Len's uncle

Izvoschik the Cabman:

A story worthy of Isaac Bashevis Singer!

There was a man in my home town who was a cabman. They called him Izvostchik in Russian. He had a couple of horses and he had a carriage, and he used to carry passengers from my little town to the railroad station, which was about four miles, about four and a half vyorsts, about three and a half American miles. Very close, very close. I used to walk it. But he made a living that way.

He felt degraded and humiliated because he never did get called to the third or the sixth paragraph, the honored portions when reading the Torah. Whenever they gave him an aliya, it was either the first, the second, the fourth, the fifth, but never the sixth, never the third. He called the attention of Reb Yehuda Kutchikoff, the gabbai, to that. Gabbai means the president. He called it humiliation. He said he had been humiliated all those years. So Reb Yehuda Kutchikoff promised him that he would get one of those important aliyot, it means a calling to the Torah.

But he didn’t get it. So, he swore that whenever a beggar will come, get off the train.... You know, beggars used to come by train from a nearby town, and then they used to come for Shabbat to a little town, and somebody would take note of a guest, take him home Friday night and Saturday afternoon. And we had a house which was called hegbesh, a house for guests, for poor people that came there. There was a woman in charge of it just for them to sleep. But they would come to town. And, naturally, they would always walk from the railroad station. They couldn’t afford to take a cab.

So, he swore whenever he gets a beggar getting off the train — not all of them were riding by train, some of them walked from town to town on foot. But if a beggar gets off the train, he will take him to the house of Yehuda Kutchikoff, the gabbai of the synagogue. Because when a man comes to your house, you cannot reject him, you cannot turn him away.

Here in America, of course, you wouldn’t make any ceremonies, tell him to go to the right place. But it was never customary among the Jews. Anybody knocked on your door, he said he wanted to come in and have a meal, you gave him a meal.

So, one Friday afternoon, this Izvochek brought a beggar to the house of Yehuda Kutchikoff, a man dressed very poorly, beggarly dressed, and he carried a sack on his shoulders. Well, Yehuda Kutchikoff happened to be home, and he saw. He knew that he was being paid back for not giving Izvostchik an aliyah, but he invited the man into the house. He showed him a room, he gave him a room, they had a very big house with many rooms. We didn’t have it.

So, he took him in, showed him a place where he could wash up, have a little bite, because they are going to shul, and right after shul they eat. They used to go to shul very early, with dusk, and get through with ma’ariv [Evening prayer] and go back home and eat dinner, the Sabbath dinner, Friday night. But when the man came out from the washing room, Yehuda Kutchikoff saw in front of him an unusual personality. Combed up, handsome, wearing a long robe, a beautiful one of silk, and a beautiful silk girdle around it, with nice shoes, shined shoes, with a clean shirt.

Yehuda Kutchikoff was astonished. He brought him to shul. The man said that he wishes to say a few words from the platform. This was unusual. The Rav in my home town would never let a maggid [itinerant preacher], anybody, speak on Friday night. There were no sermons Friday night because the rabbis in Europe never spoke. They spoke only twice a year, on Sabbath Shuva, the Sabbath before Yom Kippur, and on the Shabbat Hagadol, the Great Sabbath, the Sabbath before Passover. That’s when the Rabbis spoke. He didn’t speak on anything worldly, on anything important. He spoke on a passage from Talmud, and whether you are allowed to do this, or that. Some of the very learned men listened, or were listening to his reasoning, and to his questioning back and forth, which was a beautiful game in the Talmud. But never giving speeches.

And here a man wanted to speak. So, Reb Yehuda Kutchikoff went up to the Rav, and he said, (The Rav was a great ruler in the synagogue).... He said, “I have an oreach, a guest, and he wishes to speak.” At first, The Rav didn’t want to allow it, but then he took a look over there, and he saw the oreach. The Rav took a look at him, and somehow he was impressed, and he says, “All right, let him speak.”

And I will never forget. I was a small boy, very young. And there are several paragraphs there of a poem welcoming the Sabbath, which is called L'cha dodi.

Then it continues:

God knew in advance, that He was going to declare a day of the Sabbath. And then, they keep on saying L’cha dodi, Come my beloved. Then there is the next paragraph

This man, who happened to have been the Rebbe from Yampele, the Chassidic rabbi from Yampele. He was known in Russia, all over. The Yampele Rebbe. And that was the Yampele Rebbe.

Why did he appear as a beggar, as a poor man? Because he took upon himself the vow to go out into goless, to be an exile, away from home to atone for some sin that he has done. He offended a poor woman at one time, a poor widow. So, as they say in Yiddish, Her hat gepravet goless, he conducted the way of exile.

Well, they found out it was the Yampele Rebbe. And he spoke only on these couple of sentences. Everybody cried. He mentioned, he had learned about the tragedy of that family in which Lholha died. And he spoke on Lholha.

I’ll never forget it. To weave in those tragic words into that beautiful paragraph, Migdash melech,when the poet appeals to the Jewish people, they should arise from the tragedies, from their miserable life, and do something. Maybe God will have pity on them.

He said you cannot console the parents. How can you console the parents? The Talmud says, “Don’t console one when you see his dead one right in front of him.” When he bemoans, you cannot offer him words of consolation.

I’ll never forget it. My mother was not at the synagogue. She very seldom went to the synagogue on Friday night. But, when I came home, I told her about the great wonder that happened, that we had a speaker at the synagogue. She already had drunk from the cup of bitterness. In other words, she knew the news of Lholha’s death. She wanted me to repeat the words that the man said.

I usually used to come home on Saturdays afternoon when we had a maggid. A maggid means a teller, an itinerant speaker, for the Rabbi never spoke. They used to have people, and they would announce that a man will speak. Whenever I came back from the synagogue, I always repeated the speech of the maggid to my mother.

So, I practically repeated what he said. It’s a memorable day somehow, when Lholha died. I can’t forget it. I liked Lholha too. We used to play. We were children, smaller.

Justin: How old were you when she died?

J: About eight or nine.

It is remarkable that Judah at the age of eight or nine could recite the contents of the sometimes very long sermons that he would hear on Sabbath afternoons. And that, at the age of 96 he could recall so many details.

From Judah's childhood

Judah's mother

Judah starts Hebrew school

Hebrew school

A visit to an uncle. Wolves in the forest

Danila the peasant and the elevator to the Holy Ark

Izvoschik the Cabman: A tale worthy of Isaac Bashevis Singer