Read Online In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruchama King Feuerman
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things that far.
But what was this, a scuffle at the door? A black-frocked Hassid barreled into the rebbe’s study. The rebbetzin jerked back and the soup sloshed a little. The three stared at the fleshy-cheeked man. “I don’t have enough money!” he shouted. “I can’t make ends meet. Bless me. I need a miracle”—he smacked his meaty hand—“right now!”
Isaac strode toward the Hassid. “Maybe you are unaware,” he said firmly, “but this is a private home. And the rebbe is sick. I’m sorry, but Ihave to ask you to leave.” He pointed at the door.
The rebbe held up a veiny hand like a stop sign. Then he propped himself up by degrees. “Ahem. Wait a minute. What’s your name?”
“Moish,” said the Hassid in a truculent tone.
“Ah, Moish.” The rebbe, with effort, leaned on a flinty elbow. “So it’s a miracle you want?” Moish nodded his chin, up and down. “Can’t help you, Moish. Miracles tire out an old man like me.” The rebbe laughed softly to himself and then groaned a little. “Anyway, for me, life after the camps is miracle enough.”
Moish raised his large head and looked at him through woebegone eyes. “But you’re a kabbalist …” he trailed off.
“Come here, Moish.” The rebbe beckoned him. “Closer.”
And Isaac wondered, as he did each time, what the rebbe would say to yet another Yid with his own peckel of sorrow.
“So tell me, what exactly do you do for a living?” the rebbe asked.
“I’m a computer programmer,” Moish said in a begrudging voice.
“How much do you make?”
The Hassid told him.
“That’s a good salary for a computer programmer. I don’t think you could get more than that.”
“But it’s not enough,” Moish said in a low voice. “I have seven children.”
“So, what kind of blessing could I possibly give you,” the rebbe reasoned. “Should I bless you that your boss should go crazy and double your salary? Is that fair to him?”
“No,” he mumbled, “I guess not.”
“You know who miracles happen to?” The rebbe’s eyes seemed to wink and grin. “Realists. Come up with a business plan. An idea. Lay the groundwork. Then come and I’ll be happy to give you a blessing for success.”
Moish the Hassid mulled this, pulling a little on his hairy lower lip. “That’s what my wife has been saying all along. Only people in business make real money, she says. And you know, I do have a certain business idea.”
Moish kissed the rebbe’s hand and left.
Isaac stared after him. “How do you do it, Rebbe? Such simple advice, but did you see his face when he left? He had such hope!”
“If a man can be made weak,” the rebbe said, “a man can be made strong.”
All
men? Isaac wondered. But said nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mustafa fingered the trinkets in his pocket. A warm April breeze blew in the courtyard, making the tips of the
yahudi
men’s beards and the women’s long skirts stir in the wind. And he wondered for the fifth time why he had returned. Why should he bring the Jew a gift? He had a feeling it would lead to no good. But what was that beautiful smell coming from the cottage windows? An aroma from paradise. “Here,” he said to the rabbi when he passed by. He thrust his gift at the
yahudi
. “Take this. I brought it for you.”
“Me?” Rabbi Isaac asked. “Why?”
Mustafa’s arm remained outstretched and he proudly refused to explain. “It’s from the Haram al Sharif,” he said. The Jew looked confused. “The Noble Sanctuary,” he explained. Finally he threw in, “The Temple Mount.”
The rabbi’s hands jumped as he opened the pouch. Mustafa watched how he stared at the spout and touched the tip tenderly. The rabbi put the jug handle next to his cheek. “Extraordinary. So beautiful,” he said.
Mustafa stared at the spout and handle. “Why so beautiful?”
“Come, Mustafa.” The rabbi beckoned him closer. “This spout is dirty, true. Nothing special to look at, right? A piece of garbage.
But what was this, a scuffle at the door? A black-frocked Hassid barreled into the rebbe’s study. The rebbetzin jerked back and the soup sloshed a little. The three stared at the fleshy-cheeked man. “I don’t have enough money!” he shouted. “I can’t make ends meet. Bless me. I need a miracle”—he smacked his meaty hand—“right now!”
Isaac strode toward the Hassid. “Maybe you are unaware,” he said firmly, “but this is a private home. And the rebbe is sick. I’m sorry, but Ihave to ask you to leave.” He pointed at the door.
The rebbe held up a veiny hand like a stop sign. Then he propped himself up by degrees. “Ahem. Wait a minute. What’s your name?”
“Moish,” said the Hassid in a truculent tone.
“Ah, Moish.” The rebbe, with effort, leaned on a flinty elbow. “So it’s a miracle you want?” Moish nodded his chin, up and down. “Can’t help you, Moish. Miracles tire out an old man like me.” The rebbe laughed softly to himself and then groaned a little. “Anyway, for me, life after the camps is miracle enough.”
Moish raised his large head and looked at him through woebegone eyes. “But you’re a kabbalist …” he trailed off.
“Come here, Moish.” The rebbe beckoned him. “Closer.”
And Isaac wondered, as he did each time, what the rebbe would say to yet another Yid with his own peckel of sorrow.
“So tell me, what exactly do you do for a living?” the rebbe asked.
“I’m a computer programmer,” Moish said in a begrudging voice.
“How much do you make?”
The Hassid told him.
“That’s a good salary for a computer programmer. I don’t think you could get more than that.”
“But it’s not enough,” Moish said in a low voice. “I have seven children.”
“So, what kind of blessing could I possibly give you,” the rebbe reasoned. “Should I bless you that your boss should go crazy and double your salary? Is that fair to him?”
“No,” he mumbled, “I guess not.”
“You know who miracles happen to?” The rebbe’s eyes seemed to wink and grin. “Realists. Come up with a business plan. An idea. Lay the groundwork. Then come and I’ll be happy to give you a blessing for success.”
Moish the Hassid mulled this, pulling a little on his hairy lower lip. “That’s what my wife has been saying all along. Only people in business make real money, she says. And you know, I do have a certain business idea.”
Moish kissed the rebbe’s hand and left.
Isaac stared after him. “How do you do it, Rebbe? Such simple advice, but did you see his face when he left? He had such hope!”
“If a man can be made weak,” the rebbe said, “a man can be made strong.”
All
men? Isaac wondered. But said nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mustafa fingered the trinkets in his pocket. A warm April breeze blew in the courtyard, making the tips of the
yahudi
men’s beards and the women’s long skirts stir in the wind. And he wondered for the fifth time why he had returned. Why should he bring the Jew a gift? He had a feeling it would lead to no good. But what was that beautiful smell coming from the cottage windows? An aroma from paradise. “Here,” he said to the rabbi when he passed by. He thrust his gift at the
yahudi
. “Take this. I brought it for you.”
“Me?” Rabbi Isaac asked. “Why?”
Mustafa’s arm remained outstretched and he proudly refused to explain. “It’s from the Haram al Sharif,” he said. The Jew looked confused. “The Noble Sanctuary,” he explained. Finally he threw in, “The Temple Mount.”
The rabbi’s hands jumped as he opened the pouch. Mustafa watched how he stared at the spout and touched the tip tenderly. The rabbi put the jug handle next to his cheek. “Extraordinary. So beautiful,” he said.
Mustafa stared at the spout and handle. “Why so beautiful?”
“Come, Mustafa.” The rabbi beckoned him closer. “This spout is dirty, true. Nothing special to look at, right? A piece of garbage.
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