The Melamed

He knows how a Jew is supposed to live, and often he does not hesitate to open the eyes of people who need to improve their ways. He is descended from distinguished lineage, the great-nephew of Reb Elimelech of Lizhensk. His mother is the Rebbe’s niece. But that did not ensure him a decent living. He had tried his luck selling wine to the peasants who lived in the area. His one barrel sprung a leak, and that ended that business. Then he attempted to farm a small field he leased, but a drought destroyed the small crop he had planted.

He decided to accept the offer of Berel, a wealthy man living in a neighboring shtetl, to be melamed to his children. My father would live in Berel’s home from the week following Sukkos until the week before Pesach, the entire winter. He knew this was placing a heavy burden upon my mother, leaving her alone with their young children, but he didn’t know what else to do. Before he left Yavornik, he assured the grocer that when he returned before Pesach he would pay up the cost of whatever food my mother needed to sustain the family. Reluctantly the grocer agreed to allow her to buy on credit.

My father presented himself in Berel’s house the Monday after Sukkos. The house was beautifully furnished, and my father thought he would be very comfortable. But Berel scowled mercilessly at the melamed who had come to teach his children, at the man who would be a member of the household for the next six months. In the next few days the character of his host became all too apparent — he was tight-fisted, begrudging, stingy. The few poor people who dared knock on his door, seeking a few kopeks with which to feed their famished bodies, were all turned away empty-handed. They left his doorstep embarrassed and despairing.

The first Shabbos approached, and from what my father had seen all week he understood that there would be no guests gracing the Shabbos table. After the Friday morning lesson, he asked Berel for a few moments of his time to report on the progress of his children. After concluding his report, he casually asked, “And who will be your guests for Shabbos?”

“What do you mean?” Berel sputtered angrily. “I never invite guests!”

“In that case,” said my father, “I cannot eat at your Shabbos table.”

Berel was so set in his miserly ways that my father’s declaration did not perturb him one bit. My father had to figure out another strategy that would sway Berel.

“Let me tell you something,” he said. “You hired me to teach your children, but I have something to teach you.” He spoke to him about the holiness of Shabbos, about the importance of having guests and presenting to the world a happy countenance.

“What kind of example are you setting for your children?” he said. “I can teach them the meaning of the words, but how can I teach them how to live as Jews?”

Berel was not moved. Nothing my father said changed his mind.

“All right, then,” my father said. “Since I will not remain in this house without you inviting guests for Shabbos, and you won’t pay for the guests’ food, deduct the amount it costs to invite guests for Shabbos from my wages.”

This was a plan that appealed to Berel. The shtetl poor thought he had had a change of heart. Each week another poor family was invited to grace his Shabbos table. Each week he deducted the amount it cost him from my father’s salary.

The six months my father served as a melamed to Berel’s children passed. He was ready to return home. He approached Berel to get his wages. To his astonishment, Berel exclaimed, “What! You owe me money. You used up your entire salary, and another five hundred rubles.”

My father almost fainted. He was counting on that money to pay the grocery bill. And he needed money to prepare for Pesach and to sustain our family for the next few months until he found other employment. He was breathless. He felt totally beaten.

He gathered his few belongings and started the long trek back to Yavornik on foot. He arrived after ma’ariv had ended, but he could not go home and face the family. He knew that my mother had repeatedly assured the grocer during that long winter that her debt would be all cleared up before Pesach. Feeling he had no other place to turn, he decided to sleep on a bench in the shul.

The next morning I went to shul to daven shacharis. To my horror, I found that my father had slept all night on a bench. I ran over to him. “Tatte! Mama is waiting for you. She even prepared a special meal to welcome you home. Why have you slept here? Why have you not come home?”

He shrugged, unable to speak coherently. We prayed shacharis together, but when it ended, he rolled his tefillin so slowly. I could not understand his delay. After all, he hadn’t seen his family for six months.

I was impatient. But who could blame me? How could I perceive his embarrassment, his pain, when I didn’t know about his experience?

I grasped his arm and guided his footsteps. I tried to urge him forward, but he walked so slowly. As we crossed the main road, which bisected the marketplace, I noticed a wagon hurtling toward us. The wagoner seemed anxious. He called to us.

“I am looking for Pesach the melamed. Would you happen to know where I might find him?”

“If you are looking for Pesach the melamed,” my father answered, “you have found him. I am Pesach the melamed.”

“In that case,” said the wagoner, “this is for you!”

He threw a sack at my father’s feet. I stared at the driver intently. As abruptly as he had appeared, he vanished.

My father picked up the sack and carried it home. At the house, after enthusiastic greetings, my father placed the sack on the table and opened it. It was filled with rubles worth the exact amount Berel had agreed to pay him for teaching his children plus the additional five hundred Berel had claimed my father owed him for his having invited guests for Shabbos.

I can’t describe the joy of that seder night. Our family had not been together for six months, and the white-clothed table was laden with every Pesach ritual symbol and delicacy. It was truly a night of redemption, not only recalling the redemption of the Jewish people from Egypt, but thankfulness for our deliverance from the hardships of that winter. And in the words of the Haggadah, “We sang a new song, a song of redemption, a song of deliverance!”

By the time we had finished the meal, recited the Grace after Meals, and drunk the third cup of wine, I imagined that I was there with the three million Jews who left Egypt. I wondered why the Jewish people were commanded to remain inside their homes with the doors closed during the tenth plague, the slaying of the firstborn Egyptian. I had learned that this command was in order that the Jewish people not witness the Hand of God punishing the Egyptians.

My father gently prodded me, interrupting my reverie. “Tzvi Elimelech, it is time to open the door for Eliyahu HaNavi.”

Each year during the seder it was my task to open the door. To my surprise, there was a man standing on the doorstep.

“Tatte,” I called, elated, “do you remember what the wagoner looked like when he threw that sack at your feet? I had a good look at him. Now he is standing on our doorstep!”

“So how does Eliyahu HaNavi look dressed up as a wagoner?” my father inquired. I turned to invite him inside. But before I had a chance, he disappeared again.