and opens a man to new interpretations of the Law...” The evil inclination provoked me, saying: “Do not miss this chance for a cigarette puff. Go and take a full pinch of tobacco and, God willing, you will yet develop the wit for Torah the likes of the country's greatest scholars!”

I have no desire to praise the evil inclination. On the contrary, I loathe it and am very angry with it on account of its wicked nature and its disturbing people's peace of mind with its deceit. The truth reigns supreme, however, and we owe it even to our enemies. We are thankful that this wicked being, the evil inclination, does its work faithfully. Woe to him that, God forbid, is taken prey by that same evil being. He is strongly tempted by his inclinations, is tempted repeatedly, until the evil inclination does what it purposed to do; this I learned first-hand. What if I had immediately agreed and stolen my widow aunt's possession? God forbid, since when I started to feel this find to discover what it was, I was stricken with remorse, those same pangs of conscience which are precisely the glorious work of the good inclination. This righteous being started to persuade me, as it was accustomed to doing, by employing reason and infinite wisdom: “Arise, confounded fellow, and leave this ill device and base design. What you are doing is wrong! Quickly return the tobacco and the paper to its hiding place, and go back to studying the tractate of the last section and, thereby, gain the best of both worlds. Standing a test is a great merit which elevates you to the ranks of our forefather, Abraham, and Joseph, the righteous, and their likes...”

Happy is the man whose ears hear the advice of the good inclination and who has the strength to heed it and do what is good and right in the eyes of God and man. Thank God that I most definitely heeded it! After all, was I not born into a good family? Would I rob a widow's possession - not any old widow but my Aunt Rachel, my own flesh and blood? Generally speaking, that craving for smoking is unbecoming to a youth such as myself, for I was still too young. Thank goodness I managed to climb down that ladder; I literally jumped, like one trying to save himself from a big fire, almost toppling the entire bookcase under me and practically breaking my elbow in the act. I dissembled the construction I had made and returned every object to its place and restored every item to its original purpose - the Torah table and the chair of honor before it, where a smart student such as myself would sit. I also returned my father's foot stool to its place by the armchair.

That is how the household objects were restored to their place and original purpose, and how I went back to being myself and to my Torah. However, in my manifold iniquities, this disgraceful episode did not end with that. It can be safely assumed that this self-same wicked being, the evil inclination, does not stand idly by. Like a spotted cat, its claws grab its prey, cruelly tantalizing it, supposedly giving it a chance to escape. Then, it immediately grabs hold of it again and follows through with its designs. That is how this villain dealt with me as well, and did not leave me in peace. From that day onward, I became dispirited and my reasoning became impaired.

Everywhere I bumped into bright students fervently engaged in Torah study, while I conjured up in my mind the treasure. As soon as I would return from the rabbi's house, I entered the room where the great secret was hidden. One day I had barely touched the chair with good intentions of sitting on it and uttering words of Torah, when suddenly the table and chair began to move, the Devil's work. Even the foot stool, the smallest piece of furniture concerned, seemingly moved, like an act of witchcraft, and began climbing over the larger pieces and positioned itself on top of them. All of this began moving toward the bookcase, taking position in front of it and winking at me as if to say: “Will Rabbi Zalmankeh rise for the big Aliyah?” You might consider this a figment of a foolish imagination. It was certainly the case, but this vanity of vanities had let me not alone days upon nights, and denied me peace of mind.

While my mouth and lips were engaged in Torah, my heart was far away elsewhere. You might ask whether I had forgotten those same holy verses (which are a remedy against the evil inclination, which every good boy is well-versed in against those times when, God forbid, his evil inclination assails him). No such thing! I muttered verse after verse: “Though you plan a conspiracy it will be annulled; though you utter words they shall not stand, for God is with us.” I also intentionally whispered these same precious words: “The Lord gave me a pure heart, and instilled in me a new, true spirit...” . I carefully uttered these and similar verses with concentration of thought to tear Satan asunder and to ward off sinful thoughts. What can I say?

This time I did not chant the verses. The force of these precious verses had weakened and they had no more impact. I uttered them out loud with difficulty, but my spirit was completely vanquished, trapped in the net of Satan the Destroyer. I was tempted and gullible. Woe is me! I took out a full box of tobacco on that ominous day, and a pack of paper for rolling cigarettes attached to the side of the box. One sin leads to another.

I rummaged through the drawer of the kitchen table and found a package of matchboxes; I took one, doubling the theft. I stuffed all these stolen possessions in my pocket and got away with these 'prohibited objects' to the silo of the cowshed in our yard. It served as a repository for fodder, though it also had a distinct advantage in that it was not all that high and a ladder was close by at all times - so that there was nothing unusual about my ascending and descending it. After all, I had been granted permission from my mother - who was always worried - to climb that ladder and bring down a pile of fragrant hay or set aside a portion for a milking cow's meal. (This cow expected to be visited by one of the household from time to time, for it was lonely there in the dim cowshed.) This is proof that I was very familiar with that climb.

I knew every nook and cranny in the silo, which contained many hiding places. This is where I hid my reading books, which my father deemed a waste of time, between the roof's beams. This is where I chose to hide this unkosher find I had stumbled upon in the bookcase; I climbed into the silo as at other times.

“Do you take me for a complete fool?” God forbid, the only thing I did in the silo was to roll a cigarette and make my get away to another hiding place where there was no risk of a fire starting.

There, I inhaled smoke at my pleasure, coughing like adults would - coughing and clearing their throats while smoking, due to the acrid flavor of the tobacco. I even learned tricks, to have my nostrils serve as a funnel for my mouth, a sort of chimney, and I would simultaneously exhale the fragrant smoke through my mouth. That is one feat in the art of smoking that not every urchin could easily attain.

Looking back today, I honestly doubt if this whole business was enjoyable at all. On the contrary, smoking was an act of bodily torture, for I smoked the plainest variety known as a 'machorka'. This tobacco was pungent and dirt cheap, a blend smoked by the most common people. It had no taste nor smell, but its vapors would enter my nose and leave me choking. Needless to say, I derived no pleasure from this basest of acts. My good inclination did not abandon me when I ascended and descended that hiding place, and would repeatedly remind me of various commandments which would suggest rebellion against the Divine yoke on the part of someone violating them: “Thou shall not steal”, “Plunder not a widow” and other such verses which proved me wrong. Furthermore, there was nothing the least bit honorable in the whole act, since it is well-known that there is no pride in solitude. There was not another soul before whom I could boast about this great adventure. On top of it all, during the act I would be attacked by fear and panic that I would be caught in my mischief, that my shame would be exposed in public, and that I would be brought to an even greater punishment.

Nonetheless, I was lured to this no good business like a drunkard who is aware of his sin but lacks the strength to abstain from the wanton drunkenness which took hold of him. His situation becomes worse, he rots in his own suffering, and sinks in the abyss of destruction. Good riddance! I finally reached the bottom of that stolen box. I breathed a sigh of relief. This reprehensible deed of going up and down in the cow's quarters, of trickery, and subsequent sins I had committed after the first, were behind me. In the low ground in our yard, which covered the hill, a stream gently flowed. I threw the empty box into the stream, as if performing a 'tashlich' (on the first day of Rosh Hashanah Jews go to a body of water, empty out their pockets and say: “Cast all of my sins into the depths of the sea” as a sign of repentance). In this 'tashlich' I also threw the matches, reproved myself for the sin I had committed, and completely repented. I prayed with greater concentration in order to atone for my sins.

“Distance us from an evil person and an evil companion; instill in us the good inclination and lead us to do good deeds . ..” It seemed to me that this entire prayer had been instituted in the prayer book for me, to clean my evil conscience and to have me return to the path of righteousness. From the Zakkah (combined confession and prayer often recited before the evening service on the eve of Yom Kippur) to Torah study, I diligently persevered. “You will be judged by your own deeds” was a great principle. Since I devoted myself to Torah, the Torah responded to me in kind. I came up with additional annotations, raising logical subjects for debate during my lessons with the Rabbi. Even the good inclination did not prevent others from praising me - whether in my presence or before my father. I made my parents proud and fulfilled the commandment of honoring one's mother and father.

My parents pampered me in all sorts of ways, and showed me their affection by giving me snacks - fruits and sweets - between meals. Around the holiday of Passover, they ordered special clothes for me. These were happy days for me, and I drove out of my mind the remorse and pain caused me on account of the tobacco episode, as if the whole incident had never happened.

Although I had a certain childhood innocence, things do not exist in a void, and neither did my widowed aunt's property. Anything of value has someone who will claim possession over it. How can one explain that many days had passed and no one came to count the merchandise and discover there was a box missing, as if Divine intervention were at play.

It was a year of poverty worldwide. It became increasingly colder that winter and not a Gentile soul came. The Jews would complain, “When will this terrible winter end?” But there are set seasons and times in the calendar. No sooner would winter end and spring would be right around the corner, with the holiday of Passover drawing near. The snow started to thaw and the town gained relief. Peasants gladly left the boundaries of their village and once again came to the city pushing their wares: poultry, potatoes, eggs, and balls of wool. Merchants were waiting to sell, and the townspeople stormed the shops to provide for their households.

It was precisely during that winter with the heavy snows that something unusual happened at home. A relative from a nearby village offered my father a partnership in a firewood business, which he had purchased in a good deal. The business was not running up losses, but the buyer was hard-pressed for money, since the seller firmly insisted on a cash sale of the storehouse without further ado. Father said this was an auspicious partnership, and so the business was formed. Father tripled the amount of money they made and even received a commission.

It was not the custom of our town for a respectable person to be away from home a few days a week, wandering off to distant places in search of a livelihood. It is best to be in one place, whereas being on the road is difficult. But necessity knows no bounds. My father heeded my mother's advice, as he was wont to do, and undertook to withstand the difficulty of being away Monday through Thursday, Thursday being the town market day. My father no doubt very much regretted being on the road away from home. However, most of his sorrow and anxiety were owing to the fact that he would not be seeing me for so long, and would be unable to watch over me and my ways in Torah. Every Monday he would leave after moralizing that I not neglect my Torah study, God forbid, when he was not around to watch me.

During that same winter when my father was on the move, he could not join me in Torah study, namely the Gemara page discussing the plague of the first-born. My father had a great idea for making the best of the situation: I would perform a mitzvah that my father could not perform, so that the first-born would not have to fast on the eve of the Passover holiday, and to glorify the Torah and give my father a little satisfaction at the same time. In addition to the last section of the Mishnaic order of Nezikim, known to expound on annotations to the Talmud, my father also let me study the Hagiga tractate by myself, a page of Gemara with Rashi commentary, but without dialectical depth. The Hagiga tractate is one of the smallest in the Talmud, and there was no doubt in my father's mind that that page was simple for me. He knew that I would complete studying it in time for the eve of Passover and properly read the Torah portion instead of him.

This in fact marked a milestone in the Hassidic minyan in my city; not a distinguished member of the community, but a young boy would be reading the end of the tractate, which exempts the first-born from fasting. We kept this a secret to avoid others from wondering about this and whispering. Each Sabbath father would sit down with me after we studied the last section of Nezikin. I clearly witnessed his pleasure at seeing me near completion of the task. There was no doubt that I would complete the tractate on time and that, God willing, I would bring him previously unparalleled joy in the fulfillment of a mitzvah.

I do not recall another eve of Passover so beautiful and filled with splendor as the one we had that year. The spring sun did its utmost to thaw the last piles of snow which still remained at the bottom of gutters and which capped rooftops. It was as if the Holy One, Blessed Be He, had intended to please us for the harsh winter we had undergone, to make it pass without delay. Jets of water slowly streamed from every gutter and emptied out in every direction. The streets filled with harmless, shallow puddles, but it is through these puddles that the world's glory abounds, for they would gleam in the sunlight and radiate myriad rays of light, adding beauty to the warmth of people's hearts and instilling in them the holiday spirit.

Young boys do not discuss business. Although I was knowledgeable of the wheeling and dealing of merchants, of the liability claims between the party injured and the injuring party, and learned things during market days when I helped, father had never spoken to me about home economics or matters of livelihood. I did not know, therefore, what reform my father had instituted upon embarking on that partnership, and what profit he had made. Nevertheless, I recognized his cheerful countenance by the jolly Hassidic tunes (such as 'Bim Bam') which he hummed while preparing for the holiday. We welcomed the holiday in a jovial spirit and with a sense of contentment.

The morning before the eve of Passover is one for rising bright and early, especially since a number of chores as removing leaven and cleaning dishes and utensils for use during Passover had been put off that year, waiting my father's return. Even the holy task of dusting books was not done by other members of the household, and one can be sure that this mitzvah was left for my father to perform.

He removed, one by one, the books that comprise the great orders of the Mishnah, which were bound in brown leather. These books were printed by the Re'em widow and the Re'em brothers of Vilna. Father very gently removed them from the bookcase, placing them on a special table. Great importance was attached to these holy books, which were objects of deep affection because they contained both the obvious and the obscure: Torah dialectic, sharp-witted questions, problems and interpretations, the light and the glory of Torah which are the Jews' inheritance in this world and the next.

My father handled these books with love and devotion. With a cloth, he carefully wiped their brown leather, careful not to bend any page, God forbid. He dusted each page, extremely careful in going about this task; he lovingly caressed the binding of these books, which had not been used at all this year, as if to redress their purported neglect, a sign that these books would be studied, God willing, in the days ahead.

These books were followed by writings of Rabbinic authorities: Hoshen Mishpat (the fourth part of the Shulhan Aruch), Yoreh De'a (one of the books of the Shulhan Aruch), Shulhan Aruch, Maimonides' Mishnah Torah, and so forth. These are the smaller books of the orders of the Mishnah, which pertain mainly to rules that are to be put into practice. These are the landmarks of the Jewish way of life. They are full of authoritatively established rules and laws, early customs, and questions and answers. Those who ponder Halachic questions can find an answer therein. And all the children of Israel, wherever they might be, can find a straight path to follow and good deeds to perform, in matters that are between God and man, between fellow men, and between man and himself; both in bodily and spiritual needs.

And so, going from one shelf to another, my father cleaned the books which were arranged, for the reader's convenience, from top to bottom in descending order of importance. Above the Halachic books and writings of the Rabbinic authorities was the place of honor of the Hassidic books, the Bible with thirty-two commentaries, compositions written by Torah scholars, and Torah annotations written by famous rabbis and less known scholars.

They were great writers in biblical and Mishnaic language and were instinctively guided by the spirit of the Torah and proposed Torah annotations of their own which they put on thin paper. Verily, when these pages had piled up into mounds of Torah, they were seized by a great measure of good will to perform an act of kindness for the scholars, and to make their annotations known to many. Even though almost all them were poor and had no source of livelihood, and even though printing these compositions cost a great deal of money, the insistent scholar-writers did not give up. They would deny themselves and their households food and clothing and pinch pennies in order to save a few dozen shekels, advance payment for the printers, who would publish the Torah writings. They worked hard until their entire composition was published. Many of them did not live to see that day, and died having fulfilled their desires only half-way. However, those who did live to see their desire fulfilled had their spirits wound up in these piles of books, and would turn to the Jewish communities to distribute these Torah texts, and would receive some monetary exchange for the book. As there was no fixed price, the rich and generous paid a high price, and poor scholars made do with pocket money, and did not deny themselves the pleasure of Torah and the mitzvah of encouraging a scholar for the sake of glorifying the Torah.

The compilations piled up in our bookcase by the dozens. My father perused only the most well-known ones, the rest having been disorderly placed in the corner of the bookcase although, on the eve of Passover, they were all removed, and father looked inside them, as he shook off their dust.

My father felt tired that night, and did not complete the chore. He left the two uppermost ledges of books for early morning. With dawn, my father arose to finish the job left over from the night before. Would he wake up his youngest son for this holy task? My father did not want to deprive me of an extra hour's sleep, so that I would be alert on this big day. For at last, I faced a big challenge: to stand up and deliver a public sermon on the last page of the Hagiga tractate, and I had to be well rested.

My father, in his pity and love, let me be, to delight in an extra hour's sleep, for my pleasure and for the sake of Torah....

When I eagerly awoke from my sleep to face the great hour that awaited me in the Hassidic minyan, I overheard my father and mother arguing, and my name kept coming up. But why? Alas, what I had forgotten came back to me that morning: The box of tobacco episode!

My father, who had an excellent memory, was set on removing that package from the holy place, and to find it another place, to avoid mixing it with the secular. He rummaged through the attic and discovered, with his sharp eye that the package had been wrapped unprofessionally; this is what aroused his curiosity and suspicion the most. He checked the contents and discovered the missing box. He had no doubt that the box had disappeared, thanks to his good memory and the long contents list printed on the package, which I failed to notice. There was no doubt; an invisible hand had rummaged through that package and had taken the box. It did not take long for father to suspect his youngest child.

Fathers were not oblivious to youngsters' craving to smoke. Perhaps my father had at that moment recalled a similar act of his during his own childhood. To make a long story short, my father had shuddered and had urgently called mother, as he was accustomed to doing whenever there was trouble. He angrily recounted to her the biblical account of Achan the son of Carmi , drawing an analogy that supposedly mother had taken the box or had collaborated with me in that reprehensible deed.

My father spoke in the harshest of words, suggesting that I had committed a grave sin and transgression which could not be atoned for. Theft and embezzlement! Robbing a widow! Neglecting Torah study! A rebellious son! My father was articulate and spoke with eloquence. My compassionate mother was dismayed at what she heard. Had things gotten so bad?

But mothers will be mothers. She did not justify that same shameful act, but was lenient and suggested that I could be forgiven and could atone for that reprehensible deed.

She began to present my defense (which I would not have particularly enjoyed hearing had I not been convinced of her good intentions). She said I had simply misbehaved, like any mischievous boy. Little children, my mother said, were inclined to imitate behavior, and this was Nature's way. Being hard-pressed for time ahead of the eve of Passover, she said she had not kept an eye on me, and began conjuring up her own childhood memories when she herself was still very young, eager to appear grown-up in her own eyes, wearing a wig belonging to her mother of Blessed Memory, in order to show off. She was caught in the act by her ow mother, and was forgiven.

My mother's defense only fueled my father's anger, hurling at her one claim after another, alluding to me as her 'jewel', meaning that I was only my mother's, and that my father had no share in this disgraceful son. Embroiled in his own anger, he had forgotten the hour when he would pamper me every morning by preparing that most delicious eggnog for me to enjoy.

As she did at such times, my father blew things out of proportion, and then suddenly, everything came to a halt as he asked himself: “Is this child a fool? Is a ten-year-old, may he live long, still a child in your eyes? A young man who, thank heaven, is being taught by an eminent scholar, is he a child to you? This son of yours who had perhaps forgotten the explicit Biblical recept “Thou shall not steal!” Or perhaps he did not know that it was forbidden to rob a widow, a beloved aunt?”

Even I, who was party to the matter, knew, oh, how I knew, that this time my strict father and not my compassionate mother, was right. I was certainly willing to lose face or turn to the other side of the bed and become, by some miracle, a newborn baby who was too young to get flogged. I trembled at the memory of being flogged, not because of the physical pain involved during the act - far from it.

I was a courageous lad who was physically healthy. I had suffered bodily pain in the past without complaining. The disgrace at being forced to assume a flogging position is not what bothered me either. We all had this experience at home and in the heder. For there is not a child who has never been flogged at one time or another, for this is only natural. However, I hated being flogged by my own father. I simply could not watch my father; I could not bear looking at the glowing, fearful expression on my father's face before and after. He was scared and frightened, took short breaths, and uttered fragmented, jumbled words. During this act, my father became stripped of his honor and title: The wisest of scholars - and his rank, one of distinguished birth. I was proud of him for these reasons. All this was gone during the flogging; his stature had diminished, and his radiance had vanished on account of my evil inclination.

May you never experience the same, in the early morning or at any time, for that matter. I felt remorse for the sin I had committed and I pitied myself and my father and compassionate mother, to whom I had caused all this trouble. Fraught with anguish in my warm bed, I suddenly heard words of a different color, words of hope and consolation. My father suddenly recalled something which had vanished from his mind when he had been embroiled in his anger. He laid his eyes on the ancient grandfather clock with the weight and pendulum swinging back and forth. Blessed art Thou Who alters periods and changes seasons!! A miracle happened: The cuckoo remembered to announce the morning hour of the eve of Passover. It started to groan as usual, chiming indistinctly, ringing and then pausing: One and two, and three - counting to six, announcing to the entire world that, thank goodness, the hour had arrived, and Jews could not waste their precious time this morning on activities unrelated to Passover.

One thing recalled leads to another! It suddenly dawned upon my father that this morning was more honorable than any other, since it was the day before Passover, the fast of the first-born. For heaven's sake, all Jewish first-born in the Hassidic minyan would have their eyes set on me, that is, on that same 'jewel', the rebellious son. Thanks to this 'jewel' and his lesson, this hour of fasting would become an hour of rejoicing in the Torah and bring joy to many! My father came to his senses, realizing that this was not a day for flogging. How are two opposites reconciled? He would lay down a stubborn and rebellious son on a bench on account of a grave sin; he would then get him up off this bench of trouble and seat him in a dignified place on the bench of Torah. My father suddenly lost his train of thought, and at once ceased his tirade and claims against mother.

Father reached my door and my good mother followed. She was uncertain as to his intentions and, in her mercy, wanted me to be judged leniently. I heard my parents' footsteps drawing nearer to my bed and I was afraid of what would happen next. The sun rose right above my head and I feigned a deep early morning sleep. Miraculously, the first thing my father saw was the big Gemara, the Hagiga tractate sitting on the table which I had perused last night, opened to the page pertaining to the public sermon. Even though I was very familiar with the text, I was not counting on my memory. Moreover, I knew all the scholars in the Hassidic minyan. They were very argumentative in matters of Halacha, and were sharp-witted in debate. Rabbi Getzil Hoffman, Rabbi Ya'akov Yafeh and their likes would probably give me a hard time by vexing me with very difficult questions I had not yet thought about. Therefore, I thought it best to be prepared and so I had spent the night before the big test going over the page of Gemara and its commentary in order to fully understand the meaning of the Torah and to be able to come up with an answer to any question I might be asked.

My eyes were closed, supposedly, but I kept my left eye slightly open, and covered it with a blanket. Through a small hole in the blanket, I spied on my father and kept track of his movements. He thumbed through the Gemara and threw a glance at me, again perused the Gemara, and paused a while to study certain sections, as he was accustomed to doing. With the upcoming holiday in the back of his head, he put down the book and approached my bed hesitantly. It was then that I saw how the expression on a person's face can change completely. Slowly but surely, his rage abated and grace, compassion and abounding love prevailed.

My father turned to my mother, who had followed him weak-kneed, and hinted that she leaves the room. My mother became frightened. At first she was suspicious, and probably with good reason, fearing that he would do something to me. But she never opposed her husband, and left. Her fear was unfounded. For when mother left the room, my father approached me with quiet steps, slightly lifted the edge of the blanket that covered my face, and said in a quite voice as he petted me: “Zalman, my son, it is Passover eve today; the day is short and there is much work to be done. Arise, my son, it will soon be the hour for morning prayer. Today, everyone arises early for prayer. Get up, Zalmankeh; spring like a lion to the service of the Lord...” (How is that for a 'prelude to a flogging'?) Have no doubt: This time I did not refuse my father with respect to the morning rituals. I 'opened' my eyes fully and began to rub them a bit, pretending to yawn, like one who had just been awakened from a deep slumber. In my heart I uttered a prayer of thanksgiving to the Creator, Who scrutinizes hearts for redemption and recompense. I said the morning prayers, and sprang out of bed to fulfill the other morning customs.

I was unusually quick to do my routine that morning, to perform every obligation and ritual perfectly. Even though I felt with all my heart that a great miracle had happened to me in that I had been spared, by all accounts, a severe punishment which I had expected to receive, I had the feeling that this story was not yet finished. I could have been preached to and rebuked as soon as I entered the dining room, after the ritual washing of the hands. Even when I heard that same familiar shaking sound of the egg yoke and sugar being mixed in a cup, the preparation of eggnog, I feared that my clever father had perhaps chosen precisely this hour for moralizing about iniquity and sin. I summoned my strength, set my gaze on my father, wore an innocent expression, and asked him a banal question:

“What do you think, father, are there enough Gemara texts for all the first-born sons? Perhaps we should take one or two extra Gemara books so that any first-born who wants to follow along as it is being read to completion will be able to so?”

My good mother, who was then in the kitchen, was anxious and had become thoroughly confused in light of developments: Happy for the miracle, not believing her eyes nor what she heard. My compassionate mother was all the more astonished when she heard my father calmly answer my question: “You are right, my son, even though our attendant, Rabbi Shabtai, probably set aside plenty of books, we will act in accordance with the saying: 'It is always best to be on the safe side.' Therefore, we shall take with us both the Gemara from the six orders of the Mishnah as well as the small Gemara, in order to glorify the Torah. But be careful, Zalmankeh, not to forget this precious book, and put it back in the bookcase after the celebrations which will follow the end of the reading, God willing”.

Thank heavens, for this was when I realized the affair was over and done with. After an upbeat everyday discussion such as this, being scolded by flogging was unimaginable. I did not ponder why I had merited this wonder. Man should not deliberate over the good things that happen to him, but should accept them as things which need not be probed, and this wisdom guided my behavior.

The lives of men are crooked and evasive, with ups and downs. They experience endless hours of grief and days of toil against a few good hours. Man was given the gift of forgetfulness to take his mind off bad times. In their stead, what is inscribed in his memory are all those good times and moments of pleasure from his past, with which man nurtures himself at will. Even I have a hidden treasure of pleasant memories, those hours of pleasure and precious moments I was lucky enough to have at one time. They sustain me, making me forget the difficult times I had experienced in the past, uplifting my spirit. They descend upon me like a dew of consolation, putting a smile of satisfaction on my tired, weary face.

One of my best memories from those golden days and those moments of happiness was that same Passover and the celebration of Torah - like a precious stone - we were lucky to witness. It was clear to me that even without that foolish deed of mine and its surprising conclusion, I would have been joyful that same eve of Passover.

I had always been a sermonizer and loved to expound and see God's creatures listening to my words, whether I was talking about mundane affairs - and how much more when I was delivering words of Torah. Such things did not happen every day. It may sound easy - sitting at the head of a community of Jewish elders, each of whom is a father and a grandfather, with their eyes set on me.

The fact that this was the eve of Passover made me feel especially terrific! My heart was full of abounding love for my father, and I was forever grateful to him for he spared me the punishment of flogging and the torment associated with it. I wanted only one thing with all my being, to make him happy and add to his fatherly pride. I knew he loved me, that I was the apple of his eye and his ray of hope for the future, but this time I wanted to repay his love and grant him satisfaction that not all fathers receive.

All my good intentions, all the life's desires of a Jewish boy who had repented, and all my heartfelt joy in doing mitzvahs manifested themselves during my reading of that last page. My voice was as clear and firm as an experienced old-timer's, like that of Rabbi Getzil himself. Silence prevailed in the synagogue during the sermon. I was lucky, for the crowd grew by the minute unlike previous years when, due to the tasks required for the holiday and its extensive preparations, only first-born members of the congregation would engage in Torah at this pressing hour and not forego the joy of this mitzvah and the additional mitzvah of partaking in the meal to follow. Previously the others would quickly finish their prayers, fold up their tallis and tefillin, and anxiously head home. For this morning, as soon as I opened my mouth and my voice rang out in Torah, the 'home- owners', exempt from the fast, began to take notice. Why was this lad up on the pulpit on this eve of Passover? Was it Simhat Torah today, when children were called to the Torah along with all the other young people? Because of the novelty, people tarried an extra hour, half listening to my words as they finished whispering the Daily Verse from the Book of Psalms which ends the morning prayer.

When they heard the substance of my words and the synopsis of the subject coming from the mouth of a child spoken so clearly and joyfully, they were stricken with a curiosity mixed with the love of Torah, abounding in the heart of every Jewish man in a Lithuanian town. Smiling, they approached the table, wondering what in the world this child had come to teach them. My mind did not go blank when I saw the growing crowd listening to what I was saying. On the contrary, something came over me and elevated my spirit. I forget everything else. I felt like it was only my father and I alone in a 'heavenly sitting', being elevated and ascending to the heights of the holy Torah and Divine radiance.

Over and done with! The congregation joyfully joined me in proclaiming, “May we go from strength to strength!” Only then did I look around for my father, who, out of humility or fear of the Evil Eye, sat at the end of the table. I saw him take a peek at me with a sort of amicable expression I had never before seen. Even though my mother was busy setting the table for the meal celebrating the mitzvah, I saw her shed a tear of a happy Jewish woman who had just been rewarded a bit of satisfaction, for her son had delivered a public sermon, a moment of pride worth all the trouble of child-raising a Jewish woman may experience.

People began proposing toasts. My father was bestowed the honor of saying the first blessing, whereupon he was showered with abundant blessings and congratulations. There was so much joyous commotion about me, including cheek-pinching accompanied with congratulations. Melodies and levity ensued, and the crowed became more and more excited, filled with endless joy. Rabbi Shabtai saw that no end was in sight, and feared that those around the table would regret it once their excitement passed and they realized that the hour was late and that much work was yet to be done. He approached father and whispered in his ear that it was time to say good-bye, that this was not the time for a lengthy celebration. Father began with blessings to the revelers, and ended with holiday greetings to those seated around the table. The 'home-owners' got up reluctantly, and parted ways by wishing one another a happy holiday and praising me for having merited them a mitzvah.

It was not the custom of fathers, when I was a child, to show any visible signs of love for their children. However, I was quite aware of my father's warm hand which stroked mine as we walked home. His good mood lingered for the remainder of the day, while he was immersed in preparation for the holiday, setting the table for the Passover Seder, grounding the mixture of fruits, nut, wine and spices for the festive meal, and grating the bitter herbs. All the while he incessantly hummed gay Hassidic tunes, a clear sign of his good mood.

Mother filled my pockets with walnuts, and then quickly sent me off on a pre-holiday errand so that I would earn the merit of performing the mitzvah of honoring one's father and mother and take some of the load off her back in the process.

The holiday set in. We returned home with two poor guests whom father would invite to the Seder every year. The table shone from the carafe of red wine to the polished, sparkling glasses in the radiance of the lit holiday candles. Father wore his shiny white 'kittel', and provided white attire for the guests. I joyfully asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights”? (one of the Four Questions recited in the Haggadah).

Father paused every now and then from the reading, offering some commentary, quoting a Hassidic saying, or telling a joke. My father had many Jewish jokes up his sleeve - seasoned with words of Torah - which he would tell at the table at this joyous occasion. We laughed hard when he told them, after which we resumed reading the Haggadah. We duly drank four cups of wine (drinking even more than the required number of cups by sipping sweet wine between the courses of the meal) and wished our guests, the 'home- owners', and everyone else well.

We finally came to the blessing over the matzah, and all eyes were upon the youngest child, as everyone smiled, waiting for the amusing wheeling and dealing session to commence over the Afikoman (the piece of matzah eaten at the end of the Passover meal; it is first hidden for the youngsters to search for it, and whoever finds it receives a prize.) It was I who found the matzah, and father was willing to agree to a fair bargain in exchange for the Afikoman. I stared at father like a merchant who knows the quality of his merchandise and its value, holding the Afikoman in my clenched fist, to be redeemed with a gift. My father smiled.

“And so you have succeeded, you naughty boy, to snatch the Afikoman from under my nose. What a fool I am for forgetting your evil ways in the past. Here I was, trying to figure out the complicated math of the number of plagues the Egyptians were smitten with in Egypt and at the sea, and you, you ungodly son, seize the opportunity to rob me. Oh well, henceforth I will be sure to watch you in the years to come, God willing. This year, I fell for it. State your price, Zalmankeh; what is your price for the Afikoman?”

I had pondered and deliberated over the matter endlessly beforehand, all in order to receive a fair price for the Afikoman and not miss this one-time opportunity. Last year, in exchange for the Afikoman I received an elegant box, a piggy bank in the form of a fine wooden utensil with a slot. The box itself came with a small lock. I kept the small key to the lock hidden in my sole possession. From now on, coins would only be inserted in the box, but none would be taken out.

In the future, when it would hold no more coins, the same lock would be opened with a small key, revealing the contents. This hidden treasure would hopefully yield a blessing, particularly since I did not rely on miracles and deposited all my Hanukkah gelt, and money I earned from running errands.

In the box, I inserted the Oral Law fee for which my Uncle Mendel, the rich uncle in the family, paid me a fixed rate of three kopecks a page. Even though he was considered to be a penny pincher, around me he was a scrupulously honest individual. He did not rely on his memory, but took out the Gemara from the bookcase and browsed through it, while I stood and expounded a sentence or two, page after page. My uncle followed along with me. (So far so good.)

Without a word, he turned page after page, until I made a mistake on the fifth page. As soon as this happened, I stopped. My uncle smiled and generously paid my Gemara fee for page five too, even though I did not complete it; fifteen kopecks of good money and a loving pinch of my cheeks. This large sum of money went into my piggy bank, which bloated by the month.

Two years ago, I received as an exchange for the Afikoman a handsome six-bladed awl, which sparked the envy of every child who saw it. Last night, I made the firm decision that this year I would ask my father for a handsome walking stick. Why a walking stick? I wanted to imitate the doctor's son who was my age, and had a small, handsome stick with a white, tooth-like marble at the top. I very much coveted that stick. It seemed to me unmatched in appearance, and there would be no greater pleasure in the world than waving my stick about as I window-shopped.

It seems like only yesterday that the 'book seller' came to the religious academy, and placed his holy wares on the long table in the synagogue. He did not chide us for browsing through his new books. What especially attracted my attention was a small book, a wonderful book written by Rabbi Joseph Dila Rina. I had already heard the story from a friend. While on the subject, I will briefly tell you that story.

Rabbi Rina, a righteous man and a miracle worker, who yearned for redemption, fasted several times and before whom were revealed supreme secrets regarding the coming of the Messiah. Satan stood, fettered in chains, bearing the Divine inscription, and the Rabbi's world had been practically saved from the Devil's reign, clearing the way to total salvation. However, the Rabbi had no such luck. He was faced with Satan's cunning in the form of the Serpent from the Garden of Eden, who pretended to appear weak and faint. He asked permission of Rabbi Joseph to allow him to smell the fragrant incense in order to revitalize its soul.

Rabbi Joseph, a most compassionate person, forgot that the Oppressors derive most of their strength from the smell of incense, and he gave him one sniff. Immediately, Satan broke free of his chains, spread his black wings, and flew upward.

This was a terrible story and I very much wanted to read it in the book I would buy with my own money. There were many great things that can be bought which I desired and which I wanted to purchase with the money I would receive in exchange for the Afikoman in my hand.

Father was waiting to hear my demand. Until I made up my mind about what I wanted and stated my preference, something happened in our home which none of us could have imagined.

“I have a secret,” I said, “and would like to present my father with my request in private”. All those around the table were astonished. It was not customary to approach a father with secrets, and what did the Afikoman have anything to do with big secrets? However, my father, holding his own and intrigued by the wonder of it all, went with me to the adjacent room.

“Mother too,” I said firmly, and my mother followed, smiling, but wearing a puzzled expression. My heart began to race and tears filled my eyes. I could barely utter the words I had hastily planned on saying.

“I ask, in exchange for the Afikoman, that...that... father and mother forgive me for the sin that I have sinned in stealing the box of tobacco... and I promise... promise on my word that never in my life - never will I do such a thing, and I will open up my piggy bank and pay Aunt Rachel the price of the theft with my own money...” I finished speaking, and then began to sob, the sound of which penetrated the walls and could be heard by those gathered around the table, causing them quite a fright.

I would have the ill fortune of losing my father in the years ahead, for he passed away in my youth, during difficult times plagued by hunger and terror. In our few years together, although he pampered me a great deal out of his love for me, he never kissed me, for it was not the custom of respectable Jews to kiss their children unless they were about to set off on a long journey, and even then, this was done quickly, so as not leave others astonished at the despair of a respected notable. I had barely eve known what a fatherly kiss felt like.

I therefore remember, to this day, the kiss of forgiveness which I received from father that eve of Passover. It was short and abrupt, but I detected something glistening - which I suspected were tears - in the eyes of father too. My father stroked my head and said: “Zalmankeh, other than the merit of the holy Torah which atones for everything, there is no greater merit than forgiving you. Be a good Jew, Zalmankeh, and let us return to the table. The guests are waiting for us and we must continue and conclude the Seder”.

My mother wiped the tears from her eyes while wiping my own, fixing the skullcap on my head as a loving, tender mother would, and we returned to the table to say the blessing of the Hillel sandwich.

Were Elijah the Prophet to enter our home as is his sacred custom, he would certainly have testified that in no home were such praises to the Lord extolled and pleasant melodies sung as in our home that Passover night. I was happy and my soul was pure, and I was content with my lot.

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