quota of recruits into the Czar’s army, we’ll all suffer as a community. We are but puppets on a string pulled by the Czar. I cry out in helplessness. It’s better to be dead than to be a slave,” cried Prushkin, his voice rising and his face more distorted with grief.
“If you continue to think that way you’ll surely die. To stay alive we must look to our faith for guidance. We live a life of beauty and Torah. There is some hope. Don’t forget, not every twelve-year-old will go into service. Our children may escape their fate. There may be a change in policy. A new Czar may take over who will have a better sense of fairness. Even some of the gentiles say this practice of stealing our children is unfair. So, we must work with this group and see if we can change things. That’s our best and most realistic hope.”
“You’re a dreamer, Rabbi, if you think that anyone will work with us to change things. The penalty would be death,” said Katz.
“Remember the story of Moses. His task was far greater then anything we could envision, but he prevailed. He did not try to change a country; he tried to change a world! Go now. Do nothing foolish. We’ll talk more later.”
The three men left and the rabbi sat alone at the table. When Anna heard the men leaving, she came into the kitchen and sat down next to him. She took one look at his serious expression of concern and left the room.
After several minutes, he walked into the next room, formerly occupied by his daughters, now a study for him and sewing room for his wife. She occupied one corner, but most of the room was a library filled with books stacked on homemade bookcases. He sat on an upholstered chair and thought of his father, Meir Tepperovitch who had died eleven years ago.
CHAPTER 4
Meir Tepperovitch had also been a rabbi. He ministered to a large group in an adjacent town. He also served as an arbitrator for his parishioners. In a larger city, three judges, all rabbis, served on a panel known as a Beit Din, to arbitrate any minor civil disputes within the Jewish community. The plaintiff chose one rabbi, the defendant chose another rabbi, and the two rabbis then chose the third.
In Meir Tepperovitch’s town he served alone and had the respect of the entire community, for his followers considered him a tzaddik—one of the righteous—capable of complete unity with the Creator. Such a tzaddik was a man whose human foibles did not exist in consciousness, thus allowing direct communication with God.
In his court, he handled all minor matters and only referred to a larger Beit Din when he thought the problem might establish a new principle. He felt that under such circumstance a consensus from three judges would be required.
When his son, Shepsel, was ordained a rabbi, he fasted for one day and spent a day of prayer in thankfulness to the Almighty.
One cold, cloudy winter day, as Meir was worshiping, there was a revolt of Poles in the region. Russian troops ruthlessly suppressed it. It was not the Jewish community that revolted, but the Jewish shtetl area was the prime target for the looting that often accompanied such actions. Fights broke out between the outnumbered Jewish citizens and the armed looters who entered houses and stole or destroyed furnishings and other valuables. Many Jews sustained injuries.
Rabbi Meir determined the violence was getting out of hand. He searched in vain for local police, but they were conspiculously absent. The looters shot him in the abdomen while he was attempting to protect the life and property of some of his parishioners. They carried him dying to his bed. He asked for a prayer book. He also requested that they notify his son in Tiktin. Shepsel rushed to his father’s side.
As he entered the room, he saw his father lying comfortably propped up by pillows. He had a smile on his face, discerned even through his grey beard and mustache. With the noise of Shepsel’s entry, Meir’s eyes opened and his smile widened.
“Ahh, Shepsel, our Father is ready for me, and I go with peace and love in my heart for you, your family, and the Almighty. Then Rabbi Meir’s head turned ninety degrees first in one direction and then the other.
“What do you see, father?”
“I see the divine glow. I see infinity. I see the entry into God’s kingdom. I see peace and love.”
Shepsel placed his hands over his eyes and prayed a silent prayer.
Meir remained smiling, his eyes wide open, a look of anticipation on his face. He said, “Go into the library, my son. There you will find the Torah that my grandfather, of blessed memory, wrote with his own hand—every letter of every word. He passed it on to his son, my father, who passed it on to me. I bequeath it to you, Shepsel. I know you will guard it as a token of love for our family and the Jewish people. It will be a reminder to you to continue the work we have always done in the past, each in our own way, to guard our heritage against those that wish to do us harm. I love you...my son.”
Then he fell silent and with an audible sigh and open eyes, he breathed his last.
Shepsel recited the Shema in a whisper, imagining that his father was thinking it too as his soul departed the earth. Then, “Yisgadal veyiskadash shemei raba…” through copious tears and with the Torah cradled in his arms Shepsel wailed the Kaddish the prayer for the dead.
Shepsel was a traditional rabbi as opposed to his father Meir who was a Hasid. The Hasidic movement originated with Israel Ben Eliezer in the 18th century, and he arose at a time when the vast majority of his people were poor, illiterate, and helpless to control their own destiny.
The majority of the Jews, out of the mainstream of Jewish learning, felt disenfranchised, for only the privileged few, the religious scholars, could be in touch with the Divine. Into this void stepped Israel Ben Eliezer who taught that God was everywhere in all things and was served through all things including pleasures of life. Every Jew was able to reach the Divinity by enjoying the rituals of their faith, by enthusiastic praying, by singing and dancing, by deep love for their fellow man. It was not necessary to steep oneself in scholarship and intense study in order to commune with God. This was the Rabbi’s province from which they would seek guidance as the Hasidic Rabbis had a “holy soul” inherited from their ancestors.
Many of the Jews of the day embraced this concept for it liberated them from their superstitions and the depression brought on by their illiteracy and second-class status. They were now as good as the best religious scholar, because of their good acts, their intense prayer, their joy and love, their singing and dancing. They thus had camaraderie, not only with one another but also with the Almighty.
The rabbi, responsible for the intense study, the deep thinking, and the philosophical interpretations will guide them through all trials and tribulations. At the same time, the Hasidic Rabbi embraced his followers, in contrast, they thought, from other rabbis who remained aloof from their congregants.
The first Hasidic Rabbi, Israel Ben Eliezer, known as a Baal Shem Tov or BeSHT (good master of the name) was a man of total devotion and righteousness: the first tzaddik. Hasidic adherents believed that their tzaddik had a direct line to God Almighty by virtue of the purity of his soul unencumbered by human temptation and failings. Jewish folklore writes that every generation of Jews has within its ranks thirty-six righteous devoted tzaddikim, known as lamed-vavniks. The Hasidim believe that this ability is under genetic control and therefore handed down from father to son. This movement slowly grew as the average Jew remained in poverty, shackled by government fiat and anti-Semitic legislation.
Rabbi Shepsel Tepperovitch did not agree with the Hasidic movement. First, the devoted and worshipful adherence to an all-righteous, divinely inspired individual
