Undercover

Part I

From a very young age, it was evident to all that Nosson was special. He was a gifted child, blessed with a quick grasp and extraordinary retention abilities, enabling him to progress in his studies at a more rapid pace than his peers. Scholastically, he was on the same level as those a few years his senior.

Along with his brilliant mind, Nosson possessed beautiful middos. He never flaunted his talents and went out of his way to help others. His father a renowned baal chesed in his own right, taught Nosson to look out for the elderly and the infirm, and to go out of his way to assist them as much as possible.

Every day, Nosson would go to cheder, where he would absorb everything he learned like a sponge.  His mind craved Torah like a fish craves water, and there was nothing he loved more than sitting in front of his Gemara, working through the words of Abaya and Rava. He learned from morning to dusk with diligence not often seen in children his age.

During his short breaks for lunch and then supper, Nosson would spend his free time helping others, particularly the old and the sick. He would do their shopping, straighten up their homes, and ensure that they had what to eat. At times, he undertook to raise money for necessities, such as medicine, which they could not afford. On Shabbos, he could often be seen walking elderly men to and from shul, providing support with his arm and also with his smile.

Nosson grew older, and his extraordinary diligence, coupled with his golden heart, grew along with him. Soon, he became a bar mitzvah, which his family and friends celebrated with a festive seudah. For a beautiful evening, his relatives and rabbeim joined around the table, listening to his pshetl and uplifting the room with joyous song. When it was over, it was time for his father to make a decision regarding Nosson’s future.

Unlike today, in the time when Nosson was growing up, it was highly unusual for a boy to continue learning in yeshiva past the age of bar mitzvah. With most families living on a meager budget, they relied on their teenage sons to earn money toward the family finances. After their bar mitzvah, the overwhelming majority of young men where apprenticed to farmers and craftsmen to learn a trade.

Only a select few merited to continue in a yeshiva setting past the age of bar mitzvah. These were usually bachurim who hailed from very wealthy homes, homes that managed quite comfortably without their sons’ financial contributions. Apart from them, there were also a few boys who were not as well-to-do, but whose parents were willing and able to forgo their son’s income so that he could become a talmid chacham, even if it meant being a little colder and a little hungrier.

Nosson was from this second category. His family wasn’t poor nor rich; they lived month to month, but always had bread on the table. Nosson’s parents, however, truly wanted their brilliant son to continue to progress in learning, and with this deep desire, they made the decision to send Nosson to yeshiva after his bar mitzvah. With a son as gifted as Nosson, they simply could not imagine apprenticing him to a blacksmith or a carpenter.

Nosson’s father spoke at length to Nosson’s rabbeim, debating which yeshiva would be the best fit for the special young man. After much deliberation and thought, they unanimously decided on a specific yeshiva, located in a distant town. It was a difficult choice for Reb Ezriel, since sending Nosson so far away meant not seeing him for a period of at least a few years, yet since he knew that this was where his son would grow the most, he swallowed hard and encouraged him to travel.

Armed with a letter from his rabbeim, which would serve as his entry ticket into the yeshiva, Nosson set out toward his new yeshiva. He was still so young, a baby-faced youth at the cusp of his teenage years, yet he was already on his own, leaving his family to dive into the sea of Torah study. He knew of his parents’ sacrifice to send him to yeshiva, and despite the fact that he would miss them terribly, he was grateful for the opportunity they’d given him.

The journey to the yeshiva took a few weeks, long and exhausting weeks of bumpy roads and fitful nights, but at last Nosson arrived in the city where the yeshiva was located. It was a large and busy city, so overwhelmingly different from the small, peaceful village he called home, and the blur of color and movement and noise took his breath away. How would he ever find his way, a lonely young boy in such a bustling place?

Nosson blinked back his tears and took a deep, calming breath. “Excuse me,” he called timidly to a Jewish man coming down the street toward him. “Where is the yeshiva?”

The man looked him up and down. “Go straight down the block and make a left…”

Nosson listed to a long list of directions, committing them to his memory. Thanking the man, he hefted his suitcase onto his thin shoulders and followed the man’s directions until he reached the large yeshiva building. Nosson hesitated in front of the nondescript building for a moment, fingering his pocket for the letter from his rebbeim. Then he squared his shoulders and went inside.

“Are you new here?” a bachur asked him, smiling at him from above the sparse growth of his beard. “Let me take you to the rosh yeshiva.”

They walked together to the rosh yeshiva’s office, Nosson dragging his heavy suitcase behind him. “Here we are,” the kind bachur said. “Don’t worry, the rosh yeshiva will take care of you.” With a final, friendly wave, he walked away, leaving Nosson on his own.

Nosson knocked lightly on the door and then pushed it opened hesitantly when the rosh yeshiva called for him to enter.

“Ah, a new bachur!” the rosh yeshiva said warmly. “Shalom aleichem! Please take a seat. What is your name?”

“My name is Nosson,” Nosson replied softly, seating himself at the edge of the chair facing the rosh yeshiva. He withdrew the letter from his rabbeim and handed it to the rosh yeshiva.

The rosh yeshiva took the letter and read it slowly. His eyes crinkled as he smiled up at Nosson when he was done. “Your rabbeim speak highly of you,” he told the newcomer. “We would be most honored to have you join our yeshiva.”

“Thank you,” Nosson said shyly. “I am grateful for the opportunity.”

“As you may have heard, the yeshiva is structured so that all the bachurim are arranged into small groups of six or eight, each with its own rebbi,” the rosh yeshiva explained. “First, we’ll talk in learning a little so that I can gain an understanding of where your holding. That will help me determine which group would be best for you to join, and which kind of chavrusah would be most suitable for you. What are you in middle of learning, Nosson?”

For the next half-hour, Nosson and the rosh yeshiva discussed various sugyos that he had recently learned. Nosson held his own admirably and impressed the rosh yeshiva with his clarity and grasp.

When they were done, the rosh yeshiva stood up. “Come with me to the bais medrash,” he told Nosson. “I’ll introduce you to your rebbi and your chavrusah. You can leave your suitcase here and pick it up after shiur, when your chavrusah will show you where you’ll sleep.”

Nosson followed the rosh yeshiva, already feeling much calmer. The rosh yeshiva’s kind smile and warmth caused anticipation to replace his anxiety and hope to replace his homesickness. He was here to grow, to shteig, and he planned on utilizing every minute.

Within a short time, Nosson settled in and began thriving. He flourished in the bais medrash, where he enjoyed the challenge of his rebbi’s shiur, and began making friends with the other boys, who were drawn by his good nature. He also developed a relationship with a few bachurim older than he was, learning with them at a more advanced level for a short period every day.

But although Nosson was thrilled with the yeshiva, the rabbeim, and the bachurim, there was one small thing that marred his happiness in his new environment. He missed the chesed and bikur cholim that had once been a regular part of his schedule. Helping others was a part of his nature, and he longed for the opportunity to make an elderly or sick man smile. Without it, he felt empty and unfulfilled.

One afternoon, after a pleasurable learning session with one of his older friends, Nosson hesitantly brought up the subject. “Uh, Shmuel,” he said slowly, pushing back his chair. “I was just wondering… in my hometown, I used to spend a half hour every day helping elderly people and doing bikur cholim. Do you know how I can find such opportunities here?”

Shmuel looked at him in astonishment. “I don’t understand. You came here to learn, did you not? You traveled for weeks, far away from home, so that you can shteig here in yeshiva. You’ll be able to do chesed all your life; now is your time to sit and learn Torah.”

“Of course,” Nosson agreed. “I came here to learn, and I definitely plan on learning for almost the entire day. But chesed is also in the Torah, and I am certainly entitled to spend a half-hour between sedorim doing chesed.”

Shmuel looked at him strangely. “Nosson, chesed is commendable, and I admire you for it, but you can’t have a secondary focus if you want to succeed in yeshiva. You need to throw yourself completely into learning, without any outside pursuits, even noble ones like chesed.”

“You don’t understand,” Nosson protested, his expression pleading. “The chesed won’t take away from my learning; if anything, it will enhance it. You have to realize that helping those less fortunate than me is something that gives me energy and chiyus; I need it to keep me going.”

But Shmuel clearly did not understand. “I’m starting to wonder if you and I are compatible as chavrusahs,” he said carefully. “I need a chavrusah who is completely engaged, all the time. A chavrusah whose is driven by his learning and the wonderful opportunities available to him right here in this bais medrash. I just can’t understand why you need to look elsewhere for purpose and vitality if you have it all right here.”

Nosson didn’t try explaining himself further, realizing that his efforts were futile. Keeping his true feelings to himself, he tried to follow Shmuel’s advice and dive deeper into his learning, which indeed did provide him with a strong sense of fulfillment. However, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shake the niggling feeling of emptiness in the place in his heart that had once housed the elderly and infirm.

A few days later, while walking home late at night with his friend, Zalman, the ache in his heart cajoled Nosson to try again. “I miss the old and sick people whom I used to visit,” he confided in his friend, feeling a blush creeping to his cheeks. “It felt so good to help them out, and it didn’t just keep them going, it kept me going to.”

Zalman looked at him curiously. “You used to help out old and sick people?”

“Yes, back home, I used to go every day,” Nosson explained enthusiastically. Even speaking about it was bringing him to life. “Bikur cholim is a real mitzvah; you should see the difference it makes to someone lying ill in bed. And it feels good to make a difference; you know what I mean? It’s exhilarating!”

 “I guess so,” Zalman said, his doubtful tone implying that he didn’t really get it. “I mean, of course it’s nice to help people and feel like you’ve done something…”

“Do you know of any elderly people in this city?” Nosson asked hopefully. “I would love to be able to continue my old activities here. I really miss it.”

Zalman stopped walking. “You want to do chesed instead of learning?” he asked incredulously. “Are you crazy? Nosson, I don’t have to remind you why you came here! You could have stayed in your hometown if you wanted to do chesed.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to stop learning,” Nosson said, frustration coloring his voice. “I know very well why I came here, and I plan on learning every minute of seder and even beyond that. All I’m saying is that for a half-hour bein hasedorim, I would love to help out an older man in the need of assistance and companionship.”

“Nosson, I really think you have this wrong,” Zalman declared, putting an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “It’s really special of you, how you want to be there for the elderly, but this is not the time and place. Your place now is in front of your Gemara. That’s why your father sent you here. And if you ask me, I don’t think Rebbi will be happy if you are gallivanting around town, looking after old men!”

Defeated, Nosson fell silent, but the ache in his heart grew bigger.

It did not take long for his rebbi, the venerated mechanech Rav Laizer, to notice that something was wrong. Looking over his class the next day during shiur, he realized that Nosson looked withdrawn and a little out of things, as though he had somehow deflated overnight. His usual sparkle was missing from his eyes, and his back was slumped in defeat. From one day to the next, Nosson seemed to have lost his simchas hachaim.

“Nosson,” Rav Laizer called to his student at the end of the shiur. “I would like to speak to you for a moment.” His heart went out to the young boy, just thirteen years old, now undergoing a difficult period without the comfort of his family close by.

Nosson approached the desk, and his rebbi waited for the room to empty out before speaking. “Nosson, I noticed that something is bothering you. Please tell me what the matter is. With your father so far away, it is my privilege and duty to be here for you, and I would like to help you. Please tell me what is bothering you.”

Tears, unbidden, sprang to Nosson’s eyes, and a lump the size of an egg settled in his throat. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t.

“Come, sit down,” Rav Laizer said kindly. “It’s okay, Nosson. It’s okay.”

Nosson cleared his throat and wiped his tears. “I come from a home that is steeped in Torah and chesed,” he said at last. “My parents loved Torah, they respected Torah, and they even sacrificed for Torah, by sending me here to learn. They instilled in me a love of Torah, and I truly treasure the opportunity they gave me to learn here in yeshiva.”

Rav Laizer nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“But along with Torah, my parents were also very big baalei chesed,” Nosson continued, his voice slightly hoarse. “And from a very young age, I imbibed a fierce appreciation for this mitzvah. Every single day, ever since I can remember until I came here, I never missed a day of helping the sick, the elderly, and the needy. Doing chesed is as much a part of me as learning Torah is. I need it!” He paused and peeked at his rebbi for confirmation.

“Go on,” Rav Laizer said softly.

“It’s as though there is a hole inside of me that cannot be filled,” Nosson said earnestly. “Torah fills up almost all of it, but without chesed, I am still a little incomplete. I need to find an old man, a sick person, or someone in this city that I can assist. I need it! But both Shmuel and Zalman told me that I have to give up the idea of doing chesed if I want to stay in yeshiva. This is not the time and place, they told me.”

“They’re right,” Rav Laizer said, as gently as he could. “Nosson, your desire to do chesed is commendable, and you can gladly fulfill it by helping weaker bachurim keep up with the shiur. There are enough opportunities for chesed within the yeshiva framework. You need to understand that the yeshiva would not be able to survive if we allowed the bachurim to roam the city, doing chesed. Before long, it would become a free market instead of a yeshiva.”

Nosson started to cry again. “Rebbi,” he wept. “I need it! I promise you it won’t affect my learning sedorim. Please allow me special permission to help an elderly man. Please find me someone to visit. I can’t just give up on the special mitzvah I’ve been doing my entire life.”

Rav Laizer peered at his talmid with kind, loving eyes for a long time. “Nosson, I see that this is something that really matters to you, on a very deep level. I am willing to make an exception for you. There’s an elderly man whom I know, an unassuming but special man, who lives alone here in the city. His name is Reb Lemel.”

Nosson’s face brightened instantly. “Thank you,” he cried passionately. “Thank you, rebbi! I really appreciate this! You’ll see that it will only enhance my learning, not subtract from it.”

Rav Laizer smiled. “Very well. I’ll take you there today during supper.”

That evening, after shiur was over, Rav Laizer and Nosson walked together to Reb Lemel’s house. “Reb Lemel used to be a shochet, back when he was younger,” Rav Laizer said, his shoes crunching on the leaves underfoot. “He still shechts a cow every once in a while, when someone brings it to his house, but he’s more or less retired.”

Nosson sidestepped a large boulder and then fell back in step beside his rebbi. “Is he homebound?”

“He’s not confined to his bed or anything like that, but he rarely goes out. Every so often, I see him walking in the street. He’s very old, and it’s not easy for him to walk long distances. He tires easily…” He glanced sideways at Nosson. “I’m sure you know just what elderly people are like.”

“Yes,” Nosson agreed. “Is his wife still alive?”

Rav Laizer sighed. “His wife passed away many years ago, and he lives alone. That’s why I thought he would appreciate having you around the house. You can do his shopping and tidy up his house… You’re experienced at this.”

“And rebbi said he is a special person,” Nosson added. “Maybe I’ll even learn a path in avodas Hashem from him.”

“He’s a big baal middos,” Rav Laizer agreed. “Pious and righteous, with true yiras shamayim. The epitome of what a simple, erliche Yid should look like. Ah, here is his house.”

Reb Lemel’s home was a small cottage with untrimmed hedges lining the front. Nosson followed his rebbi up the path toward the faded wooden door, his stomach knotted in anticipation.

Rav Laizer knocked on the door. “Reb Lemel? Can we come in?” He pushed open the door, cringing from the loud scraping noise it made, and motioned to Nosson to follow him in.

Reb Lemel was sitting at the table, dozing in his seat, a tehillim open in front of him. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of his guests’ footsteps creaking on the floorboards. “Shalom aleichem,” he greeted them, straightening up in his chair.

“Reb Lemel, this is Nosson,” Rav Laizer introduced. “He wants to become your gabbai.”

Reb Lemel gave a startled laugh. “I don’t need a gabbai, but if the young man wants to help me out, there’s plenty for him to do,” he said, gesturing around the room ruefully at the slight disarray.

“I would love to,” Nosson said eagerly. “I can also do your shopping, if you need, and other errands… I can help you go to shul and we can take walks together… Pretend I am your grandson, and I’ll help you out just as I would my own grandfather.”

“Young man, you are welcome to adopt me as your grandfather, but I’m sure that your rebbi does not want you to spend the whole day at my house instead of learning,” Reb Lemel noted.

“Yes, I learn most of the day, and I will continue to do that,” Nosson concurred. “My rebbi has agreed to allow me to come here for a half-hour every day. Is that okay with you?”

“That would be wonderful,” Reb Lemel exclaimed in his thin, frail voice. “You should be gebenched!”

“Okay, Nosson, this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” Rav Laizer said, stepping back into the conversation. “You are now hereby Reb Lemel’s honorary grandson. We must go back to yeshiva now, but he’ll be back here every day during lunch if that’s okay with you, Reb Lemel.”

Reb Lemel nodded with half-closed eyelids. He dozed off before his guests even reached the door.

From then on, Nosson went to visit Reb Lemel every day. He shopped for him and cleaned for him and schmoozed with him. He repaired a leak in the roof and built a new shelf to replace the sagging one in the bedroom. He took walks with him, helped him to shul on Shabbos, and assisted him in tying his shoelaces. As the weeks passed, the bond between the yeshiva bachur and the elderly man became stronger and stronger.

There was just one thing that bothered Nosson. There was something about Reb Lemel that seemed a little… strange, even mysterious, and Nosson could not put his finger on exactly what it was.

Every time he came to visit Reb Lemel, he always found the old man in his chair, dozing over his tehillim. It was always a tehillim, and he was always falling asleep in front of it. Never did Nosson find him sitting by the window or resting in bed or eating a meal. Even when Nosson switched his schedule and started coming at a different time, Reb Lemel was still in the exact same spot, nodding off over his tehillim.

This seemed very suspicious to Nosson. It just wasn’t natural. It seemed that Reb Lemel purposely set himself up in front of his tehillim and feigned sleep every time Nosson came over, probably as a pretense to cover for something he did not want Nosson to see.

There was something more to Reb Lemel than met the eye, that Nosson was sure of.

But what could it be? What kind of secrets was the elderly man hiding?

To be continued…

Undercover

Part II

Recap: Nosson, a bachur in a yeshiva far from home, went every day to help an elderly man, Reb Lemel, with various needs. After a while, he began to wonder if Reb Lemel was hiding something.

A year passed, and then two, then five. Nosson, now eighteen years old, continued excelling in his learning, earning a reputation as one of the best bachurim in the yeshiva. But even as he grew and matured, blossoming into an authentic talmid chacham, his daily half-hour with Reb Lemel continued to remain sacrosanct.

How Nosson relished the time he spent with Reb Lemel, engaging in the special mitzvah of chesed. The elderly man did not speak much, and in fact grunted and groaned a lot, but this did not damper Nosson’s zeal and enthusiasm.

He cared for Reb Lemel through a few winter illnesses, spoon-feeding him at times and nursing him back to health. He took him to the mikvah on Fridays and helped him clean up after Shabbos, making himself fully available to Reb Lemel for whatever he needed during his half-hour visit every day.

But even after so many months and years of visiting Reb Lemel daily, Nosson was no closer to uncovering the mystery surrounding the elderly man. Each and every day, for five entire years, he found Reb Lemel dozing off in front of his tehillim whenever he came in, and he never failed to wonder what the old man was hiding. But Reb Lemel continued to guard his secret, stubbornly maintaining his façade of a tired elderly man.

One day, after shiur, Nosson left the yeshiva and went to Reb Lemel’s, as he did every day. This time, like every time, Reb Lemel seemed to be nodding off in front of his tehillim when Nosson came in.

But then, for the first time in five years, the script changed.

Reb Lemel, who usually didn’t utter a word other than grunting “Oy, oy,” over and over, began to speak. “Nosson,” he said, his voice brisk and his tone serious. “Tonight, I am leaving this world, and I want you to do me a favor.”

Nosson’s eyes widened. “Please, Reb Lemel, don’t talk like that,” he chided.

Reb Lemel brushed him off. “Listen, Noson. This is very serious. Tonight, I am going to be leaving the world, and I need to tell you something. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Nosson quickly said.

“Behind my house, there is a small shack,” Reb Lemel said quietly, and Nosson had to strain to hear him.  “In the corner of the shed, you’ll see a pile of sand and rags. Move everything away from the corner until you reach the cobblestone floor under the layer of dirt. Dig up the corner stone and under that will be a box. In that box is a tremendous amount of money.”

Nosson nodded, torn between doubting the unbelievable story and trusting the elderly man whom he had come to know and love.

Reb Lemel continued. “I want you to divide the money into three. One third of the money belongs to you, to keep. One third of the money should be put back beneath the stone, with the dirt and rags shoveled on top. And the final third should be given to Velvel.”

“Velvel? Who is Velvel?” Nosson asked. Did Reb Lemel have a son whom he did not know about?

“Velvel the Watercarrier,” Reb Lemel responded, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Where does he live?” Nosson wanted to know. He had never heard of this Velvel before.

“You’ll find him, don’t worry,” Reb Lemel assured him, not answering his question. He seemed to be in a hurry to finish giving Nosson his instructions before the bachur had to leave, and he hastened to move on. “Please be here tonight thirty minutes before chatzos. Don’t tell anyone that I told you that I will be leaving this world until shortly before chatzos. Then I want you to gather a minyan to be with me when my soul departs.”

The talk of death was making the young bachur uncomfortable. “Reb Lemel—” he tried to interject.

But the old man just continued talking. “I am not just giving you the money for free; I want something in exchange. I want you to be the one to say kaddish for me, Nosson. Every day, for one year, you should say kaddish and learn mishnayos for me. And every year, you must keep my yartzeit- you, and your children, and your children’s children, for fifty years. That is what I am asking from you in exchange for the money. And it’s a lot of money.”

“I am just a bachur, still unmarried,” Nosson hurried to say. “I don’t have children yet, and I don’t want to be pulled into business now.”

“You’ll give the money to your rebbi, Rav Laizer,” Reb Lemel said. “He’ll put it away for you until you get married. And of course, you should keep the whole matter quiet so that you don’t have thieves walking off with part of your wealth. But don’t forget to give a third to Velvel and to put a third back where it came from.”

“Please, Reb Lemel, don’t talk like this,” Nosson pleaded. He began pacing the room nervously. Reb Lemel was old, and probably senile, but what if he really was speaking the lucid truth?

“You can go now,” Reb Lemel said suddenly. “But please be back a half-hour before chatzos.  You’ll light a candle and call in ten men, and then, as is customary, you’ll open a window. That is when my neshamah will leave me. And you’ll ensure that I am buried according to halachah, Nosson?”

Nosson left Reb Lemel’s house completely shaken. For the remainder of the day, he could not concentrate on his Gemara. His thoughts kept wandering to Reb Lemel, and the frightening conversation they’d had. Something about the expression in Reb Lemel’s eyes told him that the elderly man knew what he was talking about, and he knew that he needed to obey the man’s directive.

He had had never watched a person die, and the thought of being with Reb Lemel during the time that his soul left his body filled Nosson with apprehension. Inside, he was an absolute mess, unable to eat or learn or even hold a proper conversation with his chavrusah. As the clock ticked closer to chatzos, his stomach clenched tighter and tighter.

About an hour before chatzos, he was too wound up to remain in the bais medrash. He stood up and began pacing the streets, which were, unsurprisingly for that hour, deserted. Briefly, Nosson wondered how he would manage to cobble together a minyan if Reb Lemel’s instructions turned out to be necessary.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Nosson turned in the direction of Reb Lemel’s home, wondering if it would indeed be the last time he would be walking on that familiar route. By the time he reached Reb Lemel’s small cottage, his entire body seemed to be vibrating nervously, and no matter how hard he tried to calm down, he simply couldn’t relax.

He found Reb Lemel lying in bed, his eyes closed. Nosson pulled over a chair and sat down, and suddenly, he just knew in his heart that Reb Lemel had been speaking the truth. The old man’s face was pale, and his breathing was heavy. Nosson just sat and watched him, to terrified to utter a word.

A few minutes before chatzos, Reb Lemel opened his eyes. “Is the minyan here?” he asked weakly. “And can you please open the window?”

Nosson shot of his chair in fright and hastened to open the window. He ran outside to try to find a minyan of men, but all he saw was one lone passerby making his way down the street. “Excuse me! Excuse me, Reb Yid!” he called to the passing man.

The man turned around and squinted in the moonlight. “Yes?”

The breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding whooshed out of Nosson. “I need you for a minyan. Please, can you come inside?”

“A minyan now?” the man was surprised. “For what?”

“Please, just come,” Nosson begged. “I’m going to find more people to make up the minyan.”

He ran down the street and turned right, but there were no more people outside. Urgently, he turned around and began running in the opposite direction, but found no better luck there. Before continuing to search, he went into Reb Lemel’s house to check on the elderly man, and to his horror, he discovered that during his absence, Reb Lemel’s soul had returned to its Maker.

Nosson let out a piercing scream, a wail of pain and sorrow. Reb Lemel had passed away! Reb Lemel, the elderly man whom he’d cared for so devotedly for five years, was gone! Nosson felt something within him shrivel, as though Reb Lemel had carved a piece of his heart and taken it along with him when he’d left This World.

Reb Lemel was gone, and he, Nosson, hadn’t managed to fulfill his elderly friend’s final desire. Nosson tore his shirtfront in mourning and burst into anguished tears. “Reb Lemel was niftar!” he cried, running through the streets. “The elderly shochet, Reb Lemel, passed away!”

The levaya took place the following morning. It was a small, though somber, event. A few neighbors and some of Reb Lemel’s customers took the morning off of work to attend the funeral, along with the local rav, a few elderly men who’d been Reb Lemel’s friends, and of course, Nosson.

Nosson, who was arguably the closest to Reb Lemel from all the attendees, led the procession to the cemetery. Walking respectfully behind the wagon containing the aron of Reb Lemel, he was overcome with memories of his time together with the deceased. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

As the small crowd reached the cemetery gates, the sound of breathless running caused all heads to turn. A white-haired pauper, dressed in torn, tattered attire, ran right up onto the wagon, panting. Standing beside the aron of the deceased Reb Lemel, he tore kriyah and burst into heartrending sobs.

“Who is that?” Nosson whispered to the man standing near him, a neighbor of Reb Lemel. In all his years of visiting Reb Lemel, he’d never seen this man before.

“That’s Velvel, Velvel the watercarrier,” the neighbor murmured back. “I have no idea how he knows Reb Lemel. As far as I know, they had nothing to do with each other.”

Nosson gave a little jump. Velvel the watercarrier! That was the man to whom Reb Lemel had instructed that he give one-third of his money. Velvel was sobbing uncontrollably, his eyes ringed in a dark scarlet, and Nosson committed his face to memory. Later, after the levayah, he planned to dig up the money and give Velvel his fair share.

Reb Lemel’s coffin was brought into the cemetery and he was lowered into the waiting grave. Raw earth was shoveled on top, sealing off the kever, and the customary tehillim was recited. Nosson prepared to take leave of the elderly man who had been such an integral part of his life for five entire years.

Then the pauper who had been identified as Velvel threw himself onto the freshly dug grave. Twin rivers of tears flowed nonstop from his eyes, drenching the grave beneath him. He was simply not able to get back to himself.

Nosson could not help but wonder about the relationship between Reb Lemel and Velvel. It was clear to him that they had been exceedingly close. There was no other explanation for the overflow of tears that Velvel could not stop shedding. And considering the inheritance Reb Lemel had left for him, it was the only thing that made sense.

But how did the two come to become so close, and why didn’t anyone seem to know about it?

Contemplative, he stepped back from the gravesite, ready to leave the cemetery. Just then, however, another man came running up to Reb Lemel’s kever. He was wearing only one shoe, his peyos flapping wildly in the wind. Nosson watched in astonishment as he threw himself down on the grave, his tears mingling with Velvel’s.

Before Nosson could even start wondering about his identity, a third pauper joined the pair on the ground, his weeping equally intense. Then a fourth and a fifth man came running in, crying out in mournful anguish. The torrent of tears from the five paupers, who simply could not stop crying, collected into a puddle the size of the kever itself.

Nosson observed the strange scene, unable to grasp what he was seeing. Who were these men? How were they connected to Reb Lemel? He had never seen such a display of mourning before.

Deep in thought, Nosson left the cemetery and returned to his yeshiva, where he recited kaddish for Reb Lemel, just as the elderly man had requested. Since Reb Lemel did not have any living blood relatives, there was no shivah, and Nosson settled back into the regular yeshiva sedarim.

When he stopped by Reb Lemel’s home the next day during the his ‘regular’ half-hour, he discovered that the rav had instructed for Reb Lemel’s possessions to be sold and the money donated to the poor. Since Reb Lemel didn’t own much, just a table and some chairs, his bed, and his shechitah knife, they didn’t expect it to take too long to liquidate his assets.

“We’ll sell the house, too, and the land,” the rav’s representative explained to Nosson as the two carried the table together out of the small cottage. “That will hopefully bring in a nice amount of money, and we’ll be able to support local widows for a while.”

“I’m sure Reb Lemel will be appreciative of those merits,” Nosson said, his eyes tearing up at the memory of the elderly man.

As he walked back to yeshiva, he thought about his final conversation with Reb Lemel. I’ll need to dig up the money soon, he realized. If they’re selling the house, I’d better get to it as soon as possible.

He wasn’t sure if it was wiser to come for the money during the day, when the natural sunlight would make it easier to locate the treasure, or at night, when he was less likely to be noticed by others. After some thought, however, he decided it would be safer to retrieve it at night. He did not want to risk being noticed, lest people think he was a thief. After all, he did not have a will proving that he was to inherit one third of the money, and people were unlikely to trust his word alone.

Later that night, after night seder, when the rest of the bachurim went to sleep, Nosson took a lantern and went to Reb Lemel’s cottage. Quietly, so as not to awaken the neighbors, he tiptoed behind the house into the shed. As Reb Lemel had said, the shack was filled with junk.

Nosson rested the lantern on a rickety table that stood against one wall of the shack and used both hands to clear away large piles of trash from the corner where Reb Lemel had said the treasure would be. He encountered a pile of rags, and that, too, he moved away. Then came dirt and sand, and he used a broom to sweep it to the side. At last, he came up to the cobblestones lining the floor of the shed.

Crouching down on his haunches, Nosson pried the corner cobblestone out with his fingers. Being loose, it came away easily, uncovering a gaping cavity in the floor. He stood up and brought over the lantern, shining the light into the hole.

Nosson bit his lip to stifle the cry of surprise that came to his lips. The pit was large and deep, and it was filled to the brim with priceless jewels and gold bars. Never had he’d imagined that the unassuming and elderly shochet was so fantastically wealthy!

It took a long time for Nosson to transfer all the valuables from the hole to the table, and when he finally finished, he could not believe the enormity of the inheritance Reb Lemel had left over. Spread out over the entire table, it was worth even more than it had appeared piled up in the cavity in the ground.

The minutes were ticking, and so Nosson worked quickly, dividing the treasure into three. When everything was divided equally, he returned one-third of the valuables to the pit and covered it back up, first with the stone, then with the sand, then with the rags, and then with the trash.

He found a large, heavy piece of material lying amidst the junk, and he used a sharp stone to tear it in two. Spreading the material out on the table, he filled each square with one-third of the treasure and tied both of them up like bundles. They were heavy, the bundles, and with effort, he lifted them both, along with the lantern, and left the shack.

A sudden thought overwhelmed the eighteen-year-old bachur. Overnight, he had become a millionaire.

To be continued…

Undercover

Part III

Recap: Nosson, a yeshiva bachur, helped the old shochet Reb Lemel every day, and couldn’t help but wonder about certain mysterious behaviors he witnessed. Before Reb Lemel passed away, he bequeathed one-third of his money to Nosson and instructed him on what to do with the remainder. Nosson retrieved the money and realized that he became a millionaire overnight.

Nosson stood in the faint glow of the moonlight, sagging under the weight of both the treasure and the secret, contemplating his next steps. It was clear to him that Reb Lemel did not want him to publicize their final conversation, but he desperately needed guidance. He was only eighteen years old, and the burden of his newfound wealth was just too much for him to carry alone.

“Rav Laizer!” he suddenly exclaimed, remembering what Reb Lemel had instructed. Grunting, he shifted the heavy bundles in his hands and began walking to Rav Laizer’s house. The hour was late, very late, but he knew that his rebbi would still be awake, learning by the feeble light of a candle.

Rav Laizer seemed surprised to see him at his doorstep at that unearthly hour. “Nosson,” he cried softly, taking in his student’s disheveled appearance and muddy hands. “What’s going on here?”

Nosson staggered through the door, dragging the bundles with him, and began to cry. “Please help me!” he said between his tears. “It’s just too much! I need to speak to someone!”

Rav Laizer stroked his shoulder reassuringly. “Come take a seat, Nosson. I’m listening.”

Nosson began to speak, and he did not stop until he completely unburdened himself. He described the mysterious behavior he’d observed over the years in Reb Lemel’s home, explaining how he’d always felt that there was more to the elderly shochet than met the eye. Then he told Rav Laizer how Reb Lemel had told him earlier in the day that he would die at midnight, and the instructions he’d given about his inheritance. He described the agonizing hour before Reb Lemel had passed away and the strange scene in the cemetery.

At last, he gestured at the heavy bundles lying at his feet. “I went tonight to retrieve the money,” he finished wearily. “As Reb Lemel instructed, I put back one-third of the money in its hiding place. These two bundles each contain another third of inheritance, one for me and one for Velvel the watercarrier. Rebbi, please help me. I am so confused by the entire story, and so overwhelmed by all this money. I can’t do this alone.”

Rav Laizer listened carefully, his mind clicking rapidly. “Nosson,” he said softly when his student fell silent at last, “You will leave your portion of the inheritance here, with me, just as Reb Lemel instructed. I will keep it safe for you until you get married. There is no need for you to think about it again until then. Try to keep thoughts of your wealth out of your head as much as you can; besides making you overwhelmed, it will also distract you from learning.”

Nosson sighed with relief. “Of course,” he said, feeling a hundred pounds lighter. “Thank you. That would make things so much easier for me. But why did Reb Lemel leave me so much money?”

“This is part of your heavenly reward for the mitzvah of bikor cholim that you fulfilled so devotedly for the past five years,” Rav Laizer said with certainty. “I have no doubt that Hashem is repaying you now for your incredible devotion to Reb Lemel.”

“And what about Velvel the watercarrier?” Nosson asked. “What was his connection to Reb Lemel? Reb Lemel must have felt very close to him, bequeathing him so much money, and he cried an unusual amount of tears at the cemetery, indicating that the warm relationship went both ways. But if they were so close, why does no one seem to know about it?”

Rav Laizer was quiet for a long while, and when he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Everything I’ve known about Reb Lemel, in addition to everything you’ve just told me now,” he said slowly, “seems to indicate that he was not just an elderly shochet, but a lamed-vavnik, one of the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim.”

A shocked squeak emerged from Nosson’s throat.

“Not only that,” Rav Laizer continued, “But it also seems clear to me that Velvel, too, is a hidden tzaddik. And the other paupers whom you saw at the kever, crying hysterically over Reb Lemel’s passing, are probably part of the same group.”

“But… but…” Nosson struggled to find the words that would accurately voice the hundreds of question marks chasing each other around his mind.

“Nosson, I don’t believe that this is the end of the story,” Rav Laizer said gently. “It seems to me that this is just the beginning. Tomorrow, you’ll bring Velvel his portion of the money, and then report back to me.”

Nosson nodded as he stood up to go. “Thank you,” he whispered, grateful for his rebbi’s support, guidance, and wisdom.

The next morning, between Shacharis and first seder, Nosson went to the market to try to find Velvel the watercarrier. He wanted to fulfill Reb Lemel’s directive and give the watercarrier his portion of the inheritance. He walked around the town square, weaving between the stalls, but did not see anyone resembling the man he’d first glimpsed at Reb Lemel’s graveside.

“Where can I find Velvel the watercarrier?” he asked the Shlomka the wagon driver, who was idling near his wagon as he waited for clients.

“No idea,” the wagon driver drawled, taking a long draw on his cigar.

Nosson continued his inquiries, but no one, from the greengrocer to the cobbler, knew where Velvel was.

Shrugging, he returned to yeshiva to learn. He could not afford to waste the entire morning in futile search of Velvel. Later, after he learned with his chavrusah for the entire seder, he would return to the market square to find Velvel.

During his afternoon break, after a blissful morning engrossed in a thorny sugya, Nosson headed back to the marketplace, almost turning the place upside down in his attempt to find the watercarrier. Despite his best efforts, he simply could not find the man. Is Velvel hiding from me? he wondered as he walked back dejectedly to yeshiva.

Sitting down at his regular place in the bais medrash, he opened his Gemara and pushed all thoughts of Velvel and Reb Lemel out of his mind, focusing on the text before him. Before long, he was swept away by his studies, the watercarrier all but forgotten.

“Excuse me?”

Nosson rubbed his eyes and looked up from his Gemara at the bachur standing at his elbow. “Yes?”

“Are you Nosson?” the boy asked breathlessly. “Sorry for disturbing. There’s someone outside, a beggar, and he’s asking for you.”

Nosson’s heart skipped a beat as he stood up from his chair. Velvel! “Thank you, I’ll go out to him,” he told the boy, throwing an apologetic glance at his chavrusah.

Indeed, standing outside of the yeshiva building was Velvel the watercarrier himself. “Nosson,” he said when the bachur came into view. “Shalom aleichem; I’m Velvel. I believe you have something for me?”

“Yes, I do,” Nosson said eagerly. “Please wait here; I concealed it somewhere for you. I’ll be right back.”

“No problem,” Velvel agreed.

Nosson returned a few minutes later, cradling the heavy bundle. “Here it is,” he announced, handing the sack to Velvel.

“Come with me behind those trees, and we’ll count it together” Velvel said. “This is not something I want the entire yeshiva to see.”

They walked together into the small woods behind the yeshiva building, and Velvel untied the bundle. Spreading out the piece of material flat on the muddy ground, he began to calculate the value of its contents, murmuring to himself as he kept count. When he finished, he gathered the edges of the cloth and tied it back together.

“Is it the right amount?” Nosson queried.

“Yes, to the last cent,” Velvel confirmed, looking up at him from his perch on the ground. “You divided up the money the way you were supposed to and followed Reb Lemel’s words perfectly.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on here?” Nosson asked carefully. “The whole story with Reb Lemel was so strange, and I’m trying to understand what’s happening.”

Velvel’s face darkened as he stood up, dusting himself off. “Don’t stick your nose in where you don’t belong,” he warned ominously. “You fulfilled your mission with Reb Lemel, and now it’s time for you to return to yeshiva to learn. Stay out of this.” He waved and began walking away, carrying the heavy treasure.

Nosson watched him go, and the faint curiosity within him flowered into a burning desire to follow the watercarrier. What was the man hiding? Was he really, as Rav Laizer conjectured, a hidden tzaddik?

As he headed back inside to his beloved Gemara and his waiting chavrusah, Nosson decided to shadow the watercarrier later that evening, to try to uncover the mysterious secret surrounding Velvel, and by extension, the late Reb Lemel. He made some discreet inquiries to discover where Velvel lived, and decided that after night seder, he would set up watch outside the watercarrier’s home.

Later that evening, true to his intentions, Nosson slipped away from his friends and went to Velvel’s home. Making himself comfortable on a large boulder in the shadows, he settled down to wait. He had no idea how long he would have to wait for Velvel to come out. Perhaps he would remain closeted inside his house until dawn! But no matter how long it took, Nosson was determined to stick it out on the rock until he was able to follow Velvel and, hopefully, discover some important secrets.

He didn’t have to wait too long. At around midnight, Velvel suddenly appeared in the doorway of his home. Nosson shrank back, but Velvel didn’t seem to notice him. He looked right, then left, and began running as fast as his elderly legs could carry him. Nosson counted to three to leave a safe distance between them and then took off after Velvel as discreetly as possible.

The watercarrier ran and ran until he managed to shake Nosson of his trail somewhere in middle of the forest. Disappointed, Nosson left the forest and went to his lodgings to sleep, resolving to come back the next night to shadow Velvel again.

For the next two weeks, Nosson spent his nights on the boulder outside Velvel’s home, and every night without fail, he followed the watercarrier on a sprint through the forest. Since he couldn’t risk Velvel noticing him, it was almost impossible not to lose the watercarrier’s trail once he entered the forest, and day after day, Nosson went to sleep in disappointment, no wiser than he’d been the night before.

 Still, he maintained his nightly forays into the forest after Vevel, hoping that his persistent efforts would eventually lead to results. Over time, he got better and better at trailing the watercarrier, managing to pursue him stealthily deep into the forest.

After many nights of failure, Nosson finally discovered exactly where Velvel was going. His destination was a small shack well-hidden between towering oaks and dense shrubbery. From far, Nosson could see smoke rising from the chimney of the shack. As he got closer, he could make out the sound of crying.

Tiptoeing right up to the shack, he put his ear to the wall, trying to make sense of what was going on inside. It sounded like there was a group of men inside, all crying bitterly. Nosson realized that it was probably a group of tzaddikim, who had come together to mourn the destruction of the bais hamikdash at chatzos.

He stood behind the shack for more than an hour, his ear pressed against the wall. After a long time, he recognized Velvel’s voice, saying divrei Torah. Nosson was a gifted young talmid chacham, who knew how to learn Gemara well, but he could not understand any of the terminology that Velvel was using. He seemed to be discussing a limud that Nosson had never heard before.

Some more time passed, and then he heard the members of the group bidding each other goodbye. Nosson jumped, making a quick exit before he was discovered. He didn’t quite understand the meaning of what he’d overheard, but one thing he knew for certain: now that he’d found Velvel’s destination, he would certainly be going again. There was something magnetic about the shack and its occupants that was drawing him back.

Nosson didn’t go back every night, since he did need some sleep, but he began frequenting the forest a few nights a week. He would wait until he was certain that all the participants in the group were already in the shack, and then he would sneak into the forest and eavesdrop on what was taking place inside.

One fine morning, Nosson was outside when he happened to catch a glimpse of Velvel walking to the marketplace. All at once, his curiosity rose to the forefront, and before he had time to rethink his actions, he hurried over to the elderly watercarrier. “Velvel, do you remember me? I’m the one that gave you the money from Reb Lemel.”

Velvel’s face registered recognition, although he was clearly wondering what the young bachur wanted from him. “Hello,” he responded warily.

Nosson forged on. “Please tell me who you really are,” he begged. “And please tell me what you do in the shack in the forest.”

Velvel’s expression closed instantly. “Young man,” he said coldly. “You are supposed to be in yeshiva. Go back to the bais medrash, where you belong, and stop following other people.”

“Please, I really want to know,” Nosson beseeched. “I used to be close to Reb Lemel, and now I want to get close to you. Please!”

Velvel wasn’t moved by his passionate entreaty. “Don’t be foolish,” he said curtly. “Go back to yeshiva. Your job is to toil in Torah.”

Nosson would have continued pleading, but Velvel pointedly walked away, leaving the bachur standing alone, gazing forlornly after him.

That first rejection didn’t stop Nosson from trying again. And again. And again.

Almost every day, he sought out Velvel in the market square. Often, he did not encounter the mysterious watercarrier, but whenever he did, he persisted in begging for permission to join Velvel in what Nosson was sure was a unique and hidden service of Hashem. He also continued to visit the shack in the middle of the night, listening in with his ear pressed against the wall, but he didn’t dare knock on the door.

One Friday afternoon, Nosson was walking to his lodgings when Velvel passed by, on his way home from the mikvah. The watercarrier’s face was radiant with an otherworldly glow, holiness shining out from is eyes. Nosson promptly turned around and began walking alongside him, escorting him home.

When they reached Velvel’s home, Nosson began to beg the watercarrier, for the umpteenth time, to reveal to him his secret. “All I’m asking you is to teach me your Torah. That’s all I want. Please let me in!”

For the first time, Velvel didn’t brush him off immediately, and Nosson allowed himself a tiny smidgen of hope. The watercarrier’s mouth was puckered in thought, and when he finally responded, it was very cautiously. “Nosson, you are a good boy, and I must admit that I like you a lot. But you must understand that we are talking about something very dangerous. You’re toying with life and death. If I allow you to come with me, I might be endangering your life.”

“Please, please,” Nosson begged, sensing that Velvel’s resolve was wavering. “Let me come with you, and I will not say a word. I promise to observe everything silently.”

Velvel was silent for another long, thoughtful moment. “Alright,” he finally said. “This Motzai Shabbos, you should go to the mikvah before chatzos, and then you can come together with me. I will try my best to gain entry for you, and I have a reason why I am willing to do so, but I can’t promise that I will succeed. I am only one of the group, so if the rest of the men don’t agree, you will not be allowed to enter.”

Nosson left Velvel’s house, his stomach a mess of roiling emotions. He was excited and apprehensive at the same time, and spent Shabbos in dreaded anticipation.

Motzai Shabbos finally came. Nosson went to the mikvah before chatzos and then went to meet Velvel at his home. The two set off in the watercarrier’s old and rickety wagon, not exchanging a single word the entire trip. After a few minutes, they reached the shack within the forest.

There were already fifteen other men in the room when Velvel knocked on the door, and they stood up respectfully for him. Then they noticed that he was accompanied by a young bachur.

“Who is this?” one of the beggars called to Velvel, pointing his finger at Nosson.

“This bachur is a big tzaddik,” Velvel responded. “One day, he’s going to reach extraordinary heights in Torah. He is worthy of participating here.”

“Anyone who walks past the threshold of this shack and does not hear the bas kol in the voice of a dove will die,” another pauper reminded Velvel.

The Gemara (Brachos: 23) says that every time a minyan recites “Yehei shmei rabbah,” a heavenly voice in the form of a dove comes over the room and begins to cry, “Oy l’banim shegalu mishulchan avihem (woe is to My children, klal Yisrael, which left their Father).”

The Shechinah, too, is in exile, separated from klal Yisrael. Each time Jews recite Yehei shmei rabbah, Hashem cries for the loss of His beloved children. In comparison to a dove who has lost its entire family, Hashem cries out, “Where has My family gone?”

While most people cannot hear the bas kol, great tzaddikim and mekubalim were able to hear each time kaddish was recited.

The pauper stood up, “Velvel, Velvel! Does this young man hear the bas kol? If not, he cannot enter.”

Velvel glanced sideways at Nosson, his eyes questioning.

“No,” Nosson said truthfully.

Velvel shrugged apologetically. “In that case, it looks like they won’t let you in. I’m sorry, Nosson, but I told you it’s not entirely up to me.”

Nosson was crestfallen. After so many weeks of trying, he had finally reached this point. He was so close to going in; how could he turn around now?! “Please, Velvel, please!” he entreated, tears forming in his eyes. “Please let me in!”

Velvel closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly in thought, before beginning to speak. “This boy,” he announced to the others sitting around the table. “Has something even greater than hearing the bas kol. And for that reason, he should be allowed inside.”

Nosson realized this was his last chance. He held his breath.

To be continued…

Undercover

Part IV

Recap: Nosson, a yeshiva bachur, helped the old shochet Reb Lemel every day, and couldn’t help but wonder about certain mysterious behaviors he witnessed. Before Reb Lemel passed away, he bequeathed one-third of his money to Nosson and instructed him to give the remainder to Velvel the watercarrier. Nosson followed Velvel and discovered that he was part of a group of hidden tzaddikim. After much begging, Velvel agreed to allow Nosson to join a meeting, but the others did not let him in.

Nosson was crestfallen. After so many weeks of trying, he had finally reached this point. He was so close to going in; how could he turn around now?! “Please, Velvel, please!” he entreated, tears forming in his eyes. “Please let me in!”

Velvel closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly in thought, before beginning to speak. “This boy,” he announced to the others sitting around the table. “Has something even greater than hearing the bas kol.”

Nosson realized this was his last chance. He held his breath in hopeful anticipation.

“How can that be?” they protested. “If he did not yet reach the level that his ears are pure enough to hear the heavenly voice, how can he achieve even greater heights?”

“This young man here toiled in the mitzvah of bikur cholim with our revered rebbi, Reb Lemel,” Velvel explained. “All of us here are disciples of Reb Lemel. He was the one who organized this group and raised us up to the levels we are currently on. Reb Lemel was greater than all of us, and yet he saw fit to leave his final tzavaah with this young man here.”

There was a thunderous silence in the room.

“Yes,” Velvel confirmed. “Reb Lemel left one third of his inheritance to Nosson, equal to the amount he gave to me to divide amongst all of us. Even though Nosson is so young, he took care of our rebbi devotedly, and our rebbi trusted him. This is far greater proof of his untainted soul than hearing the bas kol.”

The men around the table conferred in hushed whispers before turning back to Velvel. “None of us here is willing to break our longstanding custom,” one of them said carefully. “Our custom here is that anyone who enters without hearing the bas kol is endangering his life, and none of us feel comfortable breaking it. Velvel, are you willing to allow him in and accept sole responsibility for the boy’s fate on your own shoulders?”

Velvel’s brow furrowed in thought. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I am. I am certain that this young man is worthy of gaining entry on the merit of his devotion to Reb Lemel. I am ready to accept full responsibility for whatever may happen to him.”

Nosson’s legs were shaking terribly as he crossed the threshold into the shack. He could barely control the tremor in his arms as he sat down at the end of the table, in the spot where Velvel indicated.

“You don’t have to understand what’s happening,” Velvel murmured as he passed the boy on his way to his own seat. “Just follow along whatever everyone else is doing, even if you don’t understand.”

Someone came around with a pile of sacks, which he gave out to the men around the table. Another beggar burned something into a small pile of ashes. The men donned their sacks and put ashes on their head. Nosson, feeling like he was having an out-of-body experience, copied them and did the same.

The men got off their chairs and got down onto the floor. Tentatively, Nosson followed. Then they began crying, bitter and painful tears, as they recited tikkun chatzos. Although Nosson had not yet reached the level of feeling so deeply for the suffering of the Shechinah in galus, the overwhelming aura of holiness in the room caused him to start weeping as well.

They moved on to Tikkun Rochel and Tikkun Leah, and Nosson continued reciting words. He did not have the kavanos that the others had in mind; nor did he grasp the potency of the tefillos he was saying, but he recited them along with the rest of the group, hoping that one day he would merit to gain a full understanding and appreciation for the ritual.

Next, Velvel began to give a shiur in kabbalah, but the concepts he spoke about were well beyond Nosson’s understanding. Still, he sat and listened and tried to comprehend even as the words flew well above his head. Although he could not contribute, he watched in silence as the rest of those present engaged in fiery debates over the Torah that Velvel taught.

For the next few months, Nosson joined the hidden tzaddikim every few nights. Other than a quick greeting when he came and when he left, the others largely ignored his presence. Many of them were still opposed to the presence of the young man who did not hear the bas kol.

Late one night, as Nosson sat listening to Velvel’s shiur without understanding a word, there was a knock on the door of the shack. Standing in the doorway was a man whom Nosson had never seen before. His face was a ghastly white. “Rabbosai,” he cried. “The decree went into effect! The decree is now in effect!”

He entered the shack and tore his clothing down the center. The other members of the group joined him on the floor, all of them crying over the decree that had gone into effect.

What was the decree all about?

There was a large city, about a ten-day journey from where the secret group met, called Vasserov. Vasserov was home to thousands of Jews and was considered one of the epicenters of Yiddishkeit in the country, with robust Jewish infrastructure including many shuls, yeshivos, and mikvaos.

While the Jewish residents of Vasserov were, for the most part, shomer Torah umitzvos, over the years, they had fallen lax in the laws of kashrus. Their shechitah was not the way it should have been, and people stopped being so careful when dealing with meat and dairy. Yayin nesech had seeped into the Jewish wine stores, and questionable foods were being sold in Jewish eateries.

Over time, the impure food that these Jews ingested began to create blockages in their hearts and souls, hindering their religious growth and fostering a spiritual downfall. If things were allowed to continue by inertia, it would not take long for the entire community to spiral downward into an abyss of sin.

The Beis Din Shel Maalah convened to determine the best course of action. They needed to stop the community’s descent before it was too late to save them. And while the oblivious Jews of Vasserov continued to eat their questionable meat and go about their daily lives, in Shamayim, they were being judged harshly for their actions.

“It was revealed to me that the entire community was sentenced to death on account of their sins,” the newcomer to the secret meeting said through his tears. “However, the Beis Din Shel Maalah has decided to transfer this sentence onto the holy Vasserover Rav. Since he is such a great tzaddik, his soul is equal to that of all the other Jews in Vasserov together, more than one-hundred thousand Jews. He is therefore to be taken in their stead, and his death will atone for the sins of the rest of the community.

“We know that if this is the decree in Heaven, we can expect that shortly a decree against the Vasserover Rav will be enforced down here on Earth,” the mekubal reminded the others. “We must send a representative to Vasserov immediately, to redeem the holy rav on a physical level as the rest of us toil on his behalf in the spiritual realms.”

“This is what our rebbi, Reb Lemel, saved one-third of his money for,” Velvel remarked. “He instructed that one-third of his money be put back and saved for the time when we will need to use it to abort the decree. We will now use it to save the Vasserover Rav. However, I am unable to make the trip to Vasserov. I am too old and frail, and I can’t be sure that my health will hold out long enough.” He turned to the man sitting to his right.

The beggar shook his head regretfully. “I can’t go, either,” he said, frowning. “My yehei shmay rabbah is not what it is supposed to be, and I’m afraid that this will hinder my ability to overturn the decree.”

All eyes turned expectantly to the next man at the table. “I would really go if I could,” the next mekubal stated, “But just this morning, someone wished me a good morning, and I didn’t respond with a smile. From the expression on his face, I’m wondering if he was hurt. How can I try to overturn a Heavenly decree if I hurt someone’s feelings?”

They continued around the table, but each of the hidden mekubalim declined to undertake the mission to Vasserov. While all of them would have been happy to redeem the life of the Vasserover Rav, they all had a reason why they felt unworthy and incapable of the task.

“What about you, Nosson?” someone asked when they reached the very end of the table, and only the young bachur had not been disqualified.

Nosson jerked up, taken aback. “Me?” he squeaked, his face paling. “I’m the youngest and the least worthy of all of you! If all of you, holy tzaddikim who are well-versed in kabbalah can’t undertake this mission, I am surely unworthy! I don’t know the proper thoughts for tikkun chatzos, and I can’t comprehend even the basics of Rav Velvel’s shiur. I am guilty of every one of the ‘sins’ that disqualified the rest of you!”

“To the contrary,” Velvel countered from his place at the head of the table. “It is because we are on a different level that our aveiros count so much more.  You are young; you did not have so much time to encounter spiritual challenges. Your soul is therefore purer, cleaner.  Additionally, you have the extraordinary merit having cared for our holy leader, Reb Lemel.”

A hundred question marks danced in Nosson’s eyes, and his white face betrayed his inner fear. “But—”

“Our rebbi gave you a mission,” Velvel continued. “He entrusted you with his inheritance. One third, you were to keep for yourself. One third, you were to give to me to be divided amongst all the members of this group. Now is the time for you to finish the mission that you started, to spend the final third of the money to save the life of the Vasserover Rav.”

“But I’m in yeshiva!” Nosson blurted. “How can I leave the yeshiva, just like that, for so many days? If it’s a ten-day journey, that means I’ll be away from the yeshiva for at least twenty days, plus the time I have to spend in Vasserov.”

The mekubalim did not accept this claim. “It’s not for nothing that you were allowed to join our group,” they told him. “True, you will need to miss yeshiva, but being part of us means undertaking missions, and some of them will take you away from yeshiva for small stretches at a time. Here, Nosson, you will learn what avodas Hashem truly means. Here, you will learn what mesiras nefesh really is.”

Nosson lifted his head. “I will go,” he said quietly.

The men stood up briskly. “Every second counts,” one of them exclaimed. “You must head out tonight.”

“Go back to your lodgings and get your tefillin,” they instructed Nosson. “Put them in your pocket. Make sure to disguise yourself so that it will not be recognizable whether you are a Jew or not.”

“Don’t forget the money, the last third of the money from Reb Lemel,” Velvel reminded him. “Hide it in your clothing for the journey. You’ll need it.”

There was no time for Nosson to think about what he was getting himself into. He listened to his instructions, accepted the horse and buggy from Velvel, and ran.

His first stop was the room where he slept. Tiptoeing past his sleeping roommates, Nosson took his tefillin and placed them in his pocket. Then he rushed to the property that had belonged to Reb Lemel, into the deserted shed behind his cottage, and retrieved the remainder of the money. It took some time, but soon all of the coins and gems were concealed within his clothing and boots.

With a final, lingering glance at the city he’d come to know so well over the previous five years in yeshiva, Nosson whipped the horses and was off into the blackness of the night.

The next morning, Nosson was conspicuously absent from his shtender in yeshiva. His chavrusah had no idea where he was, and his roommates reported that he hadn’t been in his bed in the morning when they’d awoken. His tefillin were gone, indicating a longer journey, but he hadn’t notified anyone of his plans and his whereabouts were a mystery. When one day turned to two and then three and Nosson still did not return, the yeshiva was up in arms over the strange disappearance of the young masmid.

His rebbi, Rav Laizer, immediately suspected that his student’s abrupt departure had something to do with his budding relationship with Velvel the watercarrier. Being the only person in whom Nosson had confided regarding Reb Lemel’s final request, he wondered if the key to the mystery lie in the abandoned shed behind Reb Lemel’s house.

Two days after Nosson disappeared, under the cover of darkness, Rav Laizer slipped out of his home in the direction of Reb Lemel’s cottage. He groped through the darkness into the shed, and with the aid of a lantern, found his clue right away.

There, in the corner of the shed, was a gaping hole in the spot where Nosson had left the remaining third of Reb Lemel’s inheritance.

Worry wormed its way into Rav Laizer’s heart, sudden and unbidden. The missing money seemed to indicate that Nosson, his young student, had been sent on a mission, perhaps a dangerous mission, by Reb Lemel’s disciples. And although he knew in his mind that Nosson would be okay in the holy watercarrier’s hands, Rav Laizer could not help but worry about how the young bachur was faring, wherever he was.

In the meanwhile, Nosson journeyed through the hilly countryside for many days. While the men in the shack had told him that the trip to Vasserov would take ten days, it took Nosson a full two weeks to arrive in the city. Dusty and disheveled from the road, he rode up to an inn and used one of Reb Lemel’s coins to rent a room for a few days.

Although he had already lost four days due to the longer than expected journey, Nosson was too fatigued from the road to begin his mission. He washed up and changed into fresh clothing before falling into bed for a short, refreshing nap. With his urgent mission hanging over his head, he could not sleep long, and just a short while later, he left the hotel for the Jewish community.

Velvel and his friends had not provided Nosson with any information. He did not even know exactly what his mission was beyond that he was to save the life of the Vasserover Rav. He had no idea where the Vasserover Rav was, what kind of threat was hovering over the rav’s head, or even how he was supposed to save him. All he had was the money, one-third of Reb Lemel’s inheritance, which he was supposed to use as part of his rescue efforts.

Nosson made his way to a shul and began to question the Jews he met as discreetly as possible. To his dismay, he learned that the Vasserover Rav was languishing in prison and was scheduled to be tried in court just three weeks later.

“How did he end up in jail?” Nosson asked the man who had provided him with this information.

“It’s a long story,” the Jew said with a drawn-out sigh. “The rav has been at odds with the mayor of Vasserov for a long time. Recently, the rav wanted to expand the main shul to make room for more congregants. When he submitted his application for building permits, the mayor denied the permits on the premises that he did not want Vasserov’s Jewish community to double in size.

“The mayor reasoned that if the shul was twice as big, double the amount of Jews would make Vasserov their home, and that was something he was not ready to tolerate. He accused the rav of trying to destroy the city and refused to allow the expansion of the shul, no matter how many influential people tried to persuade him.”

“So the mayor jailed the rav just because he wanted to expand the shul?” Nosson asked.

“No, but that was the start of a series of very contentious exchanges,” the Jew explained, sighing again. “The Vasserover Rav was understandably upset that he would not be able to expand the shul, and he wrote the mayor a sharply worded letter of dissent, threatening to appeal the mayor’s decision to higher ranking officials. Needless to say, the mayor was not very happy with the rav.”

“But why was he imprisoned?” Nosson asked.

The man threw Nosson a look, as though rebuking him for his lack of patience. “I’m getting there. A few days later, the mayor’s teenage son attended a party, which turned very wild. The drunken gentiles were playing with knives, and one of them fatally stabbed the mayor’s son by mistake. Immediately, the partygoers fled the crime scene, leaving the mayor’s son to bleed to death.

“The mayor was grieving and furious, and he wanted revenge. It was more convenient to lay the blame on the Jewish community, especially since everyone knew that there was no love lost between the rav and the mayor. Armed with the evidence of the Vasserover Rav’s sharp letter, they accused him of sending his own son to kill the mayor’s. The rav was arrested and thrown into prison, where he is currently awaiting trial.”

Nosson was quiet for a moment, absorbing this, and then he posed his next question. “Is there a chance that the rav will be acquitted at the trial?”

“Officially, yes,” the man snorted. He seemed eager to share everything he knew with the stranger he’d met in shul, which suited Nosson’s purposes perfectly. “They are allowing the Jews to testify at the trial in his favor. But between me and you, we are not expecting the rav to receive a fair trial. Even with all the positive testimonies in the world, they want him killed, and they will get their way unless a miracle happens.”

He looked at Nosson and nodded sadly. “We have to daven. We must beg Hashem for a miracle to save our rav.”

Nosson nodded, his mind whirling. How was he supposed to save the Vasserover Rav? He couldn’t exactly walk up to the prison and bribe the warden with Reb Lemel’s money to allow the rav to walk free. If he tried that, it would be the last thing he did as a free man. It was almost certain that this would provide him with a free, one-way ticket into prison.

Besides, the man who’d so freely provided him with the information he needed had mentioned that the mayor specifically denounced all attempts at bribery. “If anyone tries to bribe us,” he’d declared. “We will immediately evict the entire Jewish community from our city.”

It was much too big of a risk to take, but what other option was there?

With sobering clarity, Nosson realized that the fate of the holy Vasserover Rav and the more than one-hundred-thousand Jews in the city all rested upon his thin shoulders. He had been sent on a very difficult mission with life-threatening consequences if he failed. Velvel and the other mekubalim were relying on him to succeed. An entire Jewish community was at stake!

He needed to act, and he needed to act fast.

To be continued…

Undercover

Part V

Recap: Nosson, a yeshiva bachur, helped the old shochet Reb Lemel every day, and couldn’t help but wonder about certain mysterious behaviors he witnessed. Before Reb Lemel passed away, he discovered that his old mentor was a lamed-vavnik who led a group of hidden mekubalim. After much effort, Nosson was admitted into this exclusive group and sent on a difficult mission to save the Jewish community of Vasserov. 

With sobering clarity, Nosson realized that the fate of the holy Vasserover Rav and the more than one-hundred-thousand Jews in the city all rested upon his thin shoulders. He had been sent on a very difficult mission with life-threatening consequences if he failed. Velvel and the other mekubalim were relying on him to succeed. An entire Jewish community was at stake!

He needed to act, and he needed to act fast.

Dressed as Velvel had instructed, it was impossible to identify him as either a Jew or a gentile, allowing him to slip between the two communities easily. Nosson left the shul and headed to the gentile neighborhood, seeking the local bar. He hoped that he would pick up on valuable information from the gossiping drunks who lounged there.

Indeed, as he’d hoped, there were some drunken teenagers discussing the murder of the mayor’s son. Nosson ordered a drink, which he did not intend to touch, and took a seat at a table nearby to eavesdrop. His ears perked expectantly, he listened as the conversation turned to the Vasserover Rav’s trial. To his great excitement, Nosson discovered that some of the drunk teenagers had fathers in the government, and the brother of one of them actually worked in the prison.

He pondered this information for a moment or two, trying to figure out how to use it to his advantage. Soon, he decided to approach the drunken youths and try to befriend them. Perhaps this could lead to a relationship with someone with enough influence to free the rav…

The days passed and Nosson continued to worm his way into their circle of friends, but time was running out and he was still very far from reaching his ultimate goal. With only a few days left to the rav’s trial, he realized that he needed a different plan, a quicker plan, to save the rav’s life.

Nosson racked his brain for a fresh brainstorm, but despite his efforts, he could not think of a single creative idea. His mind kept returning to the tremendous amount of money concealed within his clothing, money he needed to use to free the rav, but he could not come up with a plan that did not involve considerable risk to the rav’s life, his own, and the lives of the entire Jewish community of Vasserov.

Another day passed. The waiting period until the trial had nearly run out, and Nosson still did not have a concrete plan for how to free the rav. With no more time to spare, he had no choice but to take the enormous risk and try to bribe the jail guards.

Late at night, he approached the prison. A single guard stood at the entrance of the building, his fingers circling the hilt of his sword. He looked up at the sound of footfalls on the pavement and regarded Nosson coolly. “What do you need?”

“Can I ask you something?” Nosson asked, his voice friendly. With his Jewish appearance completely hidden, he did not arouse the guard’s innate anti-Semitism. “You have a guy in there scheduled for execution?”

“Yeah, the Jewish rabbi,” the guard said indifferently. “He’s almost going on trial, and then he’s a dead man.”

Nosson took a deep breath and plunged forward. “I want to ask you something. Do you want to be a wealthy man? Because if you open these doors for me and I succeed in bypassing the other guards and getting the rabbi out, then you will be wealthier than you can even imagine.”

The guard’s cheeks reddened. “How dare you!” he accused. “How dare you try to bribe me?!” His eyes softened somewhat as he added, “Even if I wanted the money, it wouldn’t help me to be a wealthy dead man, would it? They would kill me on the spot!”

Nosson grasped this opening with both hands. “For the amount of money I’m talking about, you shouldn’t have a problem figuring that out. I’m talking about heavy gold bars and brilliant gems, and lots of each. Even after you split it with the other guards who partner with us, you’ll be a multi-millionaire. You’ll escape from here and build a new life for yourself in a different country.”

“Let me see the money,” the guard demanded.

“First you have to promise me that you will let me inside,” Nosson retorted.

The guard hesitated for a long moment, torn between his love of wealth and his desire to avoid danger. “There are two other sentries, apart from myself, who will have to agree to this plan,” he said at last. “One guards the ground level of the prison, which you’ll need to bypass, and the other protects the basement, which is where the rabbi is being held.”

“No problem,” Nosson said with a confidence he did not feel. “I will bribe them as well.”

“Show me the money!” the guard demanded again.

Nosson reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of precious stones. They glinted on his palm even in the faint moonlight. From his other pocket, he pulled out a stack of gold coins, each worth more than the lifetime earnings of a prison guard.

The sentry gasped. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “Go in and try to bribe the other two. But remember, I only agree to this plan if the other two are on it. If any of them refuses, you are not to tell them that I agreed. I don’t wish to see my head roll tomorrow.”

“Of course not,” Nosson agreed, walking through the open prison gate.

The man guarding the ground floor of the prison was half-dozing in his seat, and he jumped up, startled, when Nosson walked in. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded, fear at being caught making his words sound angry.

“I’m here to offer you an incredible opportunity,” Nosson said quietly. “If you allow the rabbi to escape, I will give you enough money to make you richer than the mayor, the deputy mayor, and the richest businessman in the city combined.”

The guard stood up from his seat. “Are you crazy?” he hissed.

“No, I’m serious,” Nosson said, reaching into his pocket and displaying his goods.

The guard’s mouth dropped open. “I will need to escape from here myself,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the precious objects nestled on Nosson’s palms. “And you will have to, as well. If you get caught, you will be killed. And what about the other guards?”

“The guard outside seems amenable to the plan,” Nosson said carefully. “With your permission, I will go downstairs to speak to the sentry guarding the basement and get him on board as well.”

“Go, go,” the guard said, his eyes flashing greedily.

Nosson descended the rickety staircase into the damp prison cellar, his heart beating wildly. The basement guard was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He did not look very happy to see Nosson, to say the least.

“Sir,” Nosson ventured. “I would like to offer you an opportunity…” He repeated what he’d told the other two guards, but their third comrade did not seem moved.

“Absolutely not,” the guard declared, fanatic loyalty glinting in his eyes. “I will not betray my government for all the money in the world. In fact, I will report you for this! How dare you try to bribe a representative of the law?!”

“I understand,” Nosson said carefully. “I’m not talking about a mere fortune, but an incredible amount of money, more money than you ever knew existed.”

“I don’t care if you pay me enough money to make me richer than all the kings of Europe put together!” the guard roared. “I will not be a traitor! Now get out of here before I lock you up in one of these beautiful cells!”

Afraid the guard would make good on his promise, Nosson scurried back upstairs. The ground floor sentry looked at him hopefully. “Did he agree?”

“No,” Nosson replied glumly. “He threatened to imprison me just for suggesting it.”

The guard began cursing, unhappy that his workmate downstairs had destroyed his greedy fantasy. “Wait here,” he said to Nosson. “I’ll go call my friend in from outside, and we’ll speak to the basement guard together to try to persuade him.”

The two guards left Nosson standing at the security booth and went downstairs to speak to their friend. “With the amount of money he’s planning on giving, we’ll be millionaires forever!” the outside guard exclaimed.

“We’ll leave the city now, together, and establish new lives far away,” the upstairs guard added. “We’ll enjoy the money in peace and security! You can’t seriously be considering saying no to such fantastic wealth! This is a dream come true.”

But their friend could not be swayed. “Absolutely not,” he kept repeated. “I will never betray my country, not for a cent and not for all the money in the world. Absolutely not!”

The other two guards exchanged glances. The outside guard gave a little nod and before the basement guard could catch on to its meaning, both of his comrades were upon him, tackling him to the ground. The upstairs guard drew his sword, and seconds later, the basement sentry was dead in a pool of his own blood.

The other two guards froze in shock for a moment, momentarily horrified by their actions. The next minute, they shook themselves back into reality and went to unlock the rabbi’s cell. With morning upon them in just a few hours, there was precious little time to lose before they were caught making their escape.

With a swift turn of the key, the door to the Vasserover Rav’s cell was unlocked. Without bothering to poke their heads in and tell him that he could go free, the two guards went back upstairs to Nosson and collected their fantastic reward. They stuffed their pockets and lined their boots with the valuables and were gone within five minutes, disappearing into the darkness never to be seen in Vasserov again. Nosson, too, hastily left the prison complex, returning to his hotel to rest.

The Vasserover Rav, who was learning Torah in his cell despite the unearthly hour, heard the key turn in the lock of his cell but no jailer appeared. After a few minutes, he carefully pulled open the iron door and peeked out. On the floor lay the dead prison guard in a puddle of congealing blood, but there was no one else in sight.

The rav looked around again to be sure and then tiptoed out of his cell. Seeing that the coast was clear, he sprinted up the stairs and out of the building, racing through the dark streets back to his home. Within moments, he was seated in his study, engrossed in a sefer, like the previous three weeks in jail had been nothing but a passing dream.

In the morning, three fresh prison guards came to relieve their friends from the nighttime shift. To their shock, they found the security booth outside the prison completely empty. There was no sign of the sentry who was supposed to be stationed inside. A similar scene greeted them inside the building; the man who was supposed to be guarding there had likewise disappeared.

Confused and worried, the new guards made their way to the basement where they stumbled upon the gruesome scene of their friend, dead on the floor. The door of the Vasserover Rav’s cell was still wide open, and even without checking it, they knew that he was gone.

The guards rushed to call their superiors, and soon a huge search team was combing the streets of Vasserov in search of the escaped prisoner. It did not take long for them to find him, sitting serenely in front of his Gemara, learning in a sing-song.

“Jew!” the policeman yelled in his ear, twisting the Vasserover Rav’s hands behind his back and clicking on handcuffs. “Was one murder not enough for you? First you deposed of the mayor’s son, and now you murdered the prison sentry. You will be held accountable for this!”

The Vasserover Rav shook his head. “I didn’t kill him!” he protested vociferously. “I didn’t kill the mayor’s son, and I didn’t kill the guard either!”

“And you expect us to believe that, huh?” the officer’s eyes burned with a mixture of scorn, anger, and hatred. “The guard died all by himself, and you used magical powers to break free from your cell.”

“I really didn’t kill the guard,” the rav stated, ignoring the policeman’s sarcasm. “There was some sort of scuffle between the guards, and then I noticed that my cell was unlocked, so I just walked out. I saw the dead guard, and there was no one else around, so I came home. I was not part of any escape plan, sir. As you can see, I didn’t run away; I just came straight home.”

His captor didn’t respond. There was complete silence as he dragged the rav back toward the prison, locking him back up in a cell.

Nosson, following the developments from a safe distance, was overcome with guilt. His amateur attempt at arranging the jailbreak had failed spectacularly, landing the rav into hotter water than before. Not only was the rav’s situation far more precarious, but now the fate of the entire Jewish community of Vasserov was also on the line. Thanks to his inexperience and naiveté, an entire city of Jews had become fodder for the voracious appetite of the anti-Semites.

All the Jews of Vasserov, young and old, undertook a fast to merit otheir salvation. They thronged to shul, where they poured out their hearts with unrelenting tears, begging Hashem to save them. Tefillah was the only action they could take; there seemed to be no natural way out.

Nosson, overcome with responsibility for the dire situation, was desperate to do something, anything, to rectify his error. He thought and thought, trying to come up with a plan to salvage the situation along with all the Jewish lives at stake. Slowly, the seeds of an idea began to form in his mind, and he made his way to the gentile side of town to see if he would be able to carry it out.

To be continued…

Undercover

Part VI

Recap: Nosson, a yeshiva bachur, helped the old shochet Reb Lemel every day, and couldn’t help but wonder about certain mysterious behaviors he witnessed. Before Reb Lemel passed away, he discovered that his old mentor was a lamed-vavnik who led a group of hidden mekubalim. After much effort, Nosson was admitted into this exclusive group and sent on a difficult mission to save the Jewish community of Vasserov. 

He strode into the bar and ordered another drink, searching the dim room for the faces he’d befriended over the course of his stay in the city. Sure enough, the group of teens were sitting together, laughing uproariously at a joke. They looked up as Nosson approached the table and waved him over.

“Hey,” Nosson said, sliding into a seat near them, hiding the revulsion he felt for the crude young men.

“Hey,” they responded, turning the conversation to include him. Ever since the newcomer had joined their social circle, he’d supplied them with a steady stream of drinks on the house and generously sponsored all their activities. It didn’t bother them that he spoke little and didn’t share the same sense of humor. If he wanted to tag along and pay for their fun, who were they to complain.

As the group ordered another round of drinks on Nosson’s tab, he managed to turn the subject back to the mayor’s murdered son. These teenagers ran in the same circles as the mayor’s son, and they’d all been present at the fateful party where he’d breathed his last. With the alcohol fizzing their blood and blurring their senses, they finally leaked to Nosson the identity of the true murderer.

“They jailed that Jewish rabbi, as if the rabbi’s son would have been invited to the party,” a tall, lanky teenager drawled drunkenly. “Ha, can you imagine that? The rabbi’s son at the party? Ha ha!”

His friend, just as tall but with muscles twice the size, slammed his half-full glass onto the tabletop. Liquid sloshed over the sides, but he didn’t seem to notice. “And our very own Johann, with his despicable manners, who doesn’t know how to let anyone else share the spotlight, is still walking free despite having murdered that poor boy!”

Nosson leaned forward. “Johann got away scot-free? After killing the mayor’s son?”

“Johann is a murderer! Johann is a murderer! Isn’t that right, Albert?” another teen slurred gleefully.

“Who cares? Johann always gets away with everything,” the youth called Albert spat in distaste.

Someone changed the subject and Nosson tuned them out, allowing their drunken words to fly over his head as his mind churned. After a few moments, he stood up and bid his ‘friends’ farewell, but not before they made plans to meet up the next day for horseback riding.

With a cursory look around to ascertain that no one was following him, Nosson went back to the Jewish part of the city and joined the fervent tefillos in shul. He had set his plan into motion, and now he needed Divine assistance to ensure its success.

The following day, Nosson met up with his new gentile ‘friends’ for what was supposed to be a pleasurable hour of horseback riding. For Nosson, there was nothing enjoyable about an outing with the gentile teenagers, but for once, they were not drunk, and it was the perfect opportunity to move his plan to the next stage.

He sidled up next to Albert as their horses trotted leisurely across the field. “Albert, would you be willing to testify at the trial tomorrow, as a witness, that Johann was the one who murdered the mayor’s son?” he asked carefully.

The teen looked a little shocked. “Possibly,” he said, just as carefully, thinking about the money that Nosson always seemed to have more of. “What’s in it for me?”

“Gold,” Nosson said briefly. “A lot of gold.” He pulled a few coins from his pocket, and they gleamed as the sunlight reflected off the metallic circles.

Albert shrugged. “Why not? I don’t like Johann all that much, and truth be told, he shouldn’t have gotten away with the murder.”

“If you agree to testify at the trial tomorrow that Johann was the murderer, all five of these are yours,” Nosson promised. He withdrew a sixth coin from his pocket and slipped it to the other boy. “And this is just a small down payment.”

“No big deal,” Albert said easily, already imagining what he would do with the money. “I imagine you would prefer that no one knows about our little deal?”

“That’s right,” Nosson confirmed. “Now, is there anyone else whom you think might be interested in cutting a similar deal?”

“Greg, probably,” Albert surmised. “He’s the blond, curly guy up ahead. Race a little and you’ll catch up to him.”

Nosson returned to his hotel that evening, armed with the pledges of both Albert and Greg to testify against the true murderer at the trial. In exchange, he would pay them each five gold coins, each worth a small fortune. It was the last of the money he’d brought with him from Reb Lemel in order to rescue the rav. If he didn’t succeed this time, he would have no more money left for any further bribes.

The following morning dawned under an overcast sky, matching the Jews’ cloudy mood. Nosson joined the crowd of Jews on the spectator benches, davening quietly as he tensely watched the proceedings.

The Vasserover Rav was brought before the judge, and the witnesses were called. Albert took the stand first, and in a clear voice, he denounced the libel that had been brought against the innocent rabbi.

“I was at the party,” he stated. “I was there when a fight broke out amongst some of the young men, and I saw the mayor’s son being murdered. It was not the rabbi, nor his son, who committed this despicable murder. They were not present at the party. The mayor’s son was murdered by Johann, his jealous friend, who could not stand all the attention being heaped on his worthy friend.

“The accused is innocent of the crime. He was framed! Do the honorable thing and let him go, for he has done no wrongdoing. Johann, the true murderer, is still roaming free despite his terrible deeds. It is he who deserves prison!”

From the benches, the Jews began to stir with faint hope. Could it be that the trial would actually end positively for the rav? It had seemed impossible, but now it appeared to be happening! They sucked in their breaths and waited for the trial to continue.

Greg was next up on the witness stand, and to the Jews immense surprise, he too, testified in favor of the Vasserover Rav. “The rabbi is completely innocent,” he declared, his booming voice echoing throughout the large courtroom. “I myself saw Johann kill the mayor’s son. Johann is the murderer!”

The witnesses were cross-examined, and when it was publicly determined that they were speaking the truth, a group of grim-faced policemen marched out of the courtroom to arrest the teenage murderer. As Nosson slipped outside to pay the two witnesses their just reward, the judge declared the Vasserover Rav a free man.

The rav left the courtroom accompanied by a large assembly of Jews, grateful to Hashem for having spared his life. His sharp eye noticed Nosson, the only stranger in the crowd, and he immediately understood that the unfamiliar young man had played a part in his salvation. With tears in his eyes, he walked up to Nosson and blessed him warmly.

As soon as the rav turned away, Nosson ducked through the crowd and hurried back to his inn to pack up and leave the city. He had no desire to have his identity become known in Vasserov, and he knew he had to leave before he was discovered.

The journey back to the city where his yeshiva was took ten days, but to Nosson, it felt like ten years. He was exhausted, completely worn out from the mental strain of his time in Vasserov, and the days on the road only added to his fatigue. He arrived in the city at midnight, but before he could go to sleep, he knew he needed to report back to Velvel and the mekubalim regarding the success of his mission.

As he approached the shack in the forest, the whimpers of tikkun chatzos wafted out to greet him. Nosson knocked on the door, calling, “It’s me, Nosson. I’m back! Please open up!”

But the wooden door remained unyielding.

“Velvel!” Nosson called, louder this time, as his knuckles turned sore from knocking. “Velvel, please let me in! It’s Nosson! Let me in!”

Still no answer.

Nosson began to cry. “Velvel! Let me in! Please let me in! I’ve completed the mission!”

Finally, someone opened the door, but it wasn’t Velvel. One of the other mekubalim stood there, dressed in his tattered sackcloth. His face was stained with tears.

“Where is Velvel?” Nosson asked, wiping his own eyes.

The mekubal looked at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Velvel was niftar,” he said softly.

Nosson burst into heartrending sobs. “I don’t understand!” he wailed.

“Velvel allowed you in, even though you don’t hear the bas kol, because he understood that only you would be able to carry out the final mission of Reb Lemel,” the mekubal explained. “He took the responsibility of your entry upon himself. You didn’t hear the crying of the dove, and so you were worthy of death, but Velvel accepted this death upon himself. He left this world instead of you.”

With an anguished cry, Nosson tore kriyah, feeling as though he was ripping his own heart in two. He understood that the holy watercarrier had passed away because of him, and he hadn’t even had the opportunity to part from him properly.

“I’m sorry,” the mekubal continued. “But we can no longer allow you in. We are busy with very elevated matters, and only those who are able to hear the sound of the dove during yehai shmay rabbah are allowed to be present. Velvel already passed away. We can’t continue to risk lives by allowing you in.”

As the door closed gently before him, Nosson’s sobs intensified. He walked slowly back into town, but he could not calm down. He felt terrible for his role in Velvel’s death and could not find comfort in his own thoughts. Despite the lateness of the hour, he decided to go see Rav Laizer, his rebbi, who would surely still be awake to get some chizuk.

Rav Laizer was, as he’d expected, still awake, but he was stunned into silence when Nosson stumbled through his door. He hadn’t seen his student in weeks, ever since Nosson had disappeared one night to fulfill his mission in Vasserov. “Nosson!” he exclaimed, relieved to see that his talmid was unharmed. “What’s the matter?”

Nosson’s eyes were red and swollen, and his shoulders heaved as he sobbed silently. When he composed himself enough to speak, he related the entire story to his rebbi, picking up from where they’d left off the last time, after Reb Lemel had passed away.

Rav Laizer lay a comforting hand on Nosson’s shoulder. “You didn’t cause Velvel’s death,” he said emphatically. “Velvel chose to give up his own life to save the life of the Vasserover Rav and the tens of thousands of Jews who live in Vasserov. The community was deserving of death, as you learned in the shack, and that sentence had been transferred to the head of their rav, the holy Vasserover Rav. Velvel decided to take the death upon himself to spare the Vasserover Rav’s life.”

Nosson calmed visibly at these words, hiccupping slightly as he stopped crying.

“Nosson,” his rebbi said quietly. “The mekubalim didn’t turn you away. They only asked that you cease attending their meetings until you merit to heart the sound of the dove. It is now up to you to achieve that level.”

“How can I merit to hear the sound of the dove?” Nosson asked.

“You must devote the rest of your life to Torah and mussar,” Rav Laizer explained. “You should continue learning with tremendous diligence and work on perfecting your character. Later, after you are married and have grown enough in Torah, you will start to learn kabbalah until you reach the heights where you are able to hear the sound of the dove crying by yehai shmay rabbah. At that point, you will be able to go back.”

That is exactly what happened. Nosson threw himself completely into his learning, surpassing his previous stellar reputation as he continued to grow in Torah and character perfection. When he got married, Rav Laizer returned the money he’d inherited from Reb Lemel, and he used it to feed his growing family even as he continued learning day and night.

The years passed, and Nosson moved away with his family to a different city. He lived a simple lifestyle completely devoted to Torah, never stopping his spiritual growth even as he aged to forty, then fifty, then sixty years old and married off his children.

One day, when he was in his seventies, a personal matter caused him to travel to a different city. After sitting and learning on the bumpy wagon the entire day, he arrived at his destination city and stopped off at a small shul to daven Minchah and Maariv. He had barely eaten all day, but he was feeling energized by the Torah he’d learned during the journey.

A baal tefillah got up to daven at the amud, and he seemed to be in a very big rush. He tripped over his words as he sped-davened, and Nosson, who davened with tremendous concentration, had trouble keeping up. When they reached kaddish, Nosson cried out, “Amein, yehai shmay rabbah…” along with the rest of the shul when suddenly he heard a sound.

It was the sound of a dove wailing.

 “Oy labanim,” the yonah was crying. “Oy labanim she’golim mishulchan avihem.”

Nosson’s heart began to race and his face paled as he realized that he had finally reached the level of complete purity. This was what the men in the shack had spoken of so many years earlier! He had finally achieved the growth he’d been working toward his entire life. The time had come for him to return to the shack and join the mekubalim there.

From the moment Nosson heard the sound of the dove, he was a changed person. Although he had always lived a simple lifestyle, devoid of frills and indulgences, now the materialism of the world ceased to have any meaning to him. He began viewing the food he ate and the clothing he wore and the wagon he drove from a completely altered perspective. He ate only what he needed to have energy and didn’t speak an extra word than necessary. Every waking moment was devoted to the service of Hashem.

When he returned home from his trip, he explained to his wife that he needed to travel again. It would be a journey of a few days, but he had something important that he needed accomplish in the city where he’d studied in yeshiva as a young man.

His wife was taken aback. “But you’ve only just come home,” she exclaimed. “You’re not a youngster anymore, Nosson. How will you be able to handle another journey?”

“This is something I must do,” Nosson responded determinedly.

His tone was so firm that his wife knew that nothing she could say would budge him. “Go in peace and return in peace,” she whispered.

After a grueling journey, Nosson arrived in the city of his youth in the middle of the night. Even so many years later, he still recalled the precise directions through the forest, and he went directly to the shack where Velvel and his friends had met nightly. As he neared, he saw a light coming from the shack, and he understood that people were already there.

He knocked on the door, his hands trembling violently, wondering who would answer for him. More than fifty years had passed since the last time he’d visited, and the original members of the group, who had been in their seventies and eighties at the time, had shortly left the world long before.

The door opened, and an unfamiliar man about his own age stood there. “Nosson, Nosson,” he cried warmly. “We were waiting for you for so many years! We were told that one day you would be coming here to join us in reciting tikkunim. Please come in and take a seat.”

With wobbly legs, Nosson stepped into the shack. There were nine men around the table, nine faces whom he did not recognize. “Who are all these men?” he asked.

“Just as you are a disciple of the holy Velvel, who introduced you to this group,” one of them explained. “All of us here are the students of other lamed-vovniks during that time period. None of the tzaddikim left the world before ensuring that there would be someone else to take his place, just as Velvel did with you. I am a talmid of the holy Berish, the tailor.”

“And I am a talmid of Dovid the weaver,” another offered. They went around the table introducing themselves, explaining how they’d each joined the clandestine group.

For the next inspiring few hours, the ten tzaddikim recited tikkunim and learned kabbalah together. Nosson, no longer an eighteen-year-old yeshiva bachur, had come a long way since those long-ago days, with intense character perfection and tremendous growth in Torah. Now, a righteous tzaddik in his own merit, he was able to participate fully, bringing merit and favor into the world with his holy Torah and avodah.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!

This story is taken from tape #TG 75-76