The Apta Rav was known to say over the following story on Pesach.
R’ Shaya and R’ Shaya were uncle and nephew. Having both been named for the same relative, they shared the same name, and although the uncle was at least a decade older than his nephew, they looked very similar. Both of these characteristics, coupled with the fact that the two lived in the same city, caused their acquaintances to coin nicknames for them.
The nephew, known for his piety, righteousness, and asceticism became known as R’ Shaya Chassid. His uncle, who hailed from the city of Slutzk, was called R’ Shaya Slutzker. In this way, their neighbors and friends differentiated between the two men.
R’ Shaya Slutzker was a wealthy baal tzedakah who never merited children. He had a huge and generous heart, and he gladly shared his money with those experiencing financial difficulties. Knowing that his nephew, R’ Shaya Chassid, spent all his time engrossed in Torah and chassidus and therefore didn’t have two dimes to rub together, R’ Shaya Slutzker would send him a monthly stipend.
Every month, R’ Shaya Chassid would gratefully receive the much-needed sum of money from his uncle, which was spent on necessities for his family. As the years passed and his family grew, it became more of a challenge to make it through the month on the unchanging sum of money, but they managed to make ends meet by living extremely frugally.
But when his oldest daughter, Miriam, neared marriageable age, R’ Shaya Chassid began to think about her dowry. Without a dowry to support the young couple in the foundational years of their marriage, it was simply impossible for a girl to marry, and certainly not to the kind of young talmid chacham that R’ Shaya Chassid dreamed of having as a son-in-law.
The problem was that their pincer-tight budget didn’t allow for any savings, and even if R’ Shaya would manage to siphon off some coins each month, it would never be enough for a respectable dowry. Although R’ Shaya longed to start seeking a shidduch for his daughter, he knew he first needed to solve the issue of the dowry.
“Speak to your uncle,” a friend suggested when R’ Shaya Chassid confided in him. “Everyone knows how generous R’ Shaya Slutzker is with helping those in need.”
But R’ Shaya Chassid shook his head. “I can’t. He already gives me a generous sum every month to enable me to sit and learn. He’s been supporting me for years! There’s no way I can ask for more money.”
His friend regarded him thoughtfully, taking in R’ Shaya’s gaunt cheekbones framed by a long, greying beard, and the kind and holy eyes that peered out from above them. “I have another idea,” he said slowly.
“Yes?”
“Everyone knows that you are a tzaddik,” his friend continued. “Your reputation as a pious and righteous Jew has traveled beyond the borders of our small shtetl here, to the villages and towns beyond. Why don’t you go to the next town, and tell the townspeople there that you are collecting for hachnasas kallah? I’m sure that many people will flock to you for berachos and will also be happy to donate toward your cause, just like they do to other rebbes.”
“I’m not a rebbe,” R’ Shaya protested. “I’m just a simple chassid.”
His friend put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Fine! You’re not a rebbe! But you are a chassid, and you said so yourself. Just try it. I really think you’ll raise money that way.”
“I’m not so sure about this,” R’ Shaya said doubtfully. “I really don’t feel comfortable collecting money. It’s just not me.”
“I know, but what choice do you have?” the other man asked logically. “You need money to marry off your daughter.”
“I suppose you are right,” R’ Shaya conceded. He did need to raise the money somehow, and as uncomfortable as it was, his friend’s suggestion was certainly a way how.
A few days later, R’ Shaya Chassid left the shtetl in a rented wagon, dressed in his best clothing to make a good impression on the people he would be meeting. The next village was just a short trip away, and before long, he found himself in the local shul, where he was instantly recognized.
“R’ Shaya!” a man with a full brown beard boomed, crossing the room to greet him as all heads in the room turned to follow the exchange. If anyone hadn’t noticed the newcomer yet, it was now impossible not to. “R’ Shaya Chassid! To what do we owe the honor of having such a distinguished guest in town?”
“I’m here to raise money to marry off a child,” R’ Shaya explained.
“Of course, of course!” the man said heartily. “If R’ Shaya is willing, I would be most honored to host him in my house.”
“Thank you,” R’ Shaya murmured, just as the chazzan walked up to the amud for Minchah.
That evening found R’ Shaya Chassid in his host’s dining room as the swinging door admitted more and more people in search of berachos and advice. Almost everyone in the village stopped by to discuss some matter or another with the righteous tzaddik, and no one left without donating some money toward his cause.
By the time R’ Shaya was ready to go to sleep, he had amassed a large pile of coins, which he carefully counted. While the people had given generously, the sum he’d raised was only a fraction of the money he needed for a dowry. As he thanked his host and retired to his bedroom for the night, he realized that it would take more trips to many villages like this one before he raised the amount he needed.
In the morning, R’ Shaya took his sack of coins and traded them in for two large gold coins, which were far more convenient for traveling with. He slipped the coins into his pocket and resumed his travels, heading to the next shtetl for more fundraising.
Being that this shtetl was slightly further from home, his face was not known to the townspeople, and he was forced to swallow his pride and approach a stranger to explain the purpose of his visit. “I’m here to raise money to marry off a child,” he said uncomfortably. “Uh, maybe you know of a place where I can stay?”
The man scratched his chin. “What did you say your name was?”
“Shaya,” R’ Shaya said quietly, providing the name of the city where he hailed from.
“Shaya… Shaya…” The man’s lips puckered for a moment and then his faced brightened as he put the pieces together. “Oh! R’ Shaya Chassid!” A look of respect and admiration dawned on his face. “What an honor! I’ll be happy to host you.”
And indeed, he did. For the second day in a row, R’ Shaya found himself in the home of a generous stranger, granting blessings and dispersing advice to a steady stream of petitioners as a small pile of coins formed on the table beside him. But when the day was over and he sat in the privacy of the guestroom, counting the coins, he was dismayed to realize that it only added up to about half the sum he had raised the previous day.
After davening the next morning, he stopped off at the moneychanger to exchange the coins for a single gold coin, which promptly joined the first two in his pocket. Then he turned his horse in the direction of the road and reflected, wearily, that it was going to be a long, long trip.
At the next shtetl, he enjoyed even less recognition than the one before that. No one offered him lodgings or attempted to speak to him beyond asking him for his name, which they didn’t recognize. He sat in the corner of the shul and received a few pennies from kind strangers, but the experience was as disheartening as it was humiliating.
“Hashem,” he whispered as he nudged his horse toward yet another shtetl. “I am entrusting this burden to You. I can’t do this alone! You will help me! You will provide for me! You are the kol yachol; You can do everything! I am doing my part, and I fully believe that You will send my daughter her destined match along with the money to serve as her dowry.”
But his visit to the next village proved to be just as dejecting, as did his visit to three more shtetls after that. He had wandered for more than two weeks, sleeping in inns and on shul benches, away from his family and his beloved seat in the bais medrash. And he had so little to show for it.
“Hashem, I am not giving up,” he declared fiercely as he counted out the four gold coins in his pocket. Though each was worth a lot of money, it amounted to just a tiny percentage of the sum he needed for a dowry. “You will provide for me, for my daughter. I have no doubt that You will not abandon me.”
He was weary, so weary, of the bumpy road, the uncomfortable fundraising, and the homeless nights. How he longed to return home, bent under the weight of a bulging sack of coins, perhaps with a chassan in tow. “Please, Hashem,” he begged. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this! Please help me!”
With this prayer, he entered a local inn and rented a room for the night. After depositing his small suitcase in his room, he went down to the dining room for the evening meal, his first solid meal that day. The serving boy brought over a bowl of hot soup, and he ate slowly, allowing the warmth to seep through his body.
As he ate, a heavyset man approached his table and took a seat opposite him. “Shalom aleichem,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting. “I’m Zalman.”
R’ Shaya Chassid shook his hand. “Shaya,” he offered in exchange.
“Shaya from where?” Zalman asked curiously.
“About a ten day’s journey away,” R’ Shaya replied, giving the name of his hometown.
Zalman’s mind began clicking furiously. Shaya, Shaya… why did the name Shaya from that specific city ring a bell? “And to what do we owe the honor of having you here in our village?” he asked, his mind still blank.
“I’m looking for a shidduch for my daughter,” R’ Shaya explained.
A little explosion went off in Zalman’s mind. Shaya! This must be the famous philanthropist, R’ Shaya Slutzker! They’d met once, a few years earlier, at a business fair, and other than a little more grey in his beard, R’ Shaya looked just the same as he remembered.
Mystery resolved, Zalman turned his attention back to the man before him. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I’m looking for a shidduch for my daughter,” R’ Shaya repeated.
Zalman smiled in delight. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “It just so happens that I am a shadchan. And let me think for a minute… I think I might have just the shidduch for you.” He closed his eyes in thought, drumming his foot lightly on the floor.
R’ Shaya waited, completely unsurprised. He’d davened to Hashem just moments before, and already, his salvation was starting to unfold.
Zalman abruptly stopped tapping his foot and looked up. “There’s a wealthy man, R’ Shmuel, who lives not far from here. He has a son, Gershon, a budding talmid chacham with a bright mind, who sits and learns the entire day.”
“My Miriam is refined and modest, and she wants nothing more than to marry a true talmid chacham,” R’ Shaya confided, happiness glowing from his eyes.
“I think this is an excellent idea. You stay here,” Zalman ordered. “I’ll go speak to R’ Shmuel to hear what he thinks, then I’ll come back here to discuss this further.”
“Wonderful!” R’ Shaya cried, sending up a silent ode of gratitude to Hashem. “I’ll be in my room. Just ask for me at the front desk.”
Night had already fallen, and Zalman hurried through the dark streets to R’ Shmuel’s palatial home. A servant opened the door and led the shadchan inside, where he found the wealthy man poring over a ledger, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. R’ Shmuel looked up. “Ah! Zalman! Shalom aleichem!”
“R’ Shmuel, I have just the shidduch for your Gershon,” Zalman called, taking a seat opposite his host. “Hashem arranged for me to be in just the right place at just the right time.”
“You know my Gershon is special,” R’ Shmuel reminded him, leaning back. “He wants to sit and learn his whole life.”
“And I have just the father-in-law to support him in that,” Zalman exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. “R’ Shaya Slutzker!”
R’ Shmuel sat up straighter at this piece of news, his ears perked in interest. “R’ Shaya Slutzker? The famous philanthropist?”
“That’s the one,” Zalman confirmed. “And his daughter is supposed to be refined and noble, and she’s looking for a real talmid chacham. R’ Shaya is not willing to settle for anything less than best; he told me so himself.”
“On my end, I would go ahead immediately,” R’ Shmuel said excitedly. “That’s just what Gershon needs: a father-in-law who respects his learning, but also has the means to finance it, if you know what I mean. Is R’ Shaya interested in us? I am a man of means, but this is all new to us, as you well know. Both my wife and I come from humble backgrounds, unlike R’ Shaya Slutzker, who was born into money and married into money.”
“I don’t think it should be a problem, but the truth is that I didn’t mention that you only recently acquired your wealth,” the shadchan said, standing up from his chair. “Look, R’ Shmuel, the way I see it, if you have the means to contribute your share of the young couple’s home and investments, why should he care if you used to live in a hovel?”
R’ Shmuel stood up, too, shrugging. “He can afford to be choosy, can’t he? And let’s call a spade, a spade. As rich as I might be, my net worth is levels below that of R’ Shaya!”
“I think the fact that your son is a real talmid chacham talks to him a lot,” Zalman said, as they walked to the door together. “I can try to get him to come down here to meet Gershon. I’m sure that once he sees what a gem he is, any doubts he might have about your wealth will fly away with the wind.”
“Good idea,” R’ Shmuel smiled, pulling the door open for the shadchan. “If you can get R’ Shaya to come to my house to meet us, Zalman, I’ll give you a hundred rubles just for that. Even if the shidduch goes nowhere.”
“It’s a deal,” Zalman agreed, shaking his hand. “It’s late. Let me see if I can still get him to come to you tonight.” He practically ran through the streets to the hotel, hoping against hope that R’ Shaya was still up and about. Even if the shidduch wasn’t successful, just arranging this one meeting would earn him a hefty bonus.
R’ Shmuel smiled, pulling the door open for the shadchan. “If you can get R’ Shaya to come to my house to meet us, Zalman, I’ll give you a hundred rubles just for that. Even if the shidduch goes nowhere.”
“It’s a deal,” Zalman agreed, shaking his hand. “It’s late. Let me see if I can still get him to come to you tonight.” He practically ran through the streets to the hotel, hoping against hope that R’ Shaya was still up and about. Even if the shidduch wasn’t successful, just arranging this one meeting would earn him a hefty bonus.
To his relief, R’ Shaya was still awake. “R’ Shaya,” the shadchan greeted him. “I just went to see R’ Shmuel and he’s very, very interested in the shidduch. As I was sure he would be. Who wouldn’t want to do a shidduch with R’ Shaya Slutzker?”
R’ Shaya Chassid stared at him. Wait, what? R’ Shaya Slutzker?
Zalman, misinterpreting his expression, began to work his persuasive tongue in earnest. “R’ Shmuel made his fortune through business,” he said smoothly. “Wealth has to start somewhere, doesn’t it? He’s a savvy businessman and a good negotiator, and had he started off with the same kind of inheritance that your father left you, I’m sure his name would be just as well-known as your own. In fact, in this town, we like to call him ‘the next R’ Shaya Slutzker.’”
“And his son is a talmid chacham?” R’ Shaya Chassid’s mouth asked, almost without meaning to. His mind whirled. The shadchan thought that he was his wealthy uncle! He’d suggested the shidduch with R’ Shmuel’s son in the mistaken assumption that he was wealthy!
“Don’t take my word for it,” Zalman offered. “Come with me now to meet R’ Shmuel and his son yourself. You can test him in learning and you’ll see that he’s the real deal.”
R’ Shaya Chassid, still trying to digest what was happening, knew he needed to respond. Making a snap decision, he decided to play along. If Hashem had orchestrated events so that his Miriam be redt this shidduch, then he was not obligated to stop it. He hadn’t misled anyone; Zalman was the one who’d made a mistake. Miriam was a wonderful girl, truly deserving of a talmid chacham, and if this was the way Hashem had arranged for her to find her destined match, then who was he to get in the way? He turned to Zalman. “Meet R’ Shmuel now? It’s late.”
“I know, but it won’t take long,” Zalman said quickly. “Gershon is a true gem; you don’t want to wait too long or he’ll be snatched up.”
R’ Shaya reached for his coat. “In that case, let’s go now.”
They walked together briskly through the dark and silent streets, each man lost in his thoughts about his own windfall: Zalman, thinking about the bonus R’ Shmuel had promised, and the large commission he would earn at the culmination of the shidduch, and R’ Shaya, overcome with gratitude over the extraordinary way Hashem had sent him a potential son-in-law, his sorry finances notwithstanding.
R’ Shmuel himself opened the door to greet them when they’d arrived, his smile warm and welcoming. “Thank you for coming,” he said, shaking R’ Shaya’s hand and leading them inside.
R’ Shaya was soon seated in R’ Shmuel’s study, where they made small talk about the city R’ Shaya came from and the people R’ Shmuel knew who lived there. Then Gershon, the potential chassan, came into the room, and his father left the room along with Zalman, allowing R’ Shaya the privacy to speak to Gershon in learning.
Gershon was a tall, scrawny young man with a sparse beard and a bashful smile. R’ Shaya smiled warmly at him in an attempt to put him at ease. “Shalom aleichem.”
“Aleichem shalom,” the bachur responded shyly.
“Tell me, what masechta are you learning now?”
That launched a deep and animated discussion into the sugya that Gershon was learning, and R’ Shaya discovered, much to his delight, that the bachur did indeed possess a brilliant mind and a broad grasp of Shas. Together, they worked through a difficulty in the sugya, and the more they spoke, the more impressed R’ Shaya became.
Speaking to the man who was likely to become his father-in-law, Gershon was pleasantly surprised to discover that R’ Shaya Slutzker was an astounding talmid chacham. While his father had been attracted to the shidduch due to the man’s wealth, the only thing that mattered to Gershon was that his future wife, and her father, respect his learning. He hadn’t dreamed that he would merit to have a father-in-law as learned as the man sitting opposite him, and inside, he blessed Zalman for finding him such an appropriate match.
When R’ Shmuel and Zalman rejoined the others in the study, the broad smiles stretched across the faces of both R’ Shaya and Gershon told them all they needed to know. “What do you say to my son?” R’ Shmuel asked, although he already knew the answer.
“An excellent bachur!” R’ Shaya responded enthusiastically. He could barely believe his good fortune, and wanted to conclude the shidduch as soon as possible, before something could happen to send it off the rails.
“Nu, can we drink a l’chaim?” Zalman urged.
R’ Shaya laughed, a joyous sound, and reached into his pocket. He withdrew the four gold coins, the result of his two weeks of painstaking collecting, and handed two to Zalman. “This is for you, for shadchanus,” he said to the shadchan.
Zalman accepted the gift graciously, marveling at his good fortune. A wealthy shidduch meant a handsome commission, and indeed R’ Shaya Slutzker’s shadchanus lived up to his reputation. If R’ Shmuel matched the sum, and added the extra hundred-ruble bonus, then the shadchan would earn more in a single night than he usually did in a month.
As R’ Shmuel poured amber liquor into shot glasses, R’ Shaya handed the remaining two coins to the newly-minted chassan. “And this,” he said warmly. “Is an engagement gift for such a special chassan.”
It was a generous gift, worthy of R’ Shaya Slutzker, and although R’ Shaya Chassid had no idea how he would continue playing the part of his wealthy uncle, including supplying the generous dowry R’ Shmuel surely expected, he felt that he at least had to give him a substantial gift.
Watching the exchange between his son and his new mechutan, R’ Shmuel felt overcome with joy. They discussed the date of the wedding, determining that it would best be held between Purim and Pesach. “It’s before Chanukah now, so that gives us plenty of time,” R’ Shmuel voiced. “My family and I will come to your hometown ten days after Purim, for the wedding to be held shortly thereafter.”
“Wonderful,” R’ Shaya agreed.
R’ Shmuel smiled. “When are you leaving town? We’d be happy to have you over for breakfast tomorrow.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’ll be happy to join you for breakfast,” his new mechutan assured him. They parted with warm wishes and a strong handshake.
Lying in bed later that night, R’ Shaya mused about the unexpected turn of events. “Thank You, Hashem!” he cried emotionally. “Thank You for sending Miriam the chassan she’s davening for! And please, help me come up with the kind of dowry my mechutan assumes I will be providing. I didn’t try to mislead him, but I don’t want to disappoint him. Please, Hashem, You led me here; please continue to help me!”
Although R’ Shaya Chassid really did not have a penny for a dowry, especially not after he’d given away all the money he’d raised, after thrusting the burden off of his shoulders to Hashem, he felt completely calm. Hashem would take care of him. There was no need to worry.
He slept easy that night.
The next morning, after Shacharis and breakfast with the chassan’s family, it was time for R’ Shaya to return home. Not having a single coin left, he hitched his way from village to village, covering some of the journey by foot, until he finally made it home. Knocking lightly on his front door, he walked inside.
His wife rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Shaya! Welcome home! Were you successful?”
A huge smile tore across R’ Shaya’s weary face. “Baruch Hashem!” he exclaimed. “Much more successful than I’d ever imagined! I found the most wonderful bachur for Miriam, a true talmid chacham, a baal middos, a masmid – .”
“You found a bachur for Miriam?” she echoed incredulously. “Who? Where? Tell me more! Miriam, come quick!”
R’ Shaya laughed again, overcome with joy, as he described the chassan’s wonderful qualities to the small audience growing around him. “The wedding will take place after Purim, as soon as Gershon and his family get here,” he concluded.
“Such a wealthy man, with such a special son, and he wanted Miriam even though we don’t have a penny to our name?” his wife asked breathlessly, glancing briefly at her daughter. The kallah’s eyes were shining.
“Miriam is wonderful!” R’ Shaya said defensively.
“Of course!” his wife hastily agreed. “But money usually marries money, and while we are very blessed, no one will claim we are wealthy. Miriam deserves the very best; I’m just surprised that he didn’t mind.”
“Actually,” R’ Shaya said slowly. “He doesn’t know that we don’t have money. He… er, he had the impression that I am my Uncle Shaya, Shaya Slutzker. I didn’t fool him into thinking that, but I didn’t exactly correct him.”
There was total silence in the room.
Miriam buried her face in her hands. Her mother shook her head, then opened her mouth, then closed it. She seemed to be having trouble deciding what to say. “Shaya!” she finally blurted. “It was an erroneous deal. He thought he was doing a shidduch with a wealthy family, and the minute he finds out, he’ll drop our daughter like a hot potato! What do we need this for? She’ll be fodder for the gossipers for months!”
Miriam let out a wail and ran out of the room.
“It’s not a mekach taus,” R’ Shaya said firmly. “Please calm down. Listen to me. As far as R’ Shmuel is concerned, the only difference between me and R’ Shaya Slutzker is the dowry he wants for his son, correct? So as long as I provide a dowry worthy of Uncle Shaya, he’ll be fine with the shidduch. It’s not like I tried to fool him.”
“But… but! How will you come up with such a dowry?” his wife demanded. “Shaya, before word of this shidduch gets around, please write to him and clear up this mistake. How can we do this to Miriam?”
“Hashem will send the money for a dowry,” R’ Shaya said soothingly. “Miriam will not be embarrassed. I don’t think you understand what kind of bachur we are talking about here. This is a bachur of the highest caliber, exactly what we’ve all been davening for. Just as Hashem led him right to us, He will send us the money we need.”
His wife shook her head, marveling at his attitude, but she couldn’t seem to feel the same way. What if Hashem didn’t send them the money? What if her precious Miriam would be cast away like a molding tomato, shriveled and scarlet?
“Hashem will help,” R’ Shaya said, over and over, over the next few days and weeks and then months, with perfect serenity. “Hashem will help.”
Miriam looked up at him with worried eyes. “Tatte,” she begged. “I’ll be so humiliated! I don’t feel like a kallah, I feel like an almost-reject. Please write to the mechutan!”
“Miriam, you must have emunah that Hashem will provide for your dowry,” her father admonished her. “I am just as much a millionaire as R’ Shaya Slutzker. Hashem will take care of us.”
And as his wife and daughter wrung their hands and fretted over what would be, reciting countless perakim of tehillim, R’ Shaya bent over his seforim, learning with peace of mind and even joy, grateful for the exceptional chassan they’d merited and looking forward to the wedding.
And so, while his wife and daughter kept the news of her engagement quiet, R’ Shaya didn’t understand their desire for secrecy. When his friends and relatives questioned him about his fundraising trip, he joyously told them his good news.
“Baruch Hashem, Miriam is a kallah,” he said, smiling broadly. “I met the shadchan on my journey. The chassan is a special bachur named Gershon, son of R’ Shmuel, the wealthy magnate.”
Each man who heard the tidings reacted the same, with raised eyebrows and a small dose of skepticisms. “Really? A wealthy man took you as a mechutan?”
“Do you think there’s a problem?” R’ Shaya would respond with a wink. “I am a millionaire, too! Hashem will help me. You’ll see, by the wedding, I’ll have all the money I need.”
The people would look at him strangely, trying to understand what had come over the practical and wise R’ Shaya Chassid. Had his ambition and desire push him over the edge?
Back in the chassan’s hometown, R’ Shmuel and his family began their preparations for the wedding. In their little village, the joyous news of R’ Shmuel’s noble son’s engagement was celebrated far and wide. R’ Shmuel could not stop thanking Hashem for the wonderful new family his son was getting into, where money and Torah were found in abundance.
Chanukah was rapidly approaching, and Gershon needed to send a gift to his kallah. Still suffused with pure elation over the shidduch, R’ Shmuel decided to be exceedingly generous with the gift, purchasing jewels worth three hundred rubles, which he sent with a messenger to deliver to the home of R’ Shaya Slutzker.
Just a day before Chanukah, the messenger arrived at R’ Shaya Slutzker’s home and handed him a wrapped gift box. Surprised, R’ Shaya Slutzker thanked the messenger and sent him down to the kitchen for a drink and light meal before he headed back the way he’d come.
Taking the box with him to his study, he settled at his desk to open the unexpected gift. Inside lay a beautiful piece of jewelry, worth at least three hundred rubles.
R’ Shaya was thoroughly baffled. Why would someone send him such a gift?
He unearthed the envelope from beneath the crinkling wrapping paper and withdrew the card.
To my dear mechutan, the esteemed R’ Shaya,
I am overcome with joy that my son will soon merit to join a family such as yours. It is an honor to be your mechutan! I am enclosing a gift for our dear kallah, along with warmest wishes for a beautiful yom tov. May Hashem continue to shower you with everything good.
A Freilichen Chanukah!
R’ Shmuel
R’ Shaya Slutzker looked from the card to the box and then back to the card. Was this some sort of prank? Did this R’ Shmuel think it was Purim instead of Chanukah? Everyone knew that he was childless. As much as R’ Shaya Slutzker and his wife had prayed for a child, as much money as they’d paid to the best doctors, as many berachos as they’d received from the greatest gedolim, they had never been blessed with children.
And now—a letter from his daughter’s future in-laws? What kind of a game were they trying to play?
R’ Shaya Slutzker looked from the card to the box and then back to the card. Was this some sort of prank? Did this R’ Shmuel think it was Purim instead of Chanukah? Everyone knew that he was childless. As much as R’ Shaya Slutzker and his wife had prayed for a child, as much money as they’d paid to the best doctors, as many berachos as they’d received from the greatest gedolim, they had never been blessed with children.
And now—a letter and a gift from his non-existent daughter’s future in-laws? What kind of a game were they trying to play?
He shrugged and then withdrew a fresh sheet of his own stationary from his desk drawer. He had no idea what R’ Shmuel wanted from him, but he could play the game. After all, he couldn’t very well accept a gift from the ‘chassan’ without sending something back from the ‘kallah’, could he?
He thought for a moment and then jotted down a brief note.
To my honored mechutan, R’ Shmuel,
We were so happy to receive the beautiful gift and letter. Enclosed, please find a gift for our dear chassan. May you have much nachas from your beautiful family.
A Freilichen Chanukah!
R’ Shaya (Slutzker)
Slipping the card into the envelope, R’ Shaya frowned, trying to decide what kind of gift to send back to the pranking chassan. The gift he’d received was worth three hundred rubles, so he put together a nice gift that was worth half that amount and wrapped it up. He was a businessman, after all. If someone was playing a hoax on him, at least he came out 150 rubles ahead.
He tucked the envelope with his card into the box and hurried down to the kitchen to find the messenger. “Bring this back to R’ Shmuel,” he instructed, handing the messenger the box along with two rubles for the trouble. “And tell him that we were delighted with his package.”
When the messenger got back to R’ Shmuel’s home, the excited chassan eagerly unwrapped the box. His father looked on, smiling at his son’s enthusiasm. Gershon wasn’t the materialistic sort, but correspondence from his kallah was enough to rouse his interest.
While the mechutan’s gift was not as generous as their own, R’ Shmuel readily understood why. R’ Shaya had already given Gershon a generous gift, back when they’d finalized the engagement, and a large gift was therefore unnecessary. He smiled as he read the note, once again thanking Hashem for the perfect shidduch He had sent them.
The winter months passed in a flurry of activity for both sides.
In R’ Shmuel’s household, the tailor was commissioned full time to prepare the chassan’s wardrobe and wedding finery for the entire family. While Gershon sat and learned, oblivious to the hubbub around him, his mother shopped and commissioned and packed up trunks for her son to bring to his new home.
R’ Shaya Chassid’s home, in contrast, was missing the festive air that marked the activities of his mechutanim. The days and weeks marched by with unmistakable apprehension. His wife and daughter unenthusiastically stuffed down quilts and sewed linens for her trousseau while subconsciously waiting for the shoe to drop and the news to come that the shidduch was over.
Miriam, the kallah, hadn’t imagined her engagement to look this way, and desperately wanted to feel the joy of a kallah engaged to a bachur as special as her father said Gershon was. She tried to direct her thoughts to rosy dreams of a happy wedding and a wonderful husband, but her mind kept wandering to the dreadful scenario she was sure would soon come.
In her mind’s eye, she could see R’ Shmuel, the way she imagined him to look since she’d never actually seen him, bursting through the door of their little cottage demanding to see her father. She could picture the neighbors peeking through the window as her chassan’s father yelled at them for deceiving him and teared up the tenaim up into a sorry heap of confetti.
“Cheer up, kallah!” R’ Shaya Chassid would call to her whenever he saw the pensive expression returning to her face. “You know that I didn’t try to mislead the mechutan. Hashem wanted this shidduch to happen, and so He arranged for R’ Shmuel to confuse me with my uncle. And He will send us the money, too. Hashem can make me a wealthy man, just as he did my uncle, and the mechutan will have no reason to drop the shidduch.”
How Miriam wanted to believe him! How she wanted to trust just as he did! How she tried to feel the serenity he felt, knowing that Hashem had guided them until then and would continue to guide them further.
But as they turned pages of the calendar and their finances didn’t change in the slightest, it was becoming more and more difficult to muster up the strength to trust, to believe. R’ Shaya Chassid didn’t even attempt to raise more money; he spent every waking moment before his beloved Gemara, learning with an upbeat niggun.
What would be?
As Purim approached, R’ Shmuel purchased another beautiful gift, a gift worthy of the daughter of R’ Shaya Slutzker, to send to his son’s kallah. The wedding was rapidly drawing nearer, and they had plans to journey to the kallah’s hometown shortly after Purim. But he wanted the kallah to have the gift on Purim, and so he sent a messenger to deliver it to R’ Shaya Slutzker’s home with all due haste.
This time, being Purim, it was more appropriate to have someone try to pull a prank on him, but somehow, when R’ Shaya Slutzker got the gift, he started to wonder if there was something he was missing. Three-hundred rubles was too much money to play around with, even for a wealthy man. And this was the second time this was happening to him!
Though he could not understand what the unknown R’ Shmuel was trying to do, he felt it was only proper to send the messenger back with some sort of gift in return. He’s the fool, not me, he thought to himself as he tried to think of an appropriate gift he could send. And he has a unique sense of humor.
Unlocking his safe, he removed a rare coin, one worth 150 rubles, and put it in a box to send back to the ‘chassan’. He scrawled a hasty note to attach to the gift and gave it the messenger. “Give this back to the chassan,” he instructed with an exaggerated wink.
He watched the messenger return to his carriage, shaking his head ruefully. Even if it wasn’t quite funny, from a financial perspective, this joke was doing well for him. Even with the two gifts he’d returned to the ‘chassan’, he was now three-hundred rubles richer.
The joke got even less funny one week later.
It was the day after Purim, and another messenger arrived at R’ Shaya Slutzker’s home, this time bearing a letter.
To my esteemed mechutan,
Along with my dear son Gershon, we are all eagerly anticipating the upcoming wedding in two weeks, may it be in an auspicious time. I just wanted to let you know that I will be arriving a week before my family, to discuss finances and wrap up loose ends.
Looking forward to seeing you soon! May we share in many happy events together!
R’ Shmuel
R’ Shaya Slutzker dropped the card onto the table and groaned. “What kind of mess did I get myself into?” he exclaimed out loud. “I’m starting to think this is not a joke!”
Shaking his head, he snatched the letter back up and went to find his secretary, who was in the next room, industriously working on a ledger. “I have a mystery,” he announced. “And I need you to help me solve it.”
His secretary, a young man who was rather new on the job, nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes. What happened?”
“As far as I know, I don’t have a daughter,” R’ Shaya said. “Am I right?”
The secretary’s eyes jumped awkwardly around the room. He nodded.
“I didn’t think so either,” R’ Shaya Slutzker said dryly. “So tell me, please, how am I to understand this? Over this winter, I received two gifts from my daughter’s chassan, and to humor my ‘mechutan’, I sent back gifts. But now, the mechutan wants to come here to discuss the finances before the wedding.”
His secretary blinked. “What? Mechutan?”
R’ Shaya handed him the most recent letter. “Exactly so. Read this, and let me know what you think.”
His secretary scrutinized the short missive and frowned. “I think,” he said slowly. “That R’ Shmuel is mixing you up with someone else. The question is, who? Who can he be confusing you with? Perhaps a neighbor’s daughter is a kallah, and the messenger delivered this to the wrong—.”
“Not a neighbor, but he might be confusing me with my nephew, R’ Shaya Chassid,” R’ Shaya Slutzker said darkly. “Do me a favor, and look into this for me. Please.”
“Sure.” His secretary stood up, reaching for his coat. “I’ll make some inquiries and let you know what I discover.”
“I’ll be waiting here for you,” R’ Shaya told him. “Thank you.”
He tried to occupy himself with his business while he waited for his secretary to return, but his mind kept returning to the strange letter. Why would R’ Shmuel confuse him with his nephew, and not just once, but three times? There was something so fishy about the story!
When his secretary finally returned, he was pacing the room impatiently. “Yes? Did you figure this out?”
“I believe so.” The young man took off his coat and hung it on the hook, taking the seat opposite his boss. “It looks like you were correct, sir. It seems that this R’ Shmuel is the mechutan of your nephew, R’ Shaya Chassid.”
“Then why does he think I am his mechutan and not R’ Shaya Chassid?” R’ Shaya growled, uncharacteristically angry.
“Well, you do have the same name,” his secretary pointed out. “Also…” He bit his lip.
“Yes?”
“R’ Shmuel is supposed to be a very wealthy man,” the young man said carefully.
R’ Shaya Slutzker jumped out of his seat, fury darkening his features. “Are you telling me that Shaya Chassid used my name to snag a shidduch with a wealthy man?” he demanded.
“I’m not saying any definite conclusions, just reporting the facts I’ve learned,” the secretary said uncomfortably. “And, uh, many people questioned the shidduch, asking why a wealthy man like R’ Shmuel agreed to do a shidduch with a pauper like R’ Shaya Chassid.”
R’ Shaya Slutzker began pacing the room with loud, almost march-like steps. “And what did my dear nephew respond to them? That he stole my name?”
His secretary coughed, clearly not relishing his role. “Um. He said that he was also wealthy. That he’d be wealthy by the time the wedding came.”
“Ridiculous!” R’ Shaya sputtered, thoroughly incensed. He felt so used and betrayed. Over the years, he’d given R’ Shaya Chassid so much, allowing him to sit and learn with peace of mind. How could his nephew use him like that, tricking R’ Shmuel and ruining his uncle’s good name? And he, the foolish uncle, had even paid for the gifts to the chassan without being wiser!
His secretary remained silent, not wishing to fan the flames.
“Listen, and hear me well,” R’ Shaya Slutzker suddenly declared, startling his secretary. “If this R’ Shmuel wants to do a shidduch with R’ Shaya Chassid, he can do what he wants, but it has nothing to do with me. But there’s no money involved, least of all mine. I will not allow this charade to continue. As soon as R’ Shmuel gets here, I will tell him the truth.”
A few blocks away, in R’ Shaya Chassid’s home, the frenzy increased exponentially. The engagement period had largely passed, surprisingly uneventful, but that was not enough to calm the nerves of the kallah and her apprehensive mother. The wedding was just ten days away. What would happen with their mechutanim came to town and discovered just how poor the kallah’s family was?
“I should feel like the luckiest girl in the world, but I don’t,” Miriam confessed to her mother as they sewed together in uneasy silence. “Gershon sounds exactly like the kind of bachur I always davened for. I should be thrilled, not worried.”
“You would be thrilled if you knew the shidduch was on solid ground,” her mother explained. “And when Hashem send us the dowry your father-in-law wants, just as Tatte says He will, then you will feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”
“I’m trying to have emunah, but it’s so hard,” the kallah said quietly.
“Miriam, if Hashem wants the shidduch to happen, it will happen whether or not a dowry falls from the sky,” R’ Shaya Chassid reminded her, passing through the room with a sefer tucked under his arm. His face was calm, his expression content. With his unshakable emunah, he remained completely unruffled by the anxiety that consumed the rest of the family.
“I can just imagine how angry the mechutan will be when he realizes that we are not Uncle Shaya Slutzker!” his wife exclaimed with a shudder.
“But if the shidduch is meant to happen, then it will,” R’ Shaya Chassid continued to maintain. “And if Miriam is supposed to come into marriage with a millionaire dowry, then she will.”
“How?” his wife begged.
“I don’t need to give Hashem ideas,” he answered. “You must trust in Hashem’s salvation.”
It was fortunate that she didn’t notice R’ Shmuel’s handsome carriage as it drove passed their house on its way to the home of R’ Shaya Slutzker. Her frazzled nerves might not have been able to bear the foreboding it promised.
R’ Shmuel alighted from his carriage with measured steps and walked up to the front entrance of R’ Shaya Slutzker’s lavish home. A brief round of knocking brought a uniformed servant to the broad oak door.
“How may I help you?” the servant inquired pleasantly.
“I’m here for R’ Shaya,” R’ Shmuel responded. “You can tell him that Shmuel is here. He’s expecting me.”
“Please come in,” the servant invited, stepping aside to allow the visitor to enter. He led R’ Shmuel through the large foyer to a large room. A long table stood at its center, surrounded by eight chairs. “Please have a seat. R’ Shaya will be here shortly.”
R’ Shaya’s face twitched briefly when his servant informed him of his guest’s arrival. His nephew’s mechutan was here! For a moment, he panicked. What should he do? How could he break the news to him?
Calm down, he ordered himself. When R’ Shmuel sees you, he might realize immediately that you are not the mechutan, and you won’t have to do any explaining. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the dining room.
To his utter dismay, the man waiting for him there stood up with a wide smile, arm extended in greeting. “R’ Shaya!” R’ Shmuel cried, pumping his hand. “Mazel tov! Mazel tov!”
R’ Shaya Slutzker slumped inwardly. I look too similar to that nephew of mine, he noted wryly. Help! What do I do now? “Mazel tov,” he said aloud, with as much warmth as he could muster. “You must be tired and hungry. Would you care to join me for the midday meal? We can talk when you’re feeling more refreshed.”
“Thank you,” R’ Shmuel nodded, accepting the invitation. “I really am hungry.”
“And if you’d like, I’ll be glad to host you here, at least until your family arrives,” R’ Shaya continued. “Come, let’s wash and start the meal.”
“I can always find a hotel,” R’ Shmuel protested half-heartedly, following his host to wash.
“Nonsense! It would be an honor to host you,” R’ Shaya assured him. It was the best he could do, before he would have to break the news that would send the other man reeling.
Over the meal, they made small talk, with R’ Shaya smoothly steering all conversation away from the upcoming wedding. Instead, they discussed business and market prices and the weather. R’ Shaya was prepared with a number of neutral topics, and he quickly jumped to a new one when the last petered out.
At last, they concluded their meal, and R’ Shaya knew he could postpone the uncomfortable revelation no longer. “R’ Shmuel,” he began, clearing his throat repeatedly, a habit that was reinforced whenever he felt uneasy.
“Yes?”
R’ Shaya coughed. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“You’re making me worry,” R’ Shmuel chided with an uncomfortable chuckle. “Is everything okay? The kallah?”
“The kallah’s fine and healthy, as far as I know,” R’ Shaya hurried to assure him. “It’s just… it seems to me that there’s been some sort of mix-up. You know, I have no children.”
R’ Shmuel jumped out of his chair as though stung by a bee. “What? What?”
“Yes,” R’ Shaya said, not unkindly. “It’s a well-known fact. Ask anyone you want. I’m childless.”
“But we made a shidduch!” R’ Shmuel sputtered. He sank back into his chair, feeling dizzy. “I don’t understand. You came to my hometown! You met Gershon yourself! We had an agreement—.”
R’ Shaya regarded him pityingly. “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could. “The man you met was not me, but my nephew, who shares my name and looks the same as me.”
R’ Shmuel’s expression changed from distress to astonishment to relief in rapid succession. “Oh!” he finally squeaked. “Baruch Hashem! For a moment there, I thought that I had been conned! So I’ve got the right name, just the wrong house?”
“So it seems,” R’ Shaya agreed. “He’s called Shaya Chassid, while I am known as Shaya Slutzker.”
R’ Shmuel shook his head in unmasked amazement. “Wow. Two men with the same name who live in the same city, look the same, and are similar in every way.”
“We are not exactly similar in every way,” R’ Shaya corrected him softly. “I am not a learned man, while my nephew R’ Shaya Chassid is a tremendous talmid chacham. And while, with Hashem’s help, I have seen much success in business, R’ Shaya Chassid is a penniless pauper.”
“A penniless pauper!” R’ Shmuel’s face drained. “I know he is a talmid chacham; I’ve seen as much when we met a few months ago. But I was under the impression that he was very wealthy. He gave my son a very generous gift at the l’chaim, and he sent back nice presents during the engagement period. And the shadchan told us that he was wealthy!”
“Then it seems that both you and the shadchan have been fooled,” R’ Shaya said, with a renewed annoyance that was directed more toward his nephew then to his hapless guest. “And I was the one who sent the gifts during the engagement period, after I received the gifts you sent for the kallah. Believe me, R’ Shmuel, and I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but my nephew doesn’t have a penny to his name.”
R’ Shmuel threw up his hands in despair. “What am I supposed to do now?” he pleaded, half to R’ Shaya, half to Hashem. “It’s days before the wedding! Why would he have fooled me like that?!”
“R’ Shaya Chassid is an exemplary Jew and I’m sure his daughter is very special,” R’ Shaya Slutzker said quietly. “Maybe you want to go ahead anyway? Even without the money?”
“I’m breaking the shidduch,” R’ Shmuel responded flatly. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking, fooling me like that, but I can’t do a shidduch with a mechutan whom I don’t trust. Where does R’ Shaya Chassid live? I’ll go see him immediately.”
“You are welcome to remain here in my home until you leave the city,” R’ Shaya Slutzker reminded him, feeling sorry for the other man. “Why don’t you go to the shul for Minchah, and I’ll send someone to call R’ Shaya Chassid to meet you there?”
R’ Shmuel sighed with relief. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”
“It’s the least I could do,” R’ Shaya said, shaking his head again. Really, what had his nephew been thinking?! He watched R’ Shmuel leave the house and then dispatched a servant to the home of R’ Shaya Chassid, to let him know that his mechutan was waiting for him.
When R’ Shaya Chassid received the message that his mechutan was in town and wanted to speak to him, he calmly put on his nicest suit and went out to meet him. He found R’ Shmuel looking into a sefer in the bais medrash and went to greet him. “Shalom aleichem, my dear mechutan!”
R’ Shmuel shook his hand, somewhat coldly. “Aleichem shalom,” he said stiffly. “We need to talk. I was just at the home of your uncle, R’ Shaya Slutzker, and I feel that I have been fooled. I know that you are a special person and that you have a wonderful daughter, but I thought that I had done a shidduch with a wealthy man when it turns out that you are anything but. The whole shidduch was based on error, and I don’t think I can allow it to proceed.”
R’ Shaya Chassid took the seat opposite him. “R’ Shmuel, I understand that you are upset, but I’m sure we can work this out. I feel bad that you mistakenly assumed that I was R’ Shaya Slutzker, but is that a reason to call off the wedding? It’s true that I am not wealthy, but I promise to provide a dowry just like a wealthy man would. Would you be okay with that?”
R’ Shmuel stared at him, somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, if you are in the position to provide the kind of dowry my son was expecting, then I will certainly allow the shidduch to proceed. However, according to your uncle, you don’t have a penny to your name. How do you plan on coming up with that kind of money?”
“You can’t believe lashon hara!” R’ Shaya Chassid admonished him. “I give my word that I can provide a millionaire dowry. Name the sum that you were expecting, and we’ll shake on it.”
“If you say so,” R’ Shmuel murmured, naming a figure. It was a tremendous sum, significantly more than R’ Shaya earned in a year. “And, of course, I will match that amount. What do you say, R’ Shaya? Is that something you can do?”
“Yes, with Hashem’s help, I will do it,” R’ Shaya said firmly.
R’ Shmuel peeked at him, a trifle uncertain. “Are you sure? You’ll have the money by Thursday?”
“By Thursday,” his mechutan pledged.
A grateful sigh escaped R’ Shmuel. He did not really wish to call off the shidduch so close to the wedding, and he was glad that the finances were being resolved before he had been forced to make a difficult decision. He parted from R’ Shaya Chassid on cordial terms and returned to the home of his host.
He found R’ Shaya Slutzker waiting for him outside, curious to hear what had happened. “Is the shidduch over?” he inquired.
“No, baruch Hashem,” R’ Shmuel sighed in relief. “Your nephew promised to provide the kind of dowry a wealthy man would provide, and we agreed on a satisfactory number.” He named the sum.
R’ Shaya made an unhappy noise. “My dear R’ Shmuel,” he said, very slowly, considering every word. “I don’t want to badmouth my nephew, but I do feel that it is my obligation to warn you. R’ Shaya Chassid has no money. I know this because I personally provide for his needs; he has no alternate source of income. There is absolutely no way he can give your son that much money, or anything like it.”
“But he promised!” R’ Shmuel protested weakly.
“R’ Shaya is a goodhearted man, and very well-liked,” R’ Shaya Slutzker responded. “He will probably manage to raise the money in loans and promissory notes, just so that he can have something to show you. But in truth, it is nearly impossible that he’ll be able to collect on all the notes. Many of them will likely be just for show, to prove to you that he has the capability.”
R’ Shmuel grimaced. He did not want to believe R’ Shaya Slutzker’s pessimistic opinion, but even without believing it, he was obligated to take measures to protect himself just in case. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Tell him that you need the money in cash,” R’ Shaya suggested. Although he was certain that his nephew would not manage to come up with the needed funds in time, he felt bad that R’ Shmuel was being played, and he wanted the uncomfortable saga to conclude as quickly as possible. “You look exhausted. Do you want me to send my servant to relay the message to him?”
“Please,” R’ Shmuel consented. “Yes, please send the message that I will need the money in cash. No promissory notes.”
The servant returned a half-hour later, and to R’ Shaya Slutzker’s surprise, he was bearing R’ Shaya Chassid’s full agreement. “He said that cash was not a problem,” the servant announced.
“I’m telling you, he’s planning on pulling a fast one,” R’ Shaya warned his guest, just as R’ Shmuel was finally feeling like they were on safe ground again. “The man doesn’t have a penny to his name. I don’t know what he’s planning, but even if he has the cash up front, chances are that it won’t be long lasting.”
“You have so little faith in him!” R’ Shmuel grumbled.
“You would, too, if one of the poorest men in your neighborhood suddenly began promising people extraordinary sums,” R’ Shaya pointed out. “I really think you should tell him that all the money for the dowry, both what you promised and what he promised, should be deposited in the hands of a worthy third-party. The young couple will be able to withdraw money when they need it, and this way R’ Shaya Chassid won’t be able to pull any tricks.”
“Fine,” R’ Shmuel said wearily. “That’s a good idea. Can you please send your servant to speak to R’ Shaya Chassid?”
“With pleasure.” R’ Shaya Slutzker gave him a sympathetic glance. “Let me show you to your room. You must be exhausted.”
The traveling and then the negotiating had really worn R’ Shmuel out. He fell into bed, fully clothed, and slept for a long time. When he awoke, night had already fallen, and R’ Shaya Slutzker had news for him.
“He agreed to deposit the money with a third party,” R’ Shaya announced, the disbelief evident in his voice. “And he invited you to his home on Thursday evening for a meal, when he will give you the money. Now let’s start hoping for a miracle.”
“He agreed? Wonderful!” R’ Shmuel’s face broke out into a wide smile. “Don’t be so pessimistic, R’ Shaya! Either he’ll have the money, or he won’t. My family won’t be here until after Shabbos, and in the worst case, we’ll just have to let them know that the wedding is canceled.”
Privately, however, he was relying on the word of R’ Shaya Chassid, trusting him to fulfill his pledge. And if his trust was misplaced and R’ Shaya Chassid turned out to be nothing but a liar… He let the thought dangle, even in his mind. The results, he knew, would not be pretty.
Wednesday morning dawned, crisp and cold. In R’ Shaya Chassid’s home, his wife was completely hysterical. “How can we host the mechutan for a meal?” she cried, casting a trembling hand around at the peeling walls and broken chairs. “What will we feed him? And what will we tell him? We don’t have the money, not in the cash he wants, and not even in promissory notes!”
“Please try to calm down,” R’ Shaya said soothingly. “We will borrow chairs from the neighbors and whitewash the walls. We can even borrow silver dishes from the neighbors, and he’ll feel like he’s in a king’s palace!”
His wife sank into a chair and held her head in her hands. “And what will we serve him? Black bread and salt?”
“Chicken,” R’ Shaya announced. “We’ll shecht the Shabbos chicken and serve him from it. Hashem will send us other food for Shabbos.”
“Amen,” she whispered, beseechingly. “And the money?”
R’ Shaya smiled. “That’s what you’re worried about? The money? Hashem is our Father, and He’s richer than the wealthiest millionaire. The mechutan is not coming before Thursday. There’s still plenty of time for Him to send us the money. If the shidduch is meant to happen, it will.”
The day passed, but the money didn’t make its appearance.
Thursday arrived. All the children were pressed into house-cleaning duty, and before long, their small cottage was sparkling as though it was erev Pesach. R’ Shaya’s wife made her rounds to the neighbors, borrowing silver and gold for the table settings which Miriam carefully set over a newly embroidered tablecloth she’d borrowed from her trousseau.
When they were done, the transformation was incredible. The main room of their old, rumpled down house suddenly looked like a dining room that could compete with that of their uncle R’ Shaya Slutzker. If only they’d really have had the money, it would have been perfect.
“Miriam,” R’ Shaya Chassid called to the kallah. “Please take the Shabbos chicken to the shochet now. We will use it when the mechutan comes.”
“Sure,” Miriam agreed, grabbing her basket and leaving the house. Every Sunday, her father would purchase a chicken from the market, which they would feed throughout the week. By Friday, it was always fuller, fatter, and ready for slaughter. Though it was a day early, the rooster was likely fat enough, and even a scrawny chicken was better than plain black bread.
The chicken was clucking around the fenced-in yard when Miriam came to take it, and it didn’t seem too interested in coming with her. “Come, rooster,” Miriam coaxed, chasing the chicken in circles around the yard. This was not a task she did regularly, and though it was supposed to be a fairly simple job, it was proving to be difficult and frustrating.
After five minutes of fruitless swatting and breathless chasing, Miriam finally managed to catch the troublesome bird by its neck. She placed it in her basket, keeping one hand firmly on its back to prevent it from jumping out, and began walking briskly toward the marketplace.
The rooster was not very happy, and it squawked loudly, flapping its wings in an effort to free itself. Just two houses down the block, it managed to wriggle out from under Miriam’s hand, and before she could blink, it disappeared into a neighbor’s yard.
“Hey!” Miriam called helplessly to the chicken, but it did not deign to even look in her direction. Sighing, she slid the basket handle up her arm and followed after the rooster.
“How does Tatte do this every week?” she wondered out loud, as she chased the chicken across yards and lawns and even deep into the forest. If they had enough money for just one more chicken, she would have abandoned the chase, but she knew that without this rooster, there would be nothing to serve her future father-in-law. Breathing hard, she ducked under a low-hanging branch and continued her sprint after the escaping bird.
The rooster led her on a wild escapade through the dense woods, dancing spiritedly over fallen brush and steep boulders with a tiring Miriam hotly on its heels. They reached a small clearing and the rooster finally stopped running. It stood in one spot, pecking at the ground, almost waiting for her to reach out and catch it.
Miriam filled her lungs with air and watched the bird suspiciously. She was quite sure that the moment she reached out to grab it, the rooster would dart away. Instead, she contented herself to peek at it from the corner of her eye and enjoy the short respite while the chicken pecked at the ground.
The rooster pecked and pecked, and Miriam was suddenly aware that there was something sharp and square sticking up from the ground that seemed to have caught the bird’s attention. Cautiously, she shoveled with her shoe until she unearthed the buried box.
It was full of coins. Gold coins.
Miriam pried the box out of the ground and placed it into her basket. Holding her precious cargo carefully, she made her way out of the forest. This time, the rooster followed her obediently, like a loyal dog shadowing its master, and she led it straight to the shochet, who slaughtered it.
Back home, her mother waited with growing concern. When three hours had passed and she was about to start panicking, the kallah finally came home, clutching a package containing the freshly wrapped chicken and lugging a heavy basket. Wordlessly, she set down the basket. Her mother peeked in, her mouth dropping open at the sight of the treasure nestled inside.
When R’ Shaya Chassid returned home from the bais medrash just a few minutes before the mechutan was due to arrive, his wife and daughter eagerly showed him the miracle, the treasure Hashem had sent them just in time.
But he wasn’t surprised. “The shidduch was bashert,” he said simply, just as he’d been saying all along.
The Apta Rav, when saying over this story on the final night of Pesach, would conclude with the powerful message of the story. Like Krias Yam Suf, every shidduch is a miracle from Shamayim, and Hashem will stop at nothing to make it happen. If Hashem wants a shidduch to take place, it will take place, even if it involves splitting the sea or sending a rooster to uncover a dowry under the ocean floor.