A Slice of Bread

He then returned to his city, filled with bitterness, humiliated, oppressed, and weak. He found his wife Ḥaya—who had been a picture of robust health and womanly valor when he had set out on his journey to seek his fortune—bedridden on his return, not in that house that had been full of vitality, but in some ruin fit to be a dogs’ kennel. The large samovar, the brass candelabra, the pillows, and feather quilts—all these were with Mr. Tarfan, the moneylender, who had taken them as collateral. A sack full of rotten straw, covered with a thick layer of dust, served as her bed. She sighed deeply. An incurable cold gripped her. For all the time that he, the man, had not been at home, she had supported herself and her two children from laundering shirts and dresses, and in the last winter her warm dress had become worn out from age. The elder daughter had not helped her, being unable to go to the river without a coat, and the supporting mother had been forced to carry the burden of the strangers’ shirts and dresses herself, while she was dressed in a torn summer dress and lightweight shawl on her shoulders . . .

At first, charitable neighbors had looked in on her, but they had ceased of late, ceased and said: “Her good-for-nothing husband will return . . . he will care for her, the loser . . . and anyway, many need charity from those able to help, more than mere pious words . . .”

It has been about a month since his return—what will he do now? Where will he turn?

In the summer, in the next “semester,” he intends to collect a “heder,” to make a living teaching Torah. This is his one remaining hope, and therefore he will cling to it and not let go; but it is still quite a few months before the beginning of the “semester.” In the mean time?

The children . . . also a physician . . . a physician is called for . . .

It was cold in the house . . . and the sighs, causing him to tremble and pain his ruminating heart, turned to white mist in the frozen air [ . . . ]

Finally, his patience failed him: the younger girl, the little one, who was lying all this time on the cold stove, which had lain dormant for some time, and was snorting from congestion, suddenly opened her little mouth wide, and one broken word, tumbled—seemingly not as a question, but as a gentle pleading, despairing—out of her parched lips: b-r-e-a-d . . . and the mumbled utterance spilled out, trickled around the room, and it oozed and spread into the father’s being, and was transformed there into burning pitch, and it burned and consumed the little bit of energy that remained within him, wreaking devastation. [ . . . ]

To borrow a few pennies—his legs carried him. Any other idea, any other objective could not enter his mind in that moment. He did not know or sense himself. He feared to glance backward.

Silently he stepped out of his ruin of a home. She was asleep. No one detained him.

“I will fall at his feet, I will kiss his shoes!” he heard a strong voice beating within him, while his footsteps headed toward the creditor’s house.

But another voice growled softly:

“In vain . . . it’s no secret . . . in vain . . . you are wasting your energy . . . without collateral . . . in vain. . . .”

The moments passed. He did not stop walking, but his legs slackened in their pace: his eyes dimmed.

Suddenly a happy thought flashed like lightning in his mind, lighting up and warming all the recesses of his soul: [to his good fortune,] he still owned his tallis and tefillin, and they were in the Beis Ya‘akov synagogue where he prayed, for he had not taken them home.

With these holy objects it was possible for him to borrow two whole rubles; he could summon the doctor, buy medicine, and buy bread—all at once!

His legs carried him rapidly into the synagogue.

“Reb Mendel,” he turned quickly to the beadle as he entered, without even the customary greeting, “begging your pardon, could you please take the trouble to bring me my . . . my tallis and tefillin . . .” [ . . . ]

The clock struck nine. In the synagogue, silence. Light and darkness intermixed. Gloom. The tallow light standing on the window rendered the semidarkness around it even gloomier. The black walls were bent over like mourners. The corners were desolate, despondent, solitary. The air in the room seemed not to have forgotten those days that would never return, the days in which there sounded day and night the lilting melodies of song and prayer, the words of the living God, when every corner was lit up for those who sat and studied, while those who stood carried a massive load of holy books, thick tomes of Talmud and responsa, which were sepulchrous hideaways of mighty spirits, legions of souls that labored in purity . . . and now? At this moment?

He turned his eyes to his black bag—and a hard doubt occurred to him: who knew if Mr. Tarfan would be willing to lend on such collateral? . . . he was an “aristocrat,” and such articles would be worth nothing to him . . . but silver or gold . . . he would start to inquire and investigate . . . how would a Jew come by . . . and maybe he was now playing cards and not at home . . . and they were overcome by hunger . . . to save a life . . .

Then he would let his eyes wander toward those seated, the beadle and the ascetic who lived in the shul, and he cast a piercing glance, consumed by strange fire, all around him: was no one looking? . . . The beadle, after he performed his request, returned and sat at his place before the stove, chatting with the ascetic, the sole frequenter of the synagogue [ . . . ] woe, woe, he crying loudly, really, seriously, the synagogue needed repair! You could see it falling apart! And who knew more than him, that it was still possible to repair . . . true, there was rot throughout, but its foundations were solid iron, really, seriously, each of the walls had valuable wooden beams! Seriously! And all this should go to waste? But to whom could he speak? Their ears are sealed! The rabbi is a savage, really, seriously . . . the treasurer is involved in his own business . . . a rich man . . . and the poor, well, they are poor . . . as the good book says, “short of spirit from hard labor” . . . but who? The students? . . . Empty-hearted . . . does a Jewish heart beat in their chest? Do they have a spark of holiness? Feh! . . .

And the ascetic nods his head bitterly [ . . . ]

—At death’s door, Reb Mendel, dying in every respect—the voice of hoary age walks through the land like a specter—we are submerged in the forty-ninth gate [of impurity] . . . there is no decent man in the synagogue . . . they all left . . . all turned to other gods, as it says in the holy Zohar . . . bad days, Reb Mendel, bad, bad . . .

He stood and listened; his mind froze for a moment; his heart constricted . . .

No one looking . . . eh? . . . Master of the Universe! . . .

The trembling hand stretched out—and took . . .