[Page 267]

On each weekday, the priest Bonifacy Markowski would ride through town in his tall and spacious black carriage of honor, pulled by two pairs of plump horses, their thin tails tied close to their rumps to keep them clean. The two pairs of hefty horses marched, one pair after the other, with an air of arrogant grace, their polished harnesses jingling as the carriage swayed confidently on its springs. The coachman, neatly dressed and perched on his bench, was accompanied by a servant whose beard-like sideburns resembled those of Emperor Franz Joseph. Together, they looked like some powerful apparatus that had descended from the heavens, gliding across the town's gray streets, as if out of a fairy tale. Inside the carriage, the black-clad priest sat comfortably in the expensively upholstered seat, a leather apron draped over his lower body from the waist down. Only his small head could be seen, swaying with the motion of the carriage atop his broad shoulders, while his tall, elongated fedora rocked back and forth. His ruddy, shaven face remained still, while his small, bright eyes wandered from side to side above the triangular, fleshy sag of his chin and pursed lips. From time to time, one of his soft, white hands appeared, resting on the swell of his chest, playing with a small ivory cross.

Those who observed the scene from their windows knew that exactly half an hour after the priest passed through town, he would return to his estate. This was an unbroken rule–except on Sundays and holidays when he stayed to work at the church for a full hour.

“The priest is coming,” said the older daughter, approaching the window, her embroidery tools in hand.

“When he returns, take the piece of meat out of the water, Mira'le,” instructed the sad mother, who was meticulous about kosher matters.

[Page 268]

All the Jews in the town knew the clergyman, Bonifacy Markowski, and felt for him a mixture of affection and fear. He held no official position in the municipal church, yet he served as deputy to the wicked canon, Cezary Lechmacki, from whom no Jew had ever received even the smallest favor. The canon, together with his three strangely dressed elderly sisters, lived in the church house at the center of town, surrounded by an ancient garden of trees and enclosed by a tall wooden fence. It was known to all that young Christian women entered the church house at night and left cloaked and covered before dawn. Courageous Jewish children would sneak in fearfully and peek through the cracks in the fence to see what was happening inside. They were both drawn to and frightened by the pack of dogs in the courtyard and the large crucifix that stood there.

Lechmacki made most of his large purchases for the house and farm in Lwów. He bought small items at the cooperative store “Kółko Rolnicze,” where he served as the head of the founding members. He had established the store to compete with the Jewish-owned shops he despised and to diminish their livelihood. Bonifacy, by contrast, was kind to the Jewish community. He had settled on his small estate twenty years earlier. The estate lay half a techum Shabbat^[1] from the town. Jews managed all of his affairs, and he treated them well, paying generously, as was customary among Polish nobles. Yet, he maintained a peculiar strictness regarding two rules: no women and no Jews were allowed on his property. For this reason, he conducted his business transactions in the streets. He would stop his carriage in front of one of the shops, and the tradesman or shopkeeper would hurry out, straighten his sidelocks, bow deeply, and address the clergyman as Jegomoshets–His Excellency.^[2] The transaction would be completed swiftly, as it was well known that the priest disliked excessive conversation. When the carriage drove away, he would slightly raise his fedora above his round, bald head and wave to the Jewish shopkeeper watching him depart, just as he would wave to the canon himself. The neighboring shopkeepers, standing at the entrances to their stores, appreciated the priest's kindness and envied their friend, who was fortunate that day. At times, when the priest was occupied with an urgent matter at home, he would send his elderly servant Franciszek on horseback to fetch a Jewish tradesman. The Jegomoshets himself would then conduct the negotiation in a brief conversation at the gate of his estate, as was his custom. Any man who had once been invited there and had peeked into the yard while the conversation took place would later recount the miracles and wonders he had seen.

The poor agent, Reb Aharon Tzviling–who spoke eloquently in Polish, mingled with the nobility and the wealthy, and knew all their secrets–spoke of the priest with these words:

Father Markowski is quite an intriguing character. When he inherited the estate twenty years ago–yes, this month marks exactly twenty years–he also received a substantial sum: one hundred thousand crowns deposited in an account at a state bank in Lwów. A handsome sum, isn't it? The estate itself was worth no more than ten thousand crowns, according to land values at the time, and when he first arrived, he was struck by its neglect. That very day, he swore to turn it into a paradise, and he is a man who keeps his promises.

[Page 269]

Since then, not only has he received no income from his estate, but he's continued to invest five thousand crowns in it every year. He repaired, expanded, and improved the old house until it became a palace. He added new buildings to the farm, erected a fence and an iron gate, and planted remarkable species of trees. He employs servants and experts, raises selected breeds of cattle and poultry, fertilizes the fields, and buys seeds from distant lands. In short, there is no fruit, grain, bird, or animal missing from his farm–from guinea pigs to deer, quail to ostriches. Do you understand? He even has one hundred twenty kinds of pigeons. Of course, his revenues have grown as well. As the saying goes, “the more you spend, the more you earn.”

It's well known that he received several thousand crowns in prizes at various exhibitions in this country and abroad, but he reinvests all of it and adds to it the five thousand crowns he withdraws each year from the state bank. And you can do the arithmetic yourself: If he's invested five thousand crowns in cash every year for the last twenty years (while dedicating all the interest to the church), then he's invested one hundred thousand crowns. Isn't that right? And now it's clear to everyone that he has four more years ahead of him and no more. You may ask what he will do then, when the money in the bank runs out. I will answer you: even a clever man can't know what lies in a priest's heart, especially one so reserved and silent. Perhaps there will be no need for further investments, and he will only withdraw profits. But why would a lonely priest need an income? Isn't investing his only source of pleasure? If he withdrew without spending, what purpose would his life serve? I've heard he said this explicitly to the canon. And you, as a Jew, say, let him earn and let him spend… Perhaps he is the atonement for all Jews. Even though he is a decent gentile, he harbors his own kind of contempt for us…

But the wise words of Reb Aharon Tzviling did not put the minds of the listeners at ease. They were still eager to speculate about what would really happen to the priest and his estate once the inherited funds were exhausted.

“Why speculate?” declared the bagel baker's son-in-law, stuffing his hands into his pockets as his teeth chattered. “In four years we'll see.”

“You loafer. How will you see?” threw in the ritual slaughterer's apprentice. “Jews aren't allowed on his property.”

“Doesn't the Bible say, ‘A good man leaves an inheritance for his grandchildren, but the wealth of a sinner is stored up for the righteous’?”^[3]

“Since when have you become righteous? People whisper about you. They say you steal and eat your father-in-law's bagels without washing your hands…”

“Ni, ni, don't get angry over a mere bagel,” Reb Aharon replied, lighting his long pipe. “As for the Jegomoshets, perhaps one day we'll find ourselves praying in a minyan at his palace. Who knows? My father, may he rest in peace, used to say…”

But the story of Reb Aharon Tzviling's father is not relevant here.

[Page 270]

A Short History of a Good-Hearted Jew

Reb Kalman Hecker owned four large estates, each with its own distillery. He owned two outright while the other two had been leased for many years. His married sons lived on three of the estates, while he managed the fourth and largest estate with the help of his son-in-law, the husband of his only daughter. As his wealth increased, so did his stinginess and harshness. He inspired fear in everyone within the surrounding twenty-by-twenty parsas.^[4] Who in that region had not felt the sting of Reb Kalman's actions! He once blocked the sale of a forested plot of land to a certain man, charged another an inflated price for potatoes and forced him to sell his oxen for half their value. He also forced workers to leave the field of yet another man in the middle of a harvest. Yet, he became known for one thing: his word was his bond. When he said yes, it meant yes, and he carried out his aggressive actions openly and always with prior warning.

“If you don't have much money and aren't particularly clever, why are you sticking your nose into such big business? Better to tie a silk kerchief around your throat and become a melamed^[5], with a ‘commentary’ in Brody. From there, you might be taken once in a while to one of the estates. As for me, Kalman Hecker, I had such a creature living in my house for ten straight years. He managed to ‘sour’ all my sons with his rigid teachings–except for Meni'le. He remained a Chassid and was devout; poverty clung to him like a tick on an animal.”

This was an example of Reb Kalman's “golden tongue,” speaking to Reb Miche'le Levinstein, the learned, esteemed, and dignified forest merchant from the area of Pshemishl. The merchant had come to discuss business with the wealthy estate owner, and the two stood in the yard of the estate. During their conversation, the old man bent down and scooped horse manure in his palms to carry to the dung pile. The refined merchant glanced at Reb Kalman's filthy hands, chuckled as though he agreed with Reb Kalman's words, and in his heart pondered: piggishness leads to wealth…

And this is the story of Reb Meni'le: His three other brothers–he was the second son–learned extensively about the principles of farming and working the land. They were all skilled in their craft and well-connected with other farmers, the wealthy, and the merchants. Reb Kalman trusted them in his heart, even as he constantly rebuked them to their faces. Meni'le, by contrast, who resembled his mother, may she rest in peace, clung to Chassidism from a young age and never abandoned it as he grew older. At first, he studied Gemara, Poskim, and Yere'im. When he was fifteen, he befriended a visitor who was passing through in order to assemble a group for the recitation of the “Ma'amadot.”^[6] Without his father's knowledge, he traveled with the guest to the court of the tzaddik Rebbe Dude'l, a descendant of the Ruzhin dynasty, who at that time resided in Sandova-Vishnia near Lwów. When Meni'le returned from this journey, he had fully embraced the ways of a Chassid. He prolonged his prayers, wore long garments, rolled his sidelocks into saucers, lingered over handwashing, and blessed the wine in a soft, drawn-out voice. He would close his eyes during the blessing with such intensity that it caused pain to those who observed him. His brothers teased him and tried to lure him into immoral behavior. Even the educated melamed, Elchanan Galatzer,

[Page 271]

intentionally read secular chapters to him in German, such as Schiller's The Mission of Moses and Lessing's Nathan the Wise. But he was not offended by these readings. On the contrary, he became more and more entrenched in his devotion and piety, until they saw he was beyond their influence and they left him alone. Reb Kalman, feeling joyful at the Shabbat dinner, would often say:

“When three strong horses pull a wagon, we don't care if the carcass of another horse is tied to its back.”

And the three brothers agreed to pull the wagon by themselves.

When Meni'le was twenty years old, his father secured his exemption from the military and arranged for him to marry the daughter of a wealthy fur merchant in Brody, a marriage that came with the guarantee he would always have food at his father-in-law's table. In reality, Meni'le knew nothing about his father-in-law's business and received nothing from him but an expensive sable fur and an elegant mongoose fur shtreimel for the holidays and Shabbat. During the “two foods” meals, he often sat in the beit midrash studying with another young Chassid. He fulfilled the first commandment of the Torah, to be fruitful and multiply, and traveled three times a year–on Shavuot, Hoshana Rabbah, and Chanukah–to visit Rebbe Dude'l, who had moved to the nearby city of Radekhov due to a lack of income.

His wife, Nessie, despite being raised and educated in an enlightened city among affluent girls who were pretentious and ostentatious, was an innocent and simple woman. She loved her husband with a quiet demeanor and fear-inspired modesty, both of which deepened with each passing year. Nessie had a wholesome face with large eyes and an air of sadness that inexplicably moved everyone who saw her. The children, whose frequent births were a source of worry and work, often overwhelmed her, even though she had two capable servants in the house. She was seldom seen outside her home, except on Shabbat and holidays, when she would accompany her mother to pray at the old synagogue.

Once, Meni'le and his family visited his father's estate for three days. He was saddened because he could not find a mikveh or a minyan, but he did not complain to anyone and he spent his time studying the Talmud in one of the rooms. His brother-in-law offered to show him the farm, which had been greatly improved during his absence, but Meni'le asked that he show the farm to his wife, who was a diligent woman and knew how to recognize and appreciate the value of everything. Hearing this, his sister shyly laughed and said:

“Meni'le, as a husband, you are worth your weight in gold…”

When the financial support from his father-in-law came to an end, Reb Kalman traveled to Brody. After a brief conversation, the in-laws agreed on an amount of ten thousand crowns, and with that money they purchased a provincial tobacco monopoly in one of the neighboring towns. They settled Meni'le and his family there to run the business and earn a good living with dignity. You might wonder how Reb Meni'le would manage such a large enterprise, considering he had never handled money or looked at an accounting book. This was not a concern. Those who purchased the monopoly also hired a capable and knowledgeable man–a distinguished accountant familiar with the state's language and its laws–who would oversee the business and the finances of Reb Meni'le's household. By then, Meni'le already had five children: three sons and two daughters.

[Page 272]

The monopoly provided a decent income, but troubles and mishaps soon followed, as though heaven wanted to test his good nature and trust in God.

The first blow came during a harsh winter, when his father-in-law's large fur store in Brody burned to the ground, consuming all of the expensive furs inside (the torn pieces of fur hovered in the bright night sky like giant bats). Only days earlier, the insurance policy had expired, leaving the owner with nothing except a debt of some four thousand crowns and two more daughters of marriageable age.

Meni'le's father-in-law and his family moved in with him temporarily. After a month at Meni'le's house, the father-in-law was ready to look for another way to support his family. During dinner, Meni'le, speaking in a soft dove-like voice, shared his thoughts. He believed it would be unfair for him, an owner of a thriving business and the son of a wealthy father, to keep the five-thousand-crown dowry at such a time. He asked the business manager to withdraw that amount from the business and return it to his father-in-law. Tears filled the father-in-law's eyes at this generous gesture. He rose and hugged Reb Meni'le around the waist so tightly that he lifted him off the floor. He accepted the money, confident that Reb Meni'le's father, Reb Kalman, would provide for his son should the need arise. Thus, Reb Meni'le lost half of his wealth.

The business manager realized that his boss was, incidentally, an idler and thought: Why should I bother making this man rich? He began to look after his own interests. He took money from the revenues and, to cover his tracks, manipulated the records, knowing that the tax collectors came weekly to inspect the books. In doing so, he drained both the cash register and the warehouse until, one day, it was discovered that Meni'le was broke.

When business was going well, Reb Meni'le had often given to charity, and he was honored to receive the first seat on the eastern side of the synagogue–a position he was compelled to accept–along with the third Torah aliyah. He frequently invited members of the congregation to his home for Kiddush, organized the annual festival on the third of Cheshvan, and traveled, as was his custom, three times a year to the court of the tzaddik. People enjoyed his company and admired his fragrant, long silk frock coat (his wife, Nessie, frequently used naphthalene in the closet to protect it from moths, contrary to the custom of the town). They also enjoyed receiving the fine cigarettes from his silver cigarette box. Meanwhile, two more children, a son and a daughter, were born. Despite their young ages, he had a special melamed for his sons (named Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh;^[7] we will return to him later in the story). Everyone respected and admired Reb Meni'le and felt fortunate to know him.

When the business manager fled and rumors of bankruptcy spread, all the shopkeepers, the butcher, and several widows who had entrusted him with their money gathered outside the house and impudently and rudely demanded repayment of their debts. Reb Meni'le promised that his father would come and settle the debts in full, but they refused to leave until he paid them in cash. Eventually, a gendarme arrived and arrested him. As he said goodbye to his frightened wife and children, he took his tallit pouch, two pairs of tefillin (one of Rashi and the other of Rabbeinu Tam), the book Chok L'Yisrael and the book Raziel the Angel to protect him from harm. He was not allowed to take any other belongings.

Meanwhile, Meni'le's wife, Nessie, and the children went with some of their belongings to Reb Kalman's estate. (Nessie's own father lost the money Reb Meni'le had returned to him and was

[Page 273]

forced to move overseas with his family. But even there he did not fare any better and lived in poverty). Reb Kalman greeted her with a cold, unfriendly expression, which grew more unpleasant with each child who stepped down from the large carriage. Once the entire family was inside the house, he ordered his horse hitched to the carriage, took a bundle of cash, secured Reb Meni'le's release from jail that very day, and brought him home with him.

This time, Reb Meni'le and his family stayed at his father's estate for a full year. To him, it felt like a punishment from heaven, though he did not know what sin he had committed. His father permitted him to travel into town once a month on Fridays, where he could hear the neighing of horses, the mooing of cows, and the bustle of the servants. That year, his father allowed him only one visit to the tzaddik Dude'l in Radekhov–for Shavuot. His heart was filled with longing for the melamed Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh, with whom he had formed a bond rooted in Torah and faith. Unable to contain himself, he asked his father several times–in his soft, thin, dovish voice–if he could bring the melamed to the estate. But Reb Kalman scolded him as if he were a little boy and insisted that he study instead with the melamed employed at the house. Later, his father explained that it was not possible to bring Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh, since he had a wife and two daughters, and the family would not agree to be separated. In the crowded estate, there was no room for another family. Reb Meni'le accepted this judgment and awaited help from heaven, especially since the tzaddik had clearly promised a great salvation would soon come to him.

After a year, Reb Kalman bought him a three-stone water mill, where farmers from several villages brought their grain to be ground into flour. He renovated the house on the property and settled Meni'le and his family there, while taking Meni'le's two older children back to the estate to live with him, hoping to free them from their father's influence. The mill's location was clearly advantageous, being within the techum Shabbat. Reb Meni'le could wrap himself in a tallit and walk for an hour through the wind, across the heavy, sandy soil and open fields, to pray at the kloyz of the Husiatyn Chassidim on Shabbat. But that same summer, heavy rains fell. The stream suddenly rose, and the water broke the dams and destroyed the three water wheels. The water settled beneath the mill building, causing it to partially collapse, and surrounded Meni'le's family home, creating fear and life-threatening danger–especially since Nessie was pregnant again and about to give birth.

After the mill was destroyed, Reb Meni'le returned to his father's estate, giving thanks to God for saving him and his family from death. Soon afterward, his wife gave birth. Reb Kalman, who was extremely angry about his son's situation, quickly bought him a large forest plot a few parsas away and built a wooden house for him at the edge of the forest. Meni'le's entire family settled there, and this time Reb Kalman hired the melamed Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh to teach Meni'le's sons Torah. If he wished, Meni'le himself could also study with the melamed. Meni'le's livelihood was to come from harvesting and selling the trees, and Reb Kalman also appointed one of his loyal and experienced clerks as the “trustee” of the property. The trustee would stay there alone throughout the week and walk back to

[Page 274]

his family in the village on Shabbat. With all these arrangements, Reb Kalman hoped that his son would finally find a lasting state of peace and plenty.

Indeed, Meni'le arrived safely and peacefully at his new location and immediately began his study of the Talmud and service of God. For the most part, he had grown so accustomed to the frequent changes in his life that he hardly noticed them. He accepted each new situation and place as a natural occurrence, much like a city dweller who frequently moves from one apartment to another. Since his father provided for everything, he did not have to worry about his family's livelihood. Even from an early age, he had not tried to stand on his own. Since boards and beams were considered inconsequential and woodworkers were plentiful, he built a kosher mikveh on his property and constructed a hut on top of it. Two thousand cubits (about one kilometer) away from his house, he placed an eruv,^[8] and every Shabbat Rosh Chodesh^[9] he would go with the melamed and one of his sons to pray in the neighboring town. He purchased a Torah scroll for himself and placed it in a dedicated room, which became a kind of holy place for him. It seemed as though he had settled in there, but the heavens had other trials and tribulations in store for him–and the next one would be severe, undermining the very foundations of his life.

In that house in the forest, amid all the work and the bustle of family members, both her own and the melamed's, Nessie became pregnant for the ninth time. This pregnancy, though, was difficult and full of suffering. Strange fears haunted her constantly, and she was plagued by horrific visions of spirits, devils, and beasts of prey lurking among the forest trees. She would often hide in the bedroom, covering her head with a pillow. During this time, the melamed's wife, a strong and capable woman who loved to take charge, took Nessie under her wing as if she were one of the babies, and effectively became the homemaker in the household. In the final stage of pregnancy, a midwife from the town was summoned, and Nessie gave birth to a son–a handsome baby with long, dark hair. Great joy filled the home, for it had been more than two years since the last birth, and Nessie's pregnancy had caused much concern. That day, Reb Meni'le took the melamed aside to study the laws of circumcision. While they studied, they drank whiskey spiced with wormwood, chewed on hard buckwheat wafers, discussed Chassidism, and let their thoughts float into other worlds. But on the second night, shortly after midnight, the birthing mother awoke suddenly with a cry of terror in a voice unlike her own. She jumped out of bed, tearing one of the drapes that hung over it, and began running around the room in her nightgown, shouting:

“Where's my child? Who took him? Have mercy and return the child to me!”

The people in the house, including the midwife, were startled from their sleep. They turned on the lights and hurriedly guided the mother to the cradle. It was the same cradle that had held eight healthy souls, and now a perfect-faced baby was sleeping in it, sucking his lips as babies do. But she did not want to look at him. Some of the children huddled half-naked in a corner, weeping quietly and shivering from cold and fear, while their mother pushed away those who held her and shouted that the child was not hers. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed the baby. In her eyes, madness burned,

[Page 275]

as if she wanted to swallow him or throw him to the floor. They restrained her by force and laid her down on her bed. The melamed's wife and her two daughters held her throughout the night to prevent her from getting up again. The mother moaned and laughed, bit the pillow, the sheets, the hands that held her, and even her own hands. Foam streamed from her mouth as she pleaded:

“Where's my child? Return the child to me.”

In the morning, the physician was brought in, and he reassured the members of the household: It was childbirth madness, a common illness, and the woman would recover in a few days. All that remained was to continue the same careful watch, and for the time being, as a precaution, the infant should be moved to another room and a wet nurse hired for him. And so that is what they did. On the eighth day after the birth, the brit milah was performed according to religious law. Reb Kalman and one of the brothers were present for the event, and the child was named Mordechai Shraga in memory of the late Husiatyn tzaddik. Meanwhile, the mother was not cured of her madness and remained mentally unwell from that time on. Reb Meni'le and the melamed's wife traveled with her to visit Rebbe Dude'l–who had since moved to Brody–and they also visited a well-known physician in Lwów, but to no avail.

The mother would see the wet nurse holding the baby, yet she ignored the child, as if he were a stranger to her. Most days, she sat in a corner, shedding tears and clasping her fingers against her sagging bosom, quietly wailing to herself:

“Where is my child? When will they return my child?”

Her sons and daughters, both the older and the younger ones, gathered around her, caressed her, and cried and begged her for attention, but she treated them like strangers as well. She did not look at any of them and only repeated her lament, demanding that they return the stolen child, while tears streamed down her pale and gaunt cheeks.

Sometimes, she would go out to the yard and rummage through every corner and hiding place. She lifted pieces of wood and garden tools, searching diligently on her hands and knees. At other times, she ventured into the forest, walking around tree trunks and bending down to search among the twigs and fallen leaves. A stranger might have thought she was an old woman with a weary body looking for mushrooms or berries, but she was searching for her child, her nameless child. Meanwhile, her son, Mote'le, sat on the wet nurse's lap, moving his chubby legs and holding a large ball of yarn in his tiny hands, occasionally stuffing it into his toothless mouth.

This bitter ordeal added a few white hairs to Reb Meni'le's head and beard, and made him cling even more to his studies, to his friend the melamed, and to his piety and faith. The sadness and the softness of his face deepened further, though he had not yet reached the age of forty. 

Meni'le and his family remained in the forest for five more years. During those years, mad Nessie gave birth to two more sons, and her labors were very quiet. She showed no signs of experiencing pain, or perhaps she simply suppressed it, and she seemed indifferent to the newborns as if she had released stones from her womb.

They would then [Page 276]

take the baby from her and hand him to the gentile wet nurse, according to arrangements made weeks in advance. And so these children grew up while she continued searching for the child who had been kidnapped from her.

At that time, the number of people living in the house in the forest, apart from the two children being educated at the old man's house, had grown to twenty. That number included the wet nurse, the servants, and the melamed's family. As the number of residents increased, so too did the expenses and waste. The situation became even more precarious because the woman who managed the house was neither its owner nor a member of the family. Moreover, Reb Meni'le's generosity toward the tzaddik, the poor, and the public needs of the nearby town knew no bounds. Thus, by the end of the fifth year, all that remained of the large forest plot were scrawny, stunted, denuded and mangled junipers, alongside a few mounds of thin branches, twigs, and roots. When the “trustee” warned Reb Meni'le of this, he realized that he no longer had the means to support those dependent on him. Overwhelmed, he sat down and wrote a heartfelt letter to his father. He was confident that the “King of the Universe” would not abandon him, and that with the help of Reb Dude'l, salvation would soon arrive. After signing the letter, he entrusted it to one of the forest workers to deliver to his father, Reb Kalman, the cold and tyrannical estate owner who still ruled his estate with an iron fist.

In the spring of the twenty-second year of the Jegomoshets's residence on his estate, in the middle of the night on the Sunday following Easter, Bonifacy Markowski sat alone in his room, filled with anger and shaken to the core. In his frustration, he curled into his wide, leather-upholstered armchair and crossed his feet, which were nestled in the hide of a great leopard. With his eyes nearly closed, his double chin and lips trembled incessantly, as though three mouths were muttering without sound. His fingers fidgeted with a coral bead dangling at his side. Nearby, his noble, slender, amber-colored dog lay flat on the floor, its legs outstretched.

He was irritated for two reasons. A few days earlier, he had visited the estate of Count Ojeski at the count's invitation, and he was astonished by the grandeur and splendor he found there. What spaciousness! What a palace! What a farm! The estate encompassed over a thousand morga of cultivated grain fields. By comparison, his own estate and farm seemed like a worthless child's toy. Worse still, the count not only refrained from investing money in his estate, but earned substantial sums from it, which he spent each winter in the capitals of Europe. Markowski's estate, by contrast, consumed more than it produced, and was worth less than half of what he had invested in it. The ground seemed to shift beneath his feet, and his mind was filled with troubling and painful thoughts.

That day, he set out in his carriage for work at the church. An hour later, on his way home, he caught the scent of the fields awakening beneath the spring sun. He ordered his coachman to turn toward the fields, hoping to nourish his soul and find solace for his anger. When he finally arrived home, he discovered that the stable clerk had bred his prized mare “Diana” with the English horse instead of the Arabian horse.

[Page 277]

He had waited a whole year for this precise moment in the mare's cycle, which was late in coming. He had attached great importance to the results of the pairing, and informed the clerk of the plan sixty days earlier. But the loathsome fool, overwhelmed by the mare's fervent heat, could not wait for his master to return and bred her like a whore. Yes–like a whore, with the English horse, which was not meant for such a purpose. That grave mistake destroyed Bonifacy Markowski's months-long dream, leaving him with nothing to show for it. And what's more, that noble mare he had loved more than any other in his stable, like a woman, like a Madonna, suddenly disgusted him, as though she had been sullied by filth. He could not even bear to look at her. In his fury, he slapped the despicable stable clerk on both cheeks several times, making his nose bleed. Yet the priest's rage did not subside; it boiled within him like the blood of the “prophet” Zechariah, as described in Jewish texts. Everything he saw around him was shifting at its foundations. The building he had constructed with such love and careful planning appeared to be collapsing. Consumed by immense anger and pain, he dragged himself through his palace, moving from room to room and terrifying all of his servants and officials. He cursed and insulted them, striking some of them on the cheek. In his haste, he knocked over a valuable statue, breaking it in half.

Exhausted, he sank into his armchair and remained there, rigid and unmoving, until the sunlight faded from the large arched window. Outside, the trees extended their soft, budding branches into the violet air, and the calm of twilight settled in the room. After sitting like that for an hour, his loyal servant cautiously opened the door, stood for a few moments in the doorway, pale as a ghost, then crept forward on tiptoe to light the lamp. He bowed slightly and retreated. Next came the cook, who whispered an invitation to the evening meal laid out on the table in the dining hall. But the priest did not answer; he merely sat there, shrunken and still, sliding coral beads back and forth like a man condemned to sit until he turned to stone. He became aware of the evening darkness that had overtaken the entire palace, weighing down on its walls and windows as if part of a mysterious plot. As he listened openly to this soft pressure, he felt his anger begin to settle like a fine greenish metal dust, and a deep, cold calm washed over his hollowed being. Suddenly, with a swift movement, he raised his head upward on his short neck, turned to the side, and fixed his gaze on the bookcase covering the entire right wall. It was filled with rows of books, their fine bindings stamped with silver and gold inscriptions.

The gleaming letters on the spines resembled animals to him, running across the width of the bookcase, and this struck him as a promising sign. He then lifted his eyes to the upper shelf and saw, as if for the first time, the illustrations of da Vinci in all their splendor. A subtle yet relentless impulse stirred his mind. His gaze wandered through space as if searching for something. He rose heavily from the armchair, approached the bookcase, opened the glass doors, reached in, and withdrew the book Confessions by Saint Augustine (the Benedictine first edition, bound in pigskin with copper engraving along the edges). Carrying the book to his desk, he climbed into his armchair once more.

[Page 278]

As he opened the book beneath the lamp's light, he rested his head on his hands and began to immerse himself in its pages, soon becoming lost in thought. It had been more than fifteen years since he had read any of his religious or scholarly texts, having devoted himself entirely to improving his estate. The only books remaining on his desk were those on agriculture and art, which he consulted for practical purposes. He had neglected his spirituality and overlooked the need to nurture his soul.

He saw his crammed bookcase every day but never approached it, for he felt no need for the books. During all the years he had been there, he had never delivered a single sermon from a pulpit, aside from a few short eulogies and light blessings. So the book felt like a new discovery to him. The clear Latin, imbued with holiness, poured into his soul and illuminated it with clarity. He read and read, page after page, occasionally lifting his eyes from the greenish scrolls to let the words linger in his mind, like someone savoring an old wine, drawing out every flavor. He continued reading until the lamp ran out of kerosene and the light was extinguished. Then he lit one of the candles prepared in one of the tall, black candlesticks and went on reading. While the purebred roosters in the yard took turns crowing, each with its own distinct voice, he laid his head on the book and sank into deep contemplation. Shadows danced across the old furniture, the walls, the painted boards. And in the tall, arched window, in the darkness of the night, another lit candle and the skull of a man resting upon an open book were reflected. He raised his head and looked around in amazement, then stood up, took the candlestick in his cold hand, and went up the marble steps leading from the corner of the room to his sleeping quarters above. The dog rose and quietly followed him, but lay down at the door, not crossing the threshold. The priest removed his short velvet coat and, before lying down, sat at the edge of the bed, staring ahead, lost in wonder and without a single thought. And behold, a wondrous vision arose before him. Saint Augustine appeared upon the white plaster of the opposite wall, with a shining halo above his bald white head. He parted his lips and uttered the words of a familiar dialogue: “My wish is to know the Divine and the soul.”

Bonifacy asked, his voice filled with tears: “And no more?”

“Only that, and no more,” replied the holy man, a light of laughter spreading across his face; then he lowered his eyes and faded away.

As the vision faded, Bonifacy's thoughts began to stir. Yes, Saint Augustine had come to rescue him from the murky depths of worldly materialism. “Only that and no more” were the saint's words. Until now, he, God's servant, had been fully immersed in earthly life, pursuing imaginary possessions and abandoning the true possessions bound to the “Ultimate Being.” But now, the hour of his redemption had arrived. As he contemplated his repentance, he lowered his gaze to his puffy hands, noticing his short, swollen fingers and their withered skin. He raised his right palm and gently touched his face, tracing it slowly, feeling its cool softness. Then he raised it higher and ran his fingers over his temples and along the edges of his hair, smoothing his silky baldness.

[Page 279]

Everything was destined to decay and return to dust within ten or fifteen years, and he was no longer young. That past Christmas he had turned sixty and no one had wished him a happy birthday–no one even knew his birthday. He was a lonely man in this world. He had no brothers or sisters. Deep down he knew that his superior, the canon, hated him, though he spoke to him sweetly, with milk and honey beneath his tongue. He imagined how his thick leg bones would soon decompose and melt back into the earth. Perhaps one day he would suffer a heart attack. He continued to gain weight despite frequent riding; the rich foods he craved were clearly doing their work. He found it impossible to stop eating them; the flesh demanded and the palate seduced. On days when he did not feast on hearty meals, abundant in meats and wines, he became angry and sullen and struggled to manage his well-nurtured farm properly and faithfully.

And he did not realize that he was once again being ensnared by the same imaginary earthly possessions that haunted his soul. Indeed, as the word “farm” crossed his mind, his hidden wrath, lurking like a wild beast at the bottom of his soul, rose to the surface. He saw before him the clerk, his repentant face blinking in disbelief after the blows to his cheeks, blood flowing from his nose. This was the same clerk who had defiled his beloved mare with irreparable impurity. He very much wished for his vision to become reality, for the despicable man to stand before him, so that he could tear apart his loathsome smirk, knock him to the ground and trample him with the heels of his shoes. There is no mercy and no forgiveness for such a disgraceful abomination!–he told himself. He clenched his teeth, leapt from the bed and began running around the room again, and as he ran, he was frightened of himself.

Saint Augustine's shadow appeared once more. This time, he raised a finger to his nose with a threatening expression of affection. An angelic smile shone in his eyes and his lips parted like rose petals. In a barely audible whisper, he said: “Bonifacy, my son, why would you throw yourself into the arms of the devil?”

A cold sweat covered the Jegomoshets's face. With a groan, he threw himself onto the soft, silky bed, buried his face in his hands, and gnashed his teeth in great and agonizing mental pain.

He sat there for a few moments, trembling like a drowning man or someone lying on the edge of an abyss. When he lowered his hands from his face, his puffy lower lip hung like a lump, and saliva dripped from his mouth. One of those nervous attacks had seized him–the likes of which he experienced only once or twice a year–and he feared them with a primal fear, like that of a tortured animal.

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” he cried out in despair. A vast pity for himself swelled up in his heart. “Who am I, and what is the value of my life?” he continued, turning toward his shadow on the wall as it slid slowly beside the tall, wide, hideously ugly clock case. He stretched out his arms, and the shadow mirrored his movement. “Why did You give me this life, which until now has been a vessel of impurity in my hands? It has taken hold of me, even though I long with all my soul to be free of it.

Twenty-two years ago, I stood alone atop the Wawel Tower in Kraków, the city of the kings of our miserable nation,

[Page 280]

and I observed the throngs of people in the streets of the city below. When I raised my eyes to take in eternal nature–the nearby Vistula River and the distant fields–I felt a wave of disdain for my own insignificant existence. I thought, with a guarded heart, of my unrequited love for a woman who had slapped and rejected me, choosing instead a German major. I wanted to jump and put an end to my miserable life, but You, God, extended Your long hand, just as You did when a knife was held over the neck of the bound Isaac. You took hold of me and said:

Go forth and live life upon the earth, for so I command you!

I, who was ordained as a priest, unable to marry openly, came and dedicated myself to this land, where I live and govern. And I grew to love this land, nurturing her and coaxing forth her magnificent, everlasting splendor, as she became my beloved. I cherished her seeds as if they were my own and did not rest until I saw them flourish, radiant and glorious. All of my ancestral inheritance, bestowed upon me with love by my late father when I was still a young schoolboy, I have invested here, in this land, in my lover, my wife. Soon I will give her the remainder of my fortune, and I will have nothing left to offer her. And what have I achieved? What do I have now? What will save me from this horrible loneliness? Is there anyone who will love me? Do my servants understand my feelings? Will they genuinely care for me? The only thing that binds them to their humiliating servitude is their fear of me. I saw Franciszek and the pallor of his face and heard the cook's whisper. Deep down in my heart, I enjoyed this. But when all of this fades away, I will die–perhaps on this crimson bed–consumed by humiliating loneliness that has no equal…”

As he poured out his troubled heart and mournful soul, the face of the stable clerk appeared before him again, riding on the bare back of the disgusting mare, laughing and sticking out his tongue at his master. The mare too–horribile dictu–the mare was laughing as well, raising her tail impudently and exposing her detestable hindquarters. A painful rage gripped his entire body with bared claws and thousands of thin needles piercing his veins, from the tips of his toes to the top of his pitiful bald head.

If only someone would hand you over to me, you despicable dog, I would crush your odious head. Oh God, take away this wicked laughter from me! Take away my sinful soul! Hide me under your wings, Holy Father, Saint Augustine! My God, my God!

He fell from his full height onto the bed, his head coming to rest on his two outstretched arms near the headboard. And so he lay, his warm saliva dripping onto the fine soft wool of his sleeve. And his soul swayed amid stormy crises while, beneath it, the abyss roared with a thousand voices that both mocked and threatened at the same time. He searched for something to anchor his soul, something that would bring him peace.

When the summer was over, the window turned gray, and a chill filled the white room. The sounds of the farmyard rose up to him: the horses neighing, cows mooing, lambs baaing, farm birds clucking–and above all, the ringing of the bell calling people to work. From below too, from the kitchen, came the clanking of pots. Horses passed at a gallop along the lawn paths. Water spilled noisily

[Page 281]

from the pump. Pigeons fluttered around on the eaves of the roof. The birds sang. But in the mind of Bonifacy Markowski, as always, the decision stood clear and firm: he would sell the estate, and with its proceeds, build a small house of prayer in one of the remote villages, where he would settle and serve, to save his soul from the devil and to win favor from the wise and holy Saint Augustine.

The words of the dialogue passed through his ears again: “My wish is to know the Divine and the soul.”

“And no more?”

“Only that and no more.”

When the messenger arrived with the letter from Reb Meni'le, the three brothers were in the house of their father, Reb Kalman Hecker. They had gathered there to consult on a very important matter–namely what to do about the plot hatched by the Polish landowners, who had united in a single association to sell spirits produced in their distilleries at a fixed price imposed on buyers throughout the country. The Jewish landowners would neither benefit from nor be able to join the association. Though Reb Kalman was nearing eighty, neither his strength nor his resolve had waned. Through thin, bluish lips, he still imparted sound advice and his sons and his son-in-law, who revered his wisdom, sat and absorbed his words as if they were drawn from the Urim and Thummim.^[10] Throughout his life, he worked hard, found success, and held a position of supremacy in the eyes of those huddled in his shadow. And when the gentile delivered the letter, the old man, having recognized the handwriting of his son Meni'le from a distance, took it in his trembling hand. Angrily, he folded it carefully and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he waved his empty hand in the air and said through parted lips: “Meni'le has found time to write letters! But let us return to the matter at hand. You say it is possible to adulterate the spirit and sell it for fuel so it will be exempt from customs fees. That is a fine suggestion. So, the good horse will be harnessed to the repaired cart again. That is what we will do, with God's help! Thank God the Jewish mind has not dried up yet.”

They continued their conversation seated on a bare bench on the wide terrace, while large field flies thrashed and buzzed against the sun-drenched windowpanes. When the conversation ended, the old man drew the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. He held it at a distance from his eyes, turned it toward the sunlight and said: “Ni, now I have to read what our idler wants again.”

He read the letter aloud, but the further he read, the more unsteady his voice became. When he reached the end, he placed the letter beside him on the bench, too affected to utter a word. After a few minutes, he recovered and said: “So the meaning of these words is that we must begin again and find him a new source of income.

[Page 282]

No! Absolutely not!” he burst out. “This time, I will tie him to an empty trough, and he will stand there until his hooves wear out. The nerve of a loafer who fritters away his life!”

He ordered his horses to be harnessed (and his sons sent home) and rode straight to the forest, arriving there three hours later. He acted without delay. First, he expelled the melamed and his family. They tried to protest–Reb Chaim'el with pleading, his wife with brazenness–but the old man stomped his trembling foot so forcefully that they fled in two wagons that stood there ready to haul wood. He ordered the “trustee” to make a full inventory of every tree on the property, both standing and felled, including twigs and roots, and to send all proceeds from the sale of wood to him once a week and to no one else from that day forward. To Meni'le, he said he would send five large wagons to transport him, his family, and all their belongings to the nearby town. There, he would rent a small three-room apartment for the entire household, and Reb Kalman would send ten crowns a week for household expenses, and no more.

“Do you hear me? You will not receive a single penny more! And from that, you will also pay for the children's tuition. The reckless spending and the squandering of my fortune end here. Do you understand? I am the one who earned every penny with my own bitter sweat. From now on, your second son, Shamai, will manage the household and have the final say in everything. Enough with the waste! Enough with the foolishness!”

The decree came from the ruler and could not be undone. Words were useless; there was nothing else to be said. Outside, mad Nessie wandered in front of the house with arms outstretched, weeping for the child who had been snatched away and never seen again. Reb Kalman emerged from the house, his face hard with anger, and the coachman helped him climb into the two-wheeled carriage. Inside, Meni'le sat at the edge of the table, pain clouding his eyes–not for the eleven souls in the house, but like a child who had misbehaved and was being punished by his father.

Since moving to the town, Meni'le's life had grown dark. Charity had ended, Torah studies with Reb Chaim'el were over, and visits to the Rebbe three times a year had ceased. The household was burdened by hardship, and there was always some persistent creditor demanding payment, yet Reb Meni'le never ceased to trust in God and in his righteous Rebbe Dude'l. When he was in Brody, one of his brothers secretly sent him ten crowns–enough for one final visit to the Rebbe. He poured out his troubles to the tzaddik from a written note, and then of his own accord added: “This, too, is for the best! My father is angry with me, and rightly so. I deserve the suffering that has come upon me and my household.”

The tzaddik consoled him, lowering his gaze to the table and making a noble gesture with his hand. In a voice trembling with emotion, he said:

Look, Meni'le. We are now almost equally miserable. You have a sick wife, and I too have a sick wife. You have eleven children–may they multiply–while I have ten. You earn nothing, and neither do I. I am adrift and wander and you are also adrift and wander. You have an angry father on earth, and though my father died when I was a child, I have an angry father in heaven. Yet your life is easier than mine, for in your soul there is the spark of Nachum Ish Gamzu,^[11] but I cannot accept my suffering with love. Just as I am confident that my father in heaven will have mercy on me,

[Page 283]

so too I am confident that your father on earth will overcome his anger and treat you kindly as before. As it is written: For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, just as a father corrects a son in whom he delights.^[12] Do not despair of mercy; I will pray for you.

Reb Meni'le was deeply moved by these words and asked to kiss the righteous and pure hand of the unfortunate tzaddik. The tzaddik hurriedly waved his other hand in a gesture of refusal, leaving Reb Meni'le to content himself with a sigh that seemed to fill half his body.

Upon returning home, Reb Meni'le immersed himself in Torah, prayer, and a Chassidic way of life. Each day, he would rise early and rush to the mikveh without even tasting the hot morning meal. Then he would hurry to the kloyz where he would study a lesson of Gemara and pray with the third minyan until midday. After the prayer, he would remain with the distinguished Chassidim and enjoy the tikkun sponsored by one of the Chassidim honoring a relative's yahrzeit.^[13] The synagogue caretaker would serve dry buckwheat biscuits, and the Chassidim would stand reverently around the table, sipping a bit of schnapps. They would ask for an aliyah for the soul of the departed, and recount sweet tales and Torah teachings in gentle, melodic tones, until the world and all its troubles were forgotten.

Every Sunday, a messenger sent by Reb Kalman would come by carriage or by horseback and bring ten crowns and some provisions to the young Shamai, who was entrusted with managing all of the household's affairs. With this money, he needed to feed and nourish everyone in the household, clothe them and shoe them, stoke the stove through the cold winter months, and pay the tuition for the boys' Torah studies. He also needed to employ a maidservant and a cook, for there was no mother in the home and no housekeeper of sound mind to watch over the children and care for their needs. Their clothes were worn and their shoes torn. They wandered the streets barefoot and left to their own devices because they did not have a father looking after them. No one truly knew whether they were attending cheder^[14] or spending their days in mischief. The two eldest daughters would help the maid, but the tumult and disorder were overwhelming, and there was not a single clean corner in the house. Neighbors would pass by and look with compassionate eyes and concerned faces at the “living orphans,” yet they would not step inside to lend a hand or to offer advice, for they were afraid of the madwoman.

Nessie was very quiet and did not stray far from the house. She would walk around it, examining both its foundations and the fence, searching for the child. Her young children had grown indifferent to her and mocked her, especially the one whose birth had shattered her mind. He was a wild, heartless creature who tormented her and deceived her. He would suddenly call out in a feigned tone: “Mother! I found the child!” The poor woman would suddenly light up and, with renewed strength and eyes gleaming with hope, straighten her back and run to her son with outstretched arms. But a moment later she would be crushed and bent over again, more broken than before. The mischievous boy knew how to mimic the cry of a baby, and several times a day he would utter that cry to deceive her. At first, the sound would rouse her, and she would perk up her ears and follow it. But once she grew accustomed to the voice, she recognized the imitation and no longer responded. Still, he did not cease this petty torment. Only the older boy–a noble-hearted and gentle-faced creature who was born after the disaster at the mill–would look upon his unfortunate mother with compassion and try to save her from the hands of his cruel brother. Sooner or later, though, he would run out of strength. Reb Meni'le sometimes sensed

[Page 284]

what was happening at home, but feeling powerless to do anything about it, he would hurry out of the house. When he returned, he would gently stroke the children's heads, as a stranger might, hoping to calm them, but his efforts had little effect. They accepted his caressing with reluctance and laughter, and more than once stuck their tongues out at him. When that happened, one of the older boys would chase after the boy who had mocked his father and strike him mercilessly. Such commotion in the house eventually left Reb Meni'le with no other choice but to flee to the kloyz again.

This situation lasted about two years. Reb Meni'le's hair turned white, and a sickly flush spread across the curves of his cheeks. His Shabbat clothes were worn, and the crown of his tallit had yellowed and begun to peel. Only two of his garments remained in good condition: his precious sable cloak and his magnificent marten-fur shtreimel. When he walked to the kloyz on Shabbat, it was a pity to see, beneath his cloak, the frayed hem of his trousers and his tattered and dirty shoes.

But we will not dwell on the description of these sorrowful scenes. In the third year that Reb Meni'le was living in the town in poverty, Reb Kalman's late wife came to him in a dream, and she, who in her life had been a submissive wife, always yielding to her husband's wishes, scolded him harshly for his cruelty toward their naïve and honest son, Meni'le. Before she faded away, she warned him that unless he promised to be kind to their son, she would plead before the Throne of Glory to have his days on earth cut short.

The dream terrified Reb Kalman, who still wanted to live a long life. The next morning, he awoke feeling ill and sighed heavily. His daughter hurried in with warm milk and covered him with an extra blanket, but still he trembled and lay in bed until noon. Fear and sorrow hung over the house. They considered calling a physician, but by noon he arose feeling refreshed and went out into the yard. He walked around talking to himself, pondering what to do with Meni'le, whom he had tormented for more than two years.

As he paced back and forth in the yard while the servants scurried about preparing for their work under his watchful eye, Reb Kalman saw a long-legged Jew coming up the road to the estate, the corners of his green kapote^[15] tucked into his belt. As the man walked and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he spoke to himself, and it seemed he was carrying a matter of great weight and importance with him.

After a sleepless night, the priest Bonifacy rose from his bed and came down from his sleeping quarters. Two bluish bags hung under his reddened eyes. He sat at his desk, put aside the book of Saint Augustine, dipped his heavy pen into the inkwell, and wrote a few words on a piece of paper. He rang the bell, and when the servant Franciszek entered, he handed him the dismissal note to deliver to the stable clerk. He rang again and ordered the cook to bring him coffee with champagne, and lots of pretzels with butter. After he had eaten and drunk his fill,

[Page 285]

he sank comfortably into his armchair and smoked a Cuban cigar. Ringing the bell for a third time, he ordered Franciszek to ride into town and bring the tall Jewish agent immediately.

The servant stood there, waiting for further instructions.

“Yes, Franciszek. It's all right–bring him in here to my room.”

And half an hour later, Reb Aharon Tzviling was in the private chamber of the Jegomoshets. Though Reb Aharon was accustomed to being in the homes of wealthy landowners and counts, despite his lack of success in business, he could not control his anxiety and summon the calm and cultured expression he so desired. He perched lightly on the edge of an upholstered chair, and his eyes wandered incessantly about the lavishly furnished room. He fought the urge to look upward, but his eyes rose anyway to the frescoed ceiling. Finally, the bookcase offered his eyes a place to rest. Though he tried to concentrate fully on the priest's words, his mind still wandered, and he absorbed them only in fragments. When he heard that the priest wanted to sell his estate immediately, a joy truly filled every chamber of his soul, and at once he envisioned the sum that would come to him from the transaction. But he was flustered and confused and unable to find the right words to respond to the priest. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and the words he did manage to utter were poorly chosen and ill-timed.

When he stepped out into the garden, the world seemed to be playing and dancing before him: the broad lawns, the trees trimmed into various shapes, the flowering shrubs, the painted posts, the colorful glass orbs scattered among the flowerbeds, and the carved wooden arbors shaded by delicate tangles. Fountains sent up jets and fine sprays of water, while the marble benches gleamed white in the sun. Above all, the palace stood lofty and towering, built in a light and graceful style, as though it could be lifted and moved by hand. Beyond the palace garden, some fifty steps away, lay the farmyard with its new, spotless buildings. And from there came the gentle bustle of life and freshness: the jingling of bridles, the clucking of farm birds, and the soft cooing of doves, all teeming with sound, whispering a blessing of plenty. A long row of open doorways was visible in the low, vented red-brick cowshed–then empty, as the cows had gone out to the pasture. About a dozen fine saddles were mounted on a long pole. Within a wire-mesh enclosure, a forest doe stood spellbound, watching the people approaching her.

The priest walked to Reb Aharon's right, followed by the long, thin, amber-colored dog. With each step, the Jegomoshets seemed shorter and more insignificant, so unlike when he rode in his carriage of honor or sat in the armchair in his chamber. His clothes were wrinkled, and one leg of his trousers rode slightly above his shoe, causing the tongue of the blue shoe to protrude.

Reb Aharon had already grown indifferent to the priest, as though the priest were no longer the owner of the estate. His mind raced feverishly, searching for a buyer who could move quickly and finalize a deal before the priest changed his mind; there was madness in this, no doubt. For that, a buyer with cash was needed… And as he considered the options, the name Kalman Hecker suddenly flashed through his mind. A surge of joy swept over him. It had to be he–and no other!

[Page 286]

That old Jew was “covered with gold” and seemingly made for this purpose. This thought instantly restored Reb Aharon's confidence. When the Jegomoshets saw him off at the gate, he asked with a hint of concern:

“Well then, Aharonia–has he set his sights on a respectable buyer?”

Reb Aharon answered calmly, “In any case, Jegomoshets, the matter is well within reach,” he laughed with the necessary degree of politeness. “The details will be clear within a day or so, at the latest.”

“You can bring the buyer straight to the estate. I'm always home.”

“With your permission, Jegomoshets.”

Reb Aharon went that same day, at noon, to visit the estate of Reb Kalman Hecker.

The old man greeted him with great seriousness and a troubled expression. His face had an unusual softness, as if he had been suffering for several days from a stomach ailment. Reb Aharon stroked his beard and said that this time he had very important business to discuss. Reb Kalman led him out onto the large terrace, where they sat on a bare bench, and with a wink, asked to hear the proposal. After Reb Aharon finished speaking, the old man, who had been sitting there with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe, replied:

“What is there to discuss? We must go and see.”

Reb Kalman instructed the servant to harness two horses to the new carriage, and after Reb Aharon drank three glasses of cold milk in the kitchen, the two of them climbed into the carriage and set out for the nearby estate to pick up Reb Kalman's eldest son. From there, the three of them traveled on to the town and to the estate of the priest Bonifacy Markowski.

As evening approached, the herd returned from the pasture, and the small children came home from the Jewish school. The town saw the tall, spacious carriage of honor, drawn by two pairs of horses, passing as always, as though it were gliding through a mythical journey. Inside the carriage, the priest sat in the middle; to his right was a very small, old, and wrinkled Jew, swaying his head as if dozing, and on his left sat a distinguished-looking Jew with a trimmed beard and a healthy face. On the bench next to the formally dressed and upright coachman, alternately sitting and standing, was Reb Aharon, the well-known broker–the joker and schlemiel–casting glances all around as if to proclaim: “Look, beggars, see how far a diligent Jew can go! We're heading to the notary–be envious, be envious!”

That same evening, after the Maariv prayer, a few avrechim^[16] remained at the kloyz and, with the meticulousness of scholars, unraveled, line by line, the details of the contract penned and sealed by the notary–a deed concerning the priest's estate, sold in perpetuity to Kalman for his son, Meni'le. (Where did they get all these details? The wall had ears–and Aharon Tzviling could not keep a secret.) The priest would have to vacate the estate entirely within four weeks of signing the contract. Excluding the personal property inside the palace, all buildings, fields, and most of the livestock and tools would pass into the hands of Reb Kalman for his son.

[Page 287]

Beginning on the Sunday of the following week, the seller would retain only a portion of the livestock and tools (as specified in a separate list), along with all the furniture and would be required to remove these items within the aforementioned four-week period. The buyer's son and his family would move into the eastern half of the palace, which faced the gate. The seller would continue to reside in the other half of the building until the end of the four-week period. During that time, the buyer or his representative would have full permission to utilize all fixed and movable assets that were to be transferred to him. The seller would not be able to prevent such use or interfere with any modifications that might be made, whether this involved adding or removing items, or constructing or demolishing anything. Neither the buyer nor his representative would have access, during the four-week period, to the yard, the western part of the palace, or the areas marked with red crosses on an attached diagram, without specific permission. These places would remain the private property of the seller until the end of the period. The sale price of the estate was fifty thousand crowns, payable in cash, with half due upon signing the contract, and the remaining half due upon the seller's departure from the estate. If, at the end of the four-week period, the seller were to leave behind all movable and immovable property listed in an attached inventory (excluding the contents of the palace), the buyer would add an additional seven thousand crowns in cash to the payment of twenty-five thousand crowns already made. In this way, the entire estate, along with its contents (except for the items inside the palace, etc.), would become the property of the buyer, Kalman Hecker, for his son, Meni'le Hecker. As witnessed, the undersigned affixed their signatures, etc., etc.

And so it came to pass–the priest Bonifacy Markowski, who for twenty-two years had invested five thousand crowns annually to enrich and elevate the estate, an estate that no woman or Jew had set foot on from the day he took up residence, sold all of his property to a simple Jew, Reb Kalman Hecker, a miserly and disheveled old man. And within a few days, the son of this ragged Jew, the Chassid Reb Meni'le, would arrive with his entourage: his large family, his crazy wife, and a special melamed with his family. (Every detail was known in town!) He would do as he pleased with the estate and treat it as his own.

Alas, how great are the deeds of our God! Who could have foretold such an outcome? And all this was orchestrated by that deceitful schlemiel with his smooth talk and sharp tongue. Oh, this Reb Aharon–from now on, he must be treated with respect and decency. If we were to calculate it, wait a minute, how much commission was involved in this transaction? The estate was priced at fifty thousand crowns, and if the seller were to part with more of his inventory, that would be another five thousand.^[17] Let us say he received the customary broker's fee–five for every hundred–that would amount to twenty-five hundred crowns and possibly an additional two hundred fifty. And then to go and speak to him! You would have to take off your hat before him. Can you imagine the arrogance that would seize him? Already, as he sits on the coachman's bench, he looks like a billy goat transformed into the head of the community. And yet he had prophesied it and knew the truth of his words. Do you remember? He said: “Perhaps we will pray in the priest's palace with a proper minyan.”

[Page 288]

You heard there was a Torah scroll in Reb Meni'le's house, and that he could certainly hold a minyan there. And why not? The household members alone could form a minyan, and if one or two were away, they could surely find someone else within half a techum Shabbat to join them. Just imagine the kiddush refreshments that would be served! Though surely you've heard that his wife has a mixed-up mind, God help us. Alas, such a dear Jew and an enthusiastic Chassid, a man devoted to Torah and a son of the wealthy–and yet such calamity had befallen him!

“He already bought a house.”

“Who, Reb Meni'le?”

“Fool! Why would Meni'le need a house when he already has a palace? I meant Reb Aharon.”

“Whose house did he buy?”

“Some say the tax collector's house, some say the butcher's house, and some say the house of Shoninski–‘the one who strikes pigs.’”

“He can do anything! He can make walls draw together. They say the old man Hecker promised to buy him an expensive shtreimel on top of his commission.”

“Maybe even a gold chain, and he might even arrange for him to marry his granddaughter.”

“Dirt on your mouth, you old rascal!”

“He has eleven sons.”

“Who? Reb Aharon?”

“Reb Meni'le, you idiot. Ah, he's a fiery Chassid! He travels three times a year to the tzaddik Rebbe Dude'l.”

“Ah, he found himself a tzaddik!”

“So what? Isn't Rebbe Dude'l from the Ruzhiner line?”

“That's what they say.”

“Yes, and his wife has been bedridden for the last ten years. May God have mercy. Knock on wood.”

“Ignoramus! One does not spit on the rebbetzin.”

“Quiet! We completely forgot–what will the priest do?”

“He'll convert!”

“He'll marry Alteh Leah, the chicken seller.”

“He'll go to Paris.”

“And dance there with prostitutes.”

“What difference does it make? Let him be the penance of Israel.”

“Perhaps you should offer him a partnership in your rag business?”

“Listen, we should try to go in there now that it's permitted. Let's go–what's the harm? Maybe we'll make a few coins from it.”

“They say he came back from the notary and locked himself in his apartment.”

[Page 289]

“What do you mean by ‘locked’? We'll knock on the door until he opens it.”

“You're forgetting he has dogs.”

“He only has one dog and it never barks.”

“They say he's got a room full of weapons.”

“A priest with weapons? That's impossible.”

“Oh, I have to go home now or I'll never hear the end of it from my wife.”

“It's starting to rain.”

“On Reb Meni'le's fields.”

“Ah, a new scent of rain.”

“May God send him blessings!”

“May he be blessed with heaven's dew and earth's abundance!”

At ten o'clock in the morning, Reb Meni'le and his household arrived at the estate in three large wagons packed with furniture, kitchen utensils, bedding, a Holy Ark, and people–men, women, and children. Among them were the melamed Reb Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh, his wife, and their daughters. Having heard of the estate purchase, Reb Chaim'el hurried to speak with Reb Meni'le, and it was agreed that he and his family would also take up residence there.

When the wagons arrived, groaning and creaking, they stood in a line at the gate, one behind the other, and a short distance behind them boys from the cheder–who had temporarily abandoned their studies–followed along to satisfy their curiosity. Nuta, Meni'le's eldest son, who had spent the last few years at his grandfather's estate, jumped down from the first wagon (dressed in shorts, gaiters on his legs, and a whip in his hand) and knocked on the iron gate. The old servant, Franciszek, came, peered through the guard shack, opened the gate, and silently handed the key to the young man. One by one, the wagons entered. The hearts of all those sitting in them–though perhaps not the heart of the troubled woman–quivered with fear. The palace courtyard was silent. Not a single person, beast, or bird could be seen; not even a dog bared its tongue at the newcomers. The palace gleamed in the sunlight, while the farmyard lay on a slope, appearing at once abandoned and enchanted. In the flat square before the palace entrance, several colored sticks had been planted in the fine, clean gravel to mark the priest's domain until his complete departure. And none of those sitting atop the wagons' loads dared to climb down or even move a muscle. Meanwhile, the young man, Nuta, approached the horses of the first wagon, patted their cheeks on each side, and ordered the passengers to come down. Reb Chaim'el was the first to jump down. His long bekishe^[18] caught on the wagon, and he nearly fell, but after a few stumbles he found his footing. He rubbed his hands together and lifted his eyes to Reb Meni'le:

“Well, Reb Meni'le, you should come down and recite the Shehecheyanu. Malka, why are you still sitting there? What a kingdom this is! No one's ever seen anything like this!”

[Page 290]

Then all the members of the household began to slide down one after the other–first the grown-ups, then the older children, and finally the littlest ones. The madwoman came down last with the help of Malka, the melamed's wife. She did not look at the grounds or the palace, instead, she immediately began searching beneath the wagons, never moving away from them. Meanwhile, Mote'le, the mischievous child, rushed to her, grabbed the hem of her dress, and pulled her toward the center of the square.

At the palace entrance, the old servant appeared again, his pale and wrinkled face set between two beard-like sideburns. He stood tall and polite, a glimmer like a tear shining in his eyes. He waited for the newcomers to ascend the stairs to the entryway. Nuta was the first to climb, and Franciszek showed him the way, pointing to the eastern side of the building:

“Please,” he said.

The rest of the household followed in a long line: at the head was Reb Meni'le, followed by the melamed, his wife, and their two daughters (who accompanied the madwoman, Nessie). Behind them came Reb Meni'le's other daughters and sons, the older and the younger alike. A few minutes later, the madwoman slipped back outside alone to resume her search around and beneath the wagons, drawing laughter from the coachmen. Nuta then hurried out, followed by two of his brothers, and began instructing the coachmen to unload the belongings. Work began, and the courtyard filled with activity. The square soon filled with furniture, tools, packages, hay, papers, and rags. The horses were fed fodder from sacks, and they snorted and relieved themselves. Suddenly one of the mares pricked up her ears and whinnied; from the farmyard stable came a loud neigh in response–the neigh of perhaps an Arabian or an English horse. This sound startled all the newcomers, who paused for a moment to see if anyone was approaching. From the side of the palace where the new owners had entered, a window opened with a clatter, and Reb Chaim'el poked his head out, blowing his nose with a loud, trumpeting sound. Malka's voice was already echoing through the large rooms. Meanwhile, the madwoman sat on a stone at the edge of a flowerbed, staring straight ahead with an expression of sorrowful amazement. Two children stepped away and stood peering through the mesh fence into the farmyard.

“Where is he?” Shamai asked Nuta.

“He went off in the four-in-hand,”^[19] Nuta answered reluctantly. “But that's none of your business. Just make sure they don't break the legs of the furniture.”

A Polish agent dressed in a shiny leather coat and tall, polished chaps approached from the farmyard. He observed the newcomers and their actions, shook his head, walked among the wagons and the scattered belongings a couple of times, and then returned to the farmyard.

A heavy mood hung in the air. Something immense and strange weighed on the heart, and every movement felt constrained. If only he were here. But he had gone–and who knew what he would do when he returned? They all felt as if they had swallowed something that, until that moment, had been under a magic spell. Would harm befall them? Heaven forbid.

And then they carefully lowered the small Holy Ark.

[Page 291]

Reb Meni'le and Reb Chaim'el rushed outside and took hold of its horns, but it was the sons who bore most of the weight, lifting it carefully up the stairs. With hearts pounding, they carried the Holy Ark into the first room, and only then did a slight relief come over them, as though a protective shield had wrapped itself around them.

The delicate-faced boy walked around the house to the area marked with sticks, as if searching for something, perhaps a holy statue or a cross. All that morning, a heaviness had weighed on his heart, almost to the point of bursting, but finding nothing, he too felt a quiet relief.

Slowly, all the household's belongings were brought inside. The melamed's wife stepped outside, took Nessie by the hand and, with gentle, coaxing words, led her indoors. Then the children were all called in. The horse-drawn wagons turned around and departed, leaving behind only the horses' footprints and the wagons' wheel ruts. Bits of straw and shreds of rope also lay scattered about.

When the priest Bonifacy Markowski returned in his carriage at noon, he saw a long rope stretched between two trees in the garden, with clothes of all sizes and colors hanging to dry. On the upper landing to the right stood an unclean samovar with smoke rising from its chimney. Franciszek hurried to the carriage and opened the door. The priest squinted his eyes beneath his furrowed brows, descended slowly, and ordered the coachman to take the horses and carriage to the farmyard. He then went up the steps ahead of his servant and disappeared into the house.

The next morning, the bustle began in the courtyard. The eldest son, Nuta, had brought in some hired hands from neighboring farms and hurried from place to place with them, directing them to various tasks. The children filled every corner of the garden and courtyard outside the marked area, their sidelocks and fringes fluttering as they leapt and shouted to one another in their own playful chatter. One child climbed a tree and called out, “Cuckoo” from among the branches. Once again, the samovar was set up on the upper landing, sending up plumes of smoke, while inside, the clatter of dishes could be heard. Then the maid, her hair disheveled, emerged, and set some pots, pans, and kettles on the clean gravel beside the pump. She dropped to her knees and began scouring them against the gravel with such force that her entire heavy body swayed. One of the hired men carried a bucket of water into the house, sloshing the water endlessly and wetting every step. From the open window rose the chant of Reb Meni'le's teachings, the melamed's thin voice blending and rising with it. The delicate-faced boy wandered among the flowerbeds and trees until he reached the greenhouse. He looked up and down, all around, as he held a small book with his finger between the pages–no doubt, Josippon^[20] or Bechinot Olam.^[21] Malka, the melamed's wife, had already gone to the farmyard several times, returning with eggs from the chicken coop, milk and vegetables. One of her daughters went out alone as well, but came back a few minutes later screaming in a panic: the paritz^[22] had tried to embrace her. She had slipped from his grasp, and he managed only to pinch her arm. Pulling back her narrow sleeve, she showed the bluish mark. Her mother scolded her and forbade her from leaving the house again. Meanwhile, Nessie wandered near the palace, wrapped in a large sweater that dragged along on the ground. She was hunched over and trembling as though it were winter, and her eyes burned with sorrow as she searched the surrounding area.

[Page 292]

Once she even crossed beyond the marked boundaries, but her delicate-faced son quickly rushed over, took her hand, and guided her back.

“We're not allowed to go there, Mother; there's a dog over there,” he coaxed her gently.

She followed him until he seated her on the landing.

At ten in the morning, Franciszek knocked on the door of Reb Meni'le's Torah room. When he was invited inside, he delivered a request from the Jegomoshets to reduce the noise a bit.

“Right away, sir!” Reb Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh responded, leaping to attention.

He turned to the open window and shouted for everyone to quiet down. Drawn by the noise, Nuta came over and asked what had happened, and once the situation became clear to him, he turned away and muttered:

“Strange. How can one run a farm without noise?”

Then he walked off.

Half an hour later, the four-horse carriage stood waiting before the palace gate. The priest emerged with his servant, and with the bearing of a distinguished rabbi–with all due respect–glanced neither right nor left. He walked straight through the courtyard and departed. At noon, people began to arrive, Jews and non-Jews alike, walking through the farmyard with the agent in the leather coat. Later, wagons and porters were brought in to remove all manner of things, living and inanimate. Two hours later, the priest returned, circled around the farmyard in his carriage, and once again exited through the gate. The boy perched in the tree announced that he could see the carriage moving through the wheat fields.

Perlmutter, the steward appointed by Reb Kalman to manage the affairs of the estate, arrived in the afternoon and went straight to the stable where he chose a horse for himself. After giving orders for it to be saddled, he mounted it and galloped through the courtyard and garden, racing back and forth across the lawns. Then he rode out the gate, continued for some distance, raising clouds of dust, and finally returned to the yard. His face was flushed with excitement as he dismounted. He patted the horse's neck and muzzle, and smiled with satisfaction.

“Have you picked a horse for yourself yet?” he asked Nuta. “Choose one. There are some excellent ones among our horses too. Their feeding! Their cleanliness! Why, in a month, they won't be recognizable. Have you seen the harnesses?”

Nuta blinked and hesitated for a moment before answering, “We'll have to send two to my uncles, Rafael and Michal. They love fine horses and would be happy with the gift. When do we start working in the fields?”

“Today I need to see what we have here. I'll speak to the workers, walk through the fields, and see what needs to be done. The old man ordered clover planted in the fallow fields. Hopefully, the clover seeds will be reasonably priced this year. How is your father?”

“Father?” the young man answered, “He's studying with Reb Chaim'el. Leave him be! I'll be the master of the house.”

As they spoke, the priest appeared again. They fell silent and watched him. This time, he stepped down from the chariot and walked up to his apartment.

[Page 293]

“This is his lunchtime,” the steward said with a wink.

“He doesn't even utter a single word, as if his mouth were full of water,” commented Nuta. “He's probably unhappy that we're here in his domain. He already sent word this morning demanding quiet. In a day or two, he'll be hearing noises unlike anything he's ever heard in his life.”

“When is he vacating this place?”

“According to the contract, in about three and a half weeks. But it looks like we'll drive him out before that.”

“Such a fortune has been invested here! Everything is new, strong, of superior quality, and chosen with care. Have you seen the tool shed by the stable? The cows stand on a concrete floor, there are blankets for them, the troughs are coated with zinc, and heating pipes run everywhere.”

Suddenly, a long, rasping whistle tore through the square. The two men turned, slightly startled, just as an impudent boy dashed across the square, carrying a fresh chicken windpipe in his mouth. He blew into it with all his might, causing it to quiver in the air. Nuta ran after him, grabbed him from behind, and pinned both his arms tightly. He yanked the windpipe from the boy's mouth and struck him across the face with it several times. When Nuta let go, the boy kicked him in the behind and fled. The steward remained where he was, eyes fixed on the second floor of the palace. The priest's apartment was silent and its curtains were drawn.

The madwoman sat down on a stone and chanted a secret lament. The cook came out and called all the children by name to come inside for tea. Her voice echoed strangely throughout the courtyard. The steward, too, stepped inside.

Day by day, the noise in the courtyard of the estate grew. Reb Chaim'el Ruach Hasadeh surveyed every corner, letting nothing escape his notice. He confidently offered advice to both Nuta and the steward. Meanwhile, Reb Meni'le himself strolled along the footpaths in his new yarmulke, his tzitzit fluttering over his short trousers, tied just below the knees, humming a Chassidic “movement” to himself. Reb Chaim'el's wife assumed her role as well and loudly quarreled with her daughters and Reb Meni'le's sons. The boys were mischievous and did not want to study. The girls shrieked at their brothers' mischievous pranks. Nessie walked among the people and buildings like a bent shadow, careful never to stray too far from the house. Buyers arrived, negotiating with the agent as they hauled away livestock, poultry, and various objects. Carts and wagons entered the courtyard empty and left full. Beggars, charity workers, and petty brokers streamed endlessly in and out. Only Reb Aharon had not shown his face. The steward had already taken control of all the work, galloping about on his horse all day, with Nuta following him on his own horse. In the farmyard and even in the garden, broken wheels, machine parts, and empty sacks lay scattered about. Laundry multiplied on the line, while from the cooking quarters came the thud of a cleaver, the sizzle of frying, and sharp, pungent smells that filled the air. The number of new laborers increased daily. Bonifacy Markowski spent most of his time in his carriage enjoying the beautiful weather,

[Page 294]

calm, without wind and free of rain. Sometimes, he would hold an open book in his hand and read as he traveled. Each time he returned, he would circle the palace, tour the fields, and then make his way back to the palace. But he never once set foot in the farmyard. People in town saw him passing through during those days, yet he no longer kept to his former routine.

“Poor thing! Cast out like a bird from its nest,” said the grown daughter.

“Who forced him to sell his estate?” the mother replied, justifying his fate.

“Madness took hold of him. That's how they are,” explained the father.

“I hope it doesn't harm Reb Meni'le,” prayed the neighbor.

“A kosher Jew.”

“A great charitable man. The poor are always at his house.”

“The courtyard is full of Jews. They serve them sour milk–as much as they can drink.”

“Relief and salvation are coming to the community. Maybe he'll even fix the bathhouse.“

“The house dedication will be on Shabbat.”

“He has a Torah scroll. There'll be a minyan.”

“The entire community is planning to go.”

“We should go too. I've never been there.”

“It's worth it. There's plenty to see there.”

“Not as much as there was in the priest's time.”

“They'll diminish the contents even further, God willing. Jews!”

“It's the truth. Reb Meni'le is an idler–with all due respect.”

“They say he's already gone through a good portion of the old man's money.”

“He studies Torah. It's a pleasure to listen to him.”

“He goes to the mikveh every day.”

“He has a melamed just for himself.”

“Have you heard what they call him? Ruach Hasadeh. Nothing in his head but air.”

“A Husiatyn Chassid. But apparently, a fine leech.”

“He and his whole family are sitting on Reb Meni'le's neck.”

“The grain in the fields–no eye has seen such a sight. This will be a year of blessing.”

“Kalman Hecker–he's a lucky man. Everything he touches turns to gold.”

“But the madwoman, may such a fate never befall us. They say she's searching for a child.”

“Her madness came from a fire.”

”No, from a difficult birth.”

“No, from a lightning strike that hit their house in the forest.”

[Page 295]

“If only he comes out of this in one piece. The priest roams around there all day as if he's scheming something.”

“Aharon Tzviling says he's going out of his mind with remorse.”

“Oh, to live under one roof with a priest!…”

Immediately following the sale of his estate, before Reb Meni'le moved into the palace, a great sadness fell upon Bonifacy Markowski. Like hot venom, it seeped through him, weighing upon every chamber of his soul, and he found no rest. Though he had steeled his spirit and set before his eyes the picture of the village church together with its small, faithful congregation, he could not banish the vision of his beloved estate–withering and ruined. And when the Jews arrived, filling the courtyard and the palace with their clamor and commotion, the cup overflowed.

The fat of his flesh had visibly melted away. Where once there had been two chins, only one remained, while the other hung like an empty purse. His eyes were sunken and red, and he could not eat the meals set before him, despite the cook's best efforts to season them to his taste. Old Franciszek, too, fell into melancholy. Over the past few days, his two beard-like sideburns had become even whiter. He used to accompany his master, sitting on the coachman's bench, but now he mostly remained at home seeing to it that everything in the Jegomoshets's domain remained neat and orderly. The two remaining servants cursed him behind his back.

Franciszek harbored deep hostility toward the new masters and refused to speak to them about anything, good or bad. To their greetings, he would respond in a faint voice, turn away and walk off. In truth, he feared they might see him crying. Only in the last two days had he begun to converse with the delicate-faced boy, at first cautiously and with few words, but later with candor and fluency. The boy drew him in with his seriousness, his purity, and the kindness in his eyes. Franciszek often found him in the corners of the garden while he walked with the watering can, tending the flowers, groaning and sighing. During these moments, he confided in the boy about his master's sorrow. The old servant recounted how much money and love his master had invested in the estate, describing how he had improved it and brought it to this level of perfection–and how he had become but a shadow of himself, close to madness.

“Why did he sell? No one knows. He was a man prone to emotional storms. One day he flew into a terrible rage; he beat the stable clerk, abused the other servants, and neither ate nor drank. The next day he summoned the broker, Pan Tzviling, whom he knew, and in a single day, he brought him the buyer, the old man.”

Then he continued, expressing his sorrow:

Oh, oh, I've returned to service, paniczu (young master). And if this master is taken from me too, where will I go? I once served a Russian count in Kiev for twenty-six years. Do you know where Kiev is? Yes–in Russia. What a city! Forty churches in this city! A city full of gold and blue. The old count loved me dearly. I was only a boy when I was introduced to him. For twenty-six years, I watched him as he ate and drank. I put on his boots and took them off. I prepared his bath every evening,

[Page 296]

and scrubbed his body, which was like white marble. I knew every fold and every blemish of his flesh. I often anointed him with oil of myrrh. And lo, one autumn day, as he emerged from his palace to step into his carriage, his dog–a dachshund, short-legged and fat, gleaming with grease like a well-fattened pig–trotted along beside him. The dog barked softly by the carriage step, placed its short paw upon it, and whimpered like a baby. He wanted to climb inside, but could not lift his cumbersome body. The count noticed the dog's distress, bent down, lifted him with both arms, and flung him into the carriage. But that very motion tore or strained his insides. He immediately felt a sharp pain within and went no further that day. For six weeks, he was treated by the most prominent physicians and even traveled abroad. He squandered half his fortune and sold two of his large estates in an effort to regain his health, but in the end, he died in his bed in the palace. And I was the one who closed his kind eye. “Farewell, dearest Franciszek. If ever I wronged you, forgive me–and my sinful soul.” With these words, the good and charitable count took leave of me. May he rest in peace!

The old servant wiped a tear from his cheek with his sleeve and said:

“If the Jegomoshets is taken from me now–what life remains for a rotting stump like me? A strange and sullen master–and yet, still a master.”

The priest's carriage entered the courtyard, and Franciszek hurried away from the Jewish youth.

Meanwhile, Jews from various communities came to Reb Meni'le's house. They spoke with Nuta and the steward, bought and sold, and went on their way; others soon took their place. Once, the old man Kalman Hecker came to pay a visit. It was as though youth had been restored to him. He strolled about in a short cloak, the wrinkled, dusty tops of his boots reaching only halfway up his legs, his trousers tucked inside. He went through every corner and every building, observing everything, questioning, scolding, and ordering certain livestock transferred to his estate. Others were to be sent in their place.

“It's a pity,” he remarked, “such fine cows would be wasted here.”

He declared that some of the trees should be cut down and the garden and lawns ought to be reduced. Vegetables should be grown in the flowerbeds, and the greenhouse demolished entirely. Good soil must not be wasted. Clover or fodder should be sown for the cattle. He prodded the ground with his cane, examined the soil, crumbled it in his trembling palm, sniffed it, and even tasted it.

“Yes,” he murmured, “this soil is good for hops. We must consider this as well: perhaps, next spring, a portion of the yard could be set aside for growing hops.”

Why should any area of some twenty threshings lie idle? Beauty? That is no concern for a Jew. And who will tend to this so-called beauty? His mad daughter-in-law? Or perhaps the melamed, Reb Chaim'el? Ha! Ha! It could all fall to ruin here.

“Look at the lawns,” he continued, “already overgrown and neglected. See that branch hanging there, broken. The dovecote pole leans to one side–a cow must have rubbed against it, no? The fountain jet is broken too, and the water trickles into the basin and spills over the edge.”

The grandson Nuta and the steward stood before the old man with reverent respect. What a keen eye! What fine ideas! Just like a real young man! They were ready to carry out his wishes at once.

As the old man climbed into the carriage to go home, Reb Meni'le stood on the steps, shading his eyes from the setting sun.

[Page 297]

“Father, will you come to the house dedication on Shabbat?”

“I will not come. I don't like being around Jews in public.”

“But a rabbi will be there!”

“I have no need for a rabbi. Please, Meni'le, be careful not to spend too much money. And how is she?”

“As usual. There is no improvement.”

“And the master, how is he behaving?”

“He keeps quiet,” answered Nuta in his father's stead. “But I wish we could get rid of him already. He lingers here like an evil spirit.”

“Ni, ni. We must endure a little longer. God willing, this too shall pass. The main thing is not to waste money. Turn everything into money. The estate is good–the fields are fertile, the inventory more than sufficient. The land will serve for five years. After that, we can think of dividing it up. Here, close to the city, land will be expensive and the Ruthenian peasants are prosperous; everyone will want to buy a parcel. We shall see what can be done. Ni, live in peace, Meni'le, and study Mishnayot for your mother's soul, may she rest in peace. She deserves it. Without her, who knows whether I would have come this far?

“Hello Perlmutter! You are the overseer now, and all the responsibility is yours… fifty thousand crowns–not a simple matter. Live, live, live! Goodbye, goodbye!”

And with that, he returned to his estate.

The dedication of the house was celebrated with great splendor. It was a bright summer day, and from early morning, Jews, wrapped in their talleisim, streamed in from the town for the minyan, with children trailing behind them carrying siddurim and Chumushim, for there was no eruv. The windows were opened, and in the study hall, the prayer leader–blessed with a beautiful voice–led the congregation. From time to time, the mighty chorus of voices rose, echoing across the farmyard. The cows, the horses, and the other animals pricked up their ears in wonder, for they had never heard such voices before. Sunlight glinted over all the treasures of the garden and the palace, adorning them, as though for the giving of the Torah. A few women, wearing their finest jewelry, came as well and prayed in the adjoining room. Reb Meni'le himself read the weekly Torah portion in his pure, dove-like voice–but this time, it was strong, exultant, triumphant, and flowing like fine oil into the very bones of those assembled. Reb Chaim'el swayed back and forth, tugging at his sidelocks, uncertain how to make his presence felt. His wife, Malka, moved among the women, nodding and smiling, as though she were the mistress of the house. Meanwhile, the madwoman, dressed in a bright festive dress and wrapped in a large silk scarf, wandered silently in the courtyard while the children took turns watching over her to be sure she did not stray into the priest's marked domain.

Bonifacy Markowski rode out in his carriage at nine o'clock and returned. He circled the garden, then went out again. In his imagination, he was like a bird whose nest was aflame, rushing in to save his chicks,

[Page 298]

only to be driven out again by the fire. At one point, he climbed the steps. The boy standing guard at the entrance cleared the way for him. He went inside, but moments later emerged, his face ashen. He sat down in his carriage and drove off, and did not return until evening. Franciszek spent the whole day indoors.

Throughout the afternoon, crowds of Jews gathered, the rabbi among them. They drank wine, mead, and liquor; told stories; discussed words of Torah; sang and danced. They toasted Reb Meni'le's health, blessed him warmly and pulled him into the circle of dancers. Even the little children joined in. As the gathering went on, some people slipped away to stroll through the farmyard, where they observed, examined, and touched various objects. Then they returned with their shtreimels pushed up above their sweaty foreheads, stepping along in their Shabbat clothes on the soft, sun-warmed earth, humming, red kerchiefs wrapped around their hands or their necks. Nuta led his mare out of the stable and walked her around the entire courtyard. He longed to mount her and gallop through the yard and garden, but Reb Chaim'el, noticing him through the window, came out and scolded him: “It's Shabbat!” Nuta returned the mare to the stable. The mischievous boy climbed the chestnut tree and began throwing nuts down to the visiting children below. Only the delicate-faced boy wandered alone along the path in his Shabbat clothes, seemingly talking to himself. His face showed how he was suffering amid the surrounding joy. Franciszek sat at the second-floor window with his arms resting on the sill, silently watching the spectacle below.

Toward evening, the rabbi departed, and the crowd dispersed amid a flurry of blessings. Reb Meni'le, Reb Chaim'el, and his wife accompanied the departing guests, thanking them for the honor and warmth they had shown. The setting sun blazed above the treetops, glowing against the fresh green of early summer. The visiting children secretly plucked flowers and unripe berries from the bushes, slipping them into their pockets. The priest's carriage returned just as the crowd was filing out through the gate. Many people stepped aside and stood in respectful silence, while others greeted him with drawn faces, removing their shtreimels from atop their yarmulkes. He sat hunched in his seat, his eyes fixed and unblinking, and his appearance struck fear in the hearts of all who saw him. When he stepped down from his carriage with the help of Franciszek, the courtyard was already empty. Only the madwoman remained, sitting on the steps, swaying and gesturing silently with her hands. The priest climbed the steps slowly. He paused for a moment before her, looked at her, and stretched out his hand as if to smooth her silk scarf–but drew his hand back and went inside.

The next morning, Sunday, the courtyard stirred with activity. The steward and Nuta gathered the horses, plows, and all the hired hands, and went out to the fallow field to plow and sow clover. Soon the courtyard was empty. The cows went out to the pasture. Most of the priest's remaining livestock had been sold. The agent did not come. Reb Chaim'el had urgent business in town and persuaded one of his students to take him there in a small carriage. The children were thus freed from their studies and came out to play in the deserted farmyard. The women busied themselves cleaning the house after the previous day's gathering, and the maids worked diligently. One of them began to sing a plaintive Jewish folk song

[Page 299]

that reminded the listeners of the jester's singing at the veiling of the bride. Reb Meni'le sat alone in the Torah room, the window wide open, studying Gemara in a pleasant, rising-and-falling melody. It seemed as if the entire world of the Creator–the birds, the barnyard fowl, even the doves on the roof–were listening to the chanting of the Torah. The priest did not go out, as was his custom, to attend prayers, despite the loud ringing of the church bells from the town. Nor was he seen in the courtyard. He was likely still asleep, for the shutters remained closed.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the sky suddenly darkened, and a gust of wind swept in from one direction, carrying a sharp chill. The window shutters began to flutter and rattle, frightening everyone in the house who slammed them noisily and angrily. Meanwhile, the children in the farmyard, driven by the wind, appeared in the courtyard. Fine gravel swirled through the air, lashing against their faces and bodies. They shrank back, shielded their faces with their arms, turned sideways, and hurried up the steps into the house. Suddenly, a loud bang rang out from the upper floor. The blood of everyone in the house froze, but moments later, one of the children came in and explained that the wind had blown open a window in the priest's apartment, slammed it against the wall, and shattered the glass. The shards were now scattered about on the ground outside.

“Is it going to rain?” Reb Meni'le asked through chattering teeth.

“There are no clouds, just a yellow mist,” said the delicate-faced boy, looking out the window.

Then the mischievous boy suddenly cried out, “I'm afraid! Where's Mama?” He began to cry, and right after him, another little girl broke into sobs.

“Where's Mama?” repeated Reb Meni'le–but nobody knew where she was.

“We need to look outside,” said the melamed's wife, her flour-covered hands hanging at her sides. But nobody dared to venture out.

Suddenly, one of Reb Chaim'el's daughters burst into the room. “She's sitting in the corner of the hallway, wrapping some kind of lump in rags.” Everybody breathed a sigh of relief.

“What time is it?” Reb Meni'le asked, then answered himself. “Quarter past ten. We need to pray. Children, take out the tefillin and siddurim.”

But the children did not obey, and one by one, they slipped out of the room.

Reb Meni'le approached the bookcase alone, opened it, and took down a large pouch from the upper shelf. He removed the weekday tallit, and the two tefillin pouches–one by Rashi, the other by Rabbeinu Tam–and placed them on the table. After going out to wash his hands, he returned to the Torah room and sat down, his hands still wet. He dried them with a towel, muttered a prayer, and before beginning the Shacharit prayer, he took out his tallit, unfolded it, examined it, and kissed its fringes and crown. Wrapped entirely in it, he recited four verses and then placed the head tefillin on his head and wound three loops around his middle finger. Standing in a corner near the Holy Ark, he began

[Page 300]

to sway gently over the large prayer book–the holy siddur, Sha'ar HaShamayim. He stood without moving for nearly half an hour, until he finally concluded with the Shmoneh Esrei prayer.^[23] Outside, the wind whistled and howled. Gravel blew and banged against the closed windows; sand penetrated the cracks and fell onto the floor and the dishes. The branches in the garden whistled as they struck against one another. The horses neighed in terror. Even the thoroughbred bull bellowed–a deep, muffled sound that seemed to roll from abyss to abyss. The turkeys screeched in chorus. Reb Meni'le prayed with deep emotion and devotion, experiencing an awakening unlike anything he had ever known. His inner soul was in turmoil, mirroring the storm raging outside.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door from the corridor. Reb Meni'le was startled; he turned and growled toward the door. When the door opened, Franciszek's frightened face appeared.

“Sir, the Jegomoshets is calling for you to come to his room at once,” he said, his voice raised.

“Ni-oh-oh,” answered Reb Meni'le, gesturing to his tallit and tefillin. He waved his hand as if to say he would finish shortly.

Franciszek closed the door and left. Meni'le's head began to spin, and at that very moment it seemed to him that he saw the figure of his late mother standing in the opposite corner, but he did not have the courage to look in that direction. Not two moments had passed before there was another knock at the door.

“Sir, the Jegomoshets awaits you in the drawing room. I must insist that you come with me at once–the matter is urgent and cannot be postponed.”

“Ni-oh-oh,” pleaded Reb Meni'le, mumbling a hurried prayer as he spoke.

He could not stop praying, and he could not speak to the gentile in the Lashon Kodesh–Hebrew, the holy language. He was about to untie the tefillin, to explain that he would come in just a moment, when he caught sight again of his mother, standing in the corner and wagging her small finger at him, warning him not to interrupt his prayer.

The servant slammed the door and fled.

A moment later, he came running, opened the door without knocking, and burst into the room, his face like the face of a dead man.

“Jew, the Jegomoshets said that if you don't come at once, he will destroy the whole house.”

Reb Meni'le's hands and feet were trembling. He hastily removed the head and arm tefillin, placing them unwrapped on the table. Suddenly, he saw his mother approaching. She reached out her hand, brought the tefillin pouch of Rabbeinu Tam closer to him and nodded gently, smiling with her eyes, just as she used to do when coaxing him to eat–then she vanished. A great calm descended upon Reb Meni'le. He took the pouch and began to remove the small tefillin from it, gazing at them as he loosened their delicate straps.

Franciszek watched what the Jew was doing. His expression changed; he spat and hurried away. Half a minute later, he returned, burst into the room, grabbed Reb Meni'le's hand–the one holding the arm tefillin–and pulled him after him, breathing heavily.

“Quickly, quickly! he wants to kill me…and you…with a pistol, a pistol!…”

[Page 301]

At that very moment, a strange sound was heard–like a cry of delight–the voice of the madwoman, who sat on the floor, playing with the shattered fragment of the statue the priest had broken in a fit of rage.

An eerie silence fell, and even the wind seemed to recoil from the windows. Then suddenly–pop! pop!–three gunshots rang out, and something heavy and soft thudded to the ground.

The whole house seemed to collapse and fall. Cries erupted from all directions. Dozens of feet were heard running; doors slammed shut, and the wind lashed against the windows as if trying to force them open. Franciszek let go of Reb Meni'le's hand and ran off shouting, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Out of fear of death and of the gentiles, Meni'le's entire household left that very day to take lodging in the town, until after the priest's funeral. The following day, crowds poured in–Jews and gentiles alike–to view the body of Bonifacy Markowski, still lying in a pool of his own blood on the ornate floor where he had fallen. The dog, too, lay nearby, shot by its master. Two gendarmes, rifles in hand with fixed bayonets, stood guard in the room, now open to the public. Nothing was allowed to be touched until everything had been properly documented according to the law. Droplets of blood and brain matter had splattered and clung to the opposite wall. The drawers of the desk stood open, and on top of it, rows of stacked coins and bundles of banknotes tied with string were arranged in an orderly fashion. The thousand eyes of the Angel of Death still stared from every corner of the dim room.

The funeral took place on Wednesday. Holy flags waved, large crosses stood tall, and priests in liturgical attire led a vast crowd that walked before and after the coffin. The coffin, covered in flowers, was placed in a high, black carriage, drawn by two pairs of stout horses trotting side by side, but this time, their tails dragged along the ground. The chant of the deacons and the melody of the priests rose, filling the warm, quiet air and echoing in the ears of the Jewish townsfolk who stood silently at their windows, watching as Bonifacy Markowski passed through the town for the last time in his carriage. An old, toothless man stood nearby gazing and chewing something. On Thursday, Reb Meni'le and all the members of his household returned peacefully to the estate–his estate. This time, he did not have to share it with a stranger (the canon's emissary removed the remaining property, furniture, and belongings of the deceased; Franciszek bade farewell to the house, kneeling and kissing the threshold).

A “minyan” was once again held at the estate on Shabbat. There was not a single Jewish soul in the town–not even the enfeebled Alteh Leah, the chicken seller, limping on both legs–who did not hear Reb Meni'le's Birkat HaGomel^[24] and rejoice in his deliverance until the stars came out. Even Reb Kalman Hecker came this time, sitting at the head of the table to the rabbi's right, radiant and smiling, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the fervent singing.

While the palace walls seemed to sway with the dancing, and the voice of Reb Aharon Tzviling rose louder and louder above all the others, Nessie sat outside on the ground beneath a distant tree, dressed in a bright holiday dress, lovingly cradling the fragment of the statue in her arms.

Translator's and Editor's Footnotes:

1. Techum Shabbat refers to the maximum distance one may walk beyond an inhabited area on Shabbat; as a rule, this distance is limited to two thousand cubits (approximately one kilometer). Return
2. Jegomoshets is a Jewish rendering of the Polish honorific Jego MoŚć, meaning “His Excellency.” Return
3. Proverbs 13:22 Return
4. Parsa: The equivalent of four kilometers. Return
5. Melamed: A teacher of Jewish curriculum. Return
6. Ma'amdot: A specialized collection of Biblical passages recited by pious Jews after the mandatory morning prayers. Return
7. The melamed's name may be translated as “the wind of the field.” Return
8. Eruv: An enclosure–formed by poles, wires or natural features–established to permit certain activities that are otherwise prohibited on Shabbat. Return
9. Shabbat coincides with Rosh Chodesh (the first day of the Hebrew month) at least twice a year; on these occasions, a special maftir and haftarah are read in honor of Rosh Chodesh. Return
10. Urim and Thummim (Hebrew for “lights and perfections”) were elements of the high priest's breastplate in ancient Israel, used for discerning the will of God. Return
11. The Talmud relates that the sage Nachum habitually responded to adversity with the phrase gam zu l'tovah (“this too is for the best”), a saying so closely associated with him that Nachum Ish Gamzu became his epithet. Return
12. Proverbs 3:12 Return
13. Yahrzeit is the Yiddish term for the anniversary of a person's death, observed annually according to the Hebrew calendar. In the context of a yahrzeit, tikkun refers to the practice of providing food for those attending services on the day, particularly after morning services or on the Shabbat preceding the yahrzeit; Tikkun literally means “rectification” or “repair.” Return
14. Cheder: A school teaching the basics of Judaism. Return
15. Kapote: A black frock coat worn by Chassidic men on weekdays. Return
16. Avrechim: Young, married religious scholars. Return
17. The figure of five thousand crowns here conflicts with the seven thousand crowns cited in the preceding paragraph; one of the two amounts is likely an error. Return
18. Bekishe: A long, formal coat worn by Chassidic men on Shabbat, Jewish holidays and special occasions. Return
19. Four-in-hand: A carriage drawn by four horses. Return
20. Josippon (also known as Sefer Yosippon) is an influential medieval chronicle of Jewish history from the Babylonian exile through the destruction of the Second Temple; the anonymous author attributes the work to a figure named Joseph ben Gorion. Return
21. Bechinot Olam (Contemplation of the World), a thirteenth-century philosophical poem by Rabbi Jedaiah ben Abraham Bedersi (Ha-Penini), examines the vanities of the physical world while urging attention to intellectual and spiritual pursuits. Return
22. Paritz: A landed nobleman or estate owner. Return
23. The Shemoneh Esrei (“Eighteen”), also known as the Amidah, is the central prayer of Jewish worship. Originally consisting of eighteen blessings and now comprising nineteen, it is recited silently, three times daily while standing and facing Jerusalem; amidah means “standing” in Hebrew. Return
24. Birkat HaGomel: A Jewish blessing of gratitude. Return

  Radekhiv, Ukraine     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2026 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 01 Feb 2026 by JH