Thirty years ago, I started teaching at
Bais Yaakov of Baltimore, and 30 years ago, Miriam Stark Zakon wrote the short
story, “Reb Aharon in Search of a Miracle,” published in Sarah Shapiro’s Our
Lives Vol. 1 and Artscroll’s
Jerusalem Gems. And for most of these past 30 years, I have read this
magical story to my students on the last day of school before Pesach vacation.
It has become a tradition. Younger sisters hear about it from their older
sisters. The Bais Yaakov experience is not complete without it.
What was I to do
this year, when class time was too short, and on the phone due to COVID-19?
Record it, of course, for the school’s distance learning website. For an added
boost, I offered a contest: Write a sequel to this BY classic for a fabulous
prize. Here is a summary of the original “Reb Aharon” story and its winning
sequel.
*
* *
“Reb Aharon in Search of a Miracle” takes
place in Old Jerusalem in 1910, during the time of the Ottoman Turkish Empire.
Bright young Yitzchak Rosen finds himself walking home from cheder alone. Filled with curiosity, Yitzchak
kicks what he thought was a toy but was actually an abandoned grenade. Yitzchak
is blinded.
After months in
the hospital, Yitzchak returns to his large family’s simple home. He cannot
return to cheder because his father
does not want him pitied there, even though his rebbe wants the boy back. Yitzchak’s
father brings his son to rebbe after rebbe, searching for a miracle that will
return Yitzchak’s sight. One rebbe strongly admonishes the father, telling him
that people are also miracles. Let him grow, and “see what miracles can be
wrought.”
In frustration, Yitzchak
sneaks out of the house when his father is away in Chevron. When Yitzchak
persists in his outings, his mother acquiesces and buys him a wooden cane. One
morning, Yitzchak has a burning desire to walk to the Kosel. There, he cannot
stop himself from crying out, “I want to see!” Suddenly, a strong but kind
voice speaks to him there, telling him to touch the stones softly because if
he, Yitzchak, willed it, he could “see with his hands.”
And so Yitzchak
has a new rebbe, whom he identifies with his “the fragrance of sefarim, apple blossoms, and the cool,
crisp wind.” Yitzchak learns to use his enhanced senses to navigate his world.
Then the rebbe teaches Yitzchak Torah in a unique trop. Yitzchak learns deeply and remembers it all. He is finally
content, but then erev Pesach
arrives. The rebbe has chosen to meet in Yitzchak’s old cheder, empty now. They review Mishnayos,
and then the rebbe has news for Yitzchak: “After Pesach I will be here no
longer. Goodbye, my son, I will not forget you.”
Devastated, Yitzchak
is not comforted by his rebbe’s assurance that he will find another rebbe. But
when Yitzchak’s old cheder rebbe encounters
him there a few minutes later, Yitzchak begins to form a plan.
The story
concludes with the Seder in the Rosen home. When the time comes to search for
the afikomen, Yitzchak, using his keen sense of smell, finds the matzah. For
his prize, he asks to return to cheder,
to which his father immediately agrees. Awe and joy fill the home as Yitzchak
receives the honor of opening the door for Eliyahu Hanavi. As he does, Yitzchak
smells the faint fragrance of his rebbe: “the fragrance of sefarim, apple blossoms, and the cool, crisp wind.”
The Rebbi’s Return
by Meira Levi
Shalom
was not exactly what you would call a teacher’s pet. He
was a fine boy, with a sharp and clever mind, though recently, his cleverness
was only used for designing, doodling, and lots of daydreaming. He tried his
best not to act out in class, but he had a hard time concentrating and was one
of the boys who always seemed to need to use the restroom. It had not always
been like that.
When Shalom was younger, cheder
was easy for him, and he always did very well. He kept up with the material and
would review on his own each night. Shalom was not the smartest in the class,
but he was far from the weakest student, and he brought much nachas to his parents. They basked in
the joy of their only son’s successes and came to every siyum he made with presents and scrumptious food. Hearing Shalom’s
voice throughout their house learning the words of Torah was one of the most
beautiful sounds to his parents. As the years went on, Shalom grew into a
wonderful and kind boy. He grew taller too, and his curly brown hair
straightened out somewhat as he kept it cut short.
In cheder, they began to learn Mishna, and then advanced to Gemara. Rebbi taught easy material and
went over it again and again, helping the boys learn the new gemara. Shalom would often understand
the gemara the first or second time
the class would review it, so he almost never needed to review out of school.
He would while away his time at home chatting with his mother, playing with
friends, or going on walks with his father.
The
years passed, and Shalom was now approaching his bar mitzva. As the air turned
cold and the rainy season began, Shalom’s difficulties began, creeping in slowly,
bit by bit, As Shalom’s class advanced and started learning harder and harder
material, Shalom began to fall behind. At first it was so small, he himself
barely noticed.
But as
the days went by and the chilly wind became a fierce cold one, he fell more and
more behind, and more and more aware of his growing problem. Shalom tried to
catch up, to figure out what was going on in the gemara. He would run home, open up his Gemara, and attempt to chazar
(review) the lines they had covered in class. But it was hopeless. He would
look at the page blankly, not comprehending a word. Slowly, he would try to
work through it, sometimes spending hours a night, to no avail.
Eventually,
he stopped trying.
* * *
One day, as he sat
listening to his Rebbi in cheder, Shalom
realized he had no idea what was going on at all. He opened his Gemara absentmindedly, looking at the
boy’s next to him to see what page they were on. And as the days continued to
pass, Shalom grew increasingly tired of class: tired of not being able to keep
up, tired of listening to Rebbi drone on and on and not understanding a word of
it, tired of scanning his Gemara
looking for the place. As time wore on, he lost any desire to put in an effort.
So he spent his days designing.
Shalom
had a bright mind and a decent memory. During class, he began to design cities
in his brain, mapping them down to every last detail: the different houses,
towers, buildings. Everything would be carefully crafted in his mind and laid
out.
One cold
winter day, Shalom had spent the day in cheder
designing a castle which would sit at the top of a hill in the center of his
city. It was a majestic castle with tall turrets and bright blue flags waving
from the tallest tower. A large moat swished around the walls of the castle,
and a drawbridge would allow visitors to enter. Enemies, though, would be sent
to the crocodiles that lurked in the moat. Shalom was in the process of
designing the king’s throne room when he realized the room had gotten awfully
quiet. Shalom had been so involved in his castle, he had not realized Rebbi was
finished and the boys had all closed their Gemaras
and were packing up. He also had not noticed Rebbi approaching his table until
Rebbi was standing right over him, looking down disapprovingly.
“Shalom,”
Rebbi began, disappointment evident in his voice and tone.
“Yes...?”
Shalom asked nervously, closing his Gemara
and looking anywhere but at his Rebbi.
The
other boys, who were putting on their coats and getting ready to leave, looked
at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. They all quickly shuffled out of cheder, leaving Shalom alone with his
Rebbi. He looked down at his folded hands in his lap, starting to feel a little
bit of shame.
“Shalom,
you are a smart boy. I don’t understand why you can’t keep up with the class.
Is there something you don’t understand about my teaching?” The Rebbi’s voice
was kind and considerate. He looked down worriedly at his talmid. Shalom squirmed in his seat and opened and closed the cover
of his Gemara distractedly.
“Are
you reviewing at home?” Rebbi inquired. Rebbi’s brow furrowed, and as Shalom
glanced at him, he fought the urge to laugh. Shalom looked down again,
plastered a neutral expression on his face, gave a noncommittal shrug, and then
began to study the white, peeling wall of the room.
“Shalom,” his Rebbi continued, his voice now
turning slightly colder. “You must review at home; it’s the only way to keep
up.”
“I
don’t understand it here, in cheder,
so I don’t understand it at home!” Shalom began, his voice rising as anger
began to flood into him. He clenched his hands in his lap and pursed his lips.
“I try to look over what we did in class, but I can’t. I’m so lost.” His voice
turned slightly gravelly as he finished, and he fought to maintain a neutral
face.
Rebbi’s
eyes filled with concern “Are you reviewing by yourself? I don’t understand.”
“Yes,”
Shalom said defensively, still staring pointedly at the wall.
“Why
don’t you learn with your father?” Rebbi suggested.
Shalom
looked up at Rebbi, his eyes a mixture of hurt and anger. “My father’s blind.
He can’t learn with me.”
The
Rebbi’s face quickly turned from gentle creased lines to shock and then guilt.
“Shalom, I’m so sorry. I forgot.” He paused for a moment and then knelt to be
eye level with Shalom. “Do you want to learn with me? I can learn an hour with
you every night. I can speak to your father....” Rebbi stopped speaking as he
saw Shalom jerking his head back and forth vigorously. Shalom grabbed his Gemara and tucked it under his arm,
preparing to leave. He glanced at Rebbi, screwed up his face in the most
determined expression he could manage, and then turned away, looking to the
door.
“Thank
you Rebbi. But I’ll figure it out.” Shalom abruptly stood up, yanked open the cheder door, and fled home.
* * *
By the time Shalom
was approaching his house, he had calmed down. Throughout his walk home, he
decided not to blame Rebbi. After all, his father went to shul like everyone
else, learned like everyone else, and walked alone without a guide. Abba was
extremely independent. The only thing Abba had that was different from any
other person was a thin pole that he would hold out in front of him. The stick
helped guide him, enabling him to be able to be on his own. Shalom still was a
little confused as to how Rebbi could have forgotten about Abba’s blindness all
together, but, he thought to himself, some people are not so perceptive.
Even
though Abba was extremely independent, he could not learn with Shalom. Abba had
never learned the gemara they were
learning in cheder, and it was too
hard for him to start something new and keep up with the pace of Shalom’s
class. Abba learned a lot slower than Shalom, because everything needed to be
done aloud. Abba could only learn by using his memory, so it was difficult and
time consuming. Shalom both admired and resented his father. Abba was
incredible. He spent the majority of his day learning, even though it was so
hard for him. At the same time, Shalom could not open up his Gemara, show his father the place, and
start learning with him. Abba could not see. It made everything so much more
complicated.
Shalom
approached his house. He paused for a moment at the door, took a deep breath,
and entered. A delicious aroma greeted him, and he ran to the kitchen to see
what food his mother was cooking. “Hello Shalom,” Ima called as Shalom entered
their tiny kitchen. Smiling, Shalom placed his Gemara down on the table and walked to his mother’s side.
“Hi,
Ima.”
“How
was cheder?” Ima took her attention
off her cooking and looked down at Shalom. Shalom inwardly squirmed but just
smiled in response to Ima’s question.
“What
are you making?” he asked, peering around her onto the counter. There was
nothing there. He peeked into the oven and saw a cake sitting inside.
“Honey
cake,” she replied. Ima rumpled his hair and gave a soft chuckle, “To sweeten
your day, pumpkin.” Shalom gave Ima a funny little smile. Although he was
almost bar mitzva, she still called him pumpkin. But Shalom didn’t ask her to
stop. One tiny part of him liked that Ima called him pumpkin, though he would
never admit it.
“Yum,”
he said. Ima smiled down at him.
Shalom
was about to ask if he could play outside with his neighbor, when he heard a
knock and the door swung open. Abba entered, smiling, with his cane
outstretched as he carefully stepped over the threshold. He took a great breath
and smiled in the direction of the kitchen. “Hm ... honey cake. My favorite.
Thank you, Ima. And Shalom, how are you? How was cheder?” Abba carefully made his way through the living room into
the kitchen. He stood by the counter next to Ima.
“It
was good, Abba.” Shalom didn’t say anything more. He knew Abba wouldn’t be
happy with him if he said he was caught daydreaming in class.
Abba
nodded his head thoughtfully. “Your Rebbi came over to me in shul just now.” Shalom’s
heart began beating fast. His eyes darted to Ima and then back to Abba and then
landed on his own fingernails. He studied them with great intensity. “He seems
to think you aren’t keeping up in class. Is that true?” Abba asked it as though
it was just an innocent question, but Shalom could tell Abba was very serious
and wanted to know the truth.
“Sort
of ...” Shalom mumbled under his breath. Ima looked at him, not hearing what he
had said, but Abba’s enhanced hearing picked up his every word.
“What
do you mean, ‘sort of’?” he asked, looking at where Shalom was standing.
“Well...kind of...I mean...not really....”
Shalom wrung his hands and looked at the wooden floor. He rubbed his foot back
and forth along the slat of wood.
“Your
Rebbi told me he offered to learn with you, but you declined. How come?” Abba
stepped forward toward Shalom.
Ima
came over also. “That’s a very kind offer,” she added.
Shalom’s
mouth set into a scowl and his eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t want to learn
with Rebbi! I listen to Rebbi all day in cheder!
I want to learn with a normal father who can sit down with me and read my Gemara!”
Shalom
wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly exploded, but all the feelings he had bottled up
suddenly came spilling out. After a brief glare at Abba, who stood shocked as
if he had been whacked on the head by a saucepan, and Ima, who looked
disapprovingly at him, he stormed out of the kitchen to his own room. After
slamming the door shut and bracing a chair up against it for good measure, he lay
on his bed and began to cry.
Shalom
didn’t like being behind in class. He didn’t like failing his tests and
quizzes. He didn’t like sitting at the side as the other boys spoke about their
fathers, their fathers who would review the gemara
with them every night. There were some boys who would complain about how
annoying their father was. How their father would force them to learn for a
certain amount of time each night. If only he had a father who could do that.
If only Shalom had a father who could look at a page of Gemara, read it, and explain it to him. And learn with him. But no.
His father could do none of that.
A few
minutes after his explosion downstairs he heard a knock at his door. He ignored
it, burying his face in his pillow. A few seconds later he heard Ima’s voice
calling softly, “Shalom, please come out. We want to speak with you,” but
Shalom didn’t listen. He knew what Abba and Ima would say. They would tell him
to learn with Rebbi, to try it out, and see how it goes. Abba would tell him he
was sorry he couldn’t learn with him, and Ima would reproach him for yelling at
Abba. Then she would tell him about how wonderful Abba is, and how even though
he’s blind, he’s accomplished so much. Shalom had heard it all before, and he
was not in the mood to hear it again.
Shalom
didn’t leave his room that evening. He stayed curled up in his bed, not
bothering to change into pajamas, and eventually falling asleep in his clothes
and shoes.
* * *
Yitzchak lay awake
in his bed. Rivka had fallen asleep an hour before, but no matter what Yitzchak
tried, he couldn’t find a comfortable position. He couldn’t fall asleep. He
kept repeating Shalom’s words in his head. “I want to learn with a normal
father who can sit down with me and read my Gemara!”
Yitzchak suddenly found tears streaming from his eyes. How he wished he could
read with Shalom from his Gemara. And
then, a thought came to him – an idea that sparked in his mind. It was as if a
fire had just been lit. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Consoled, Yitzchak
lay down on his side, and immediately drifted into sleep, an image of the Kosel
in his mind.
The
next morning Yitzchak awoke early. He quickly dressed and scribbled a note to
Rivka: “Went to Kosel. Will be home later. Love you.”
Then,
grasping his walking stick, Yitzchak walked outside. It was a crisp morning.
The chilly wind bit into his face, and he pulled his scarf up to cover his
cheeks. Slowly he walked through the
Yitzchak
finally reached the Kosel. The cool stones beckoned to him, and he approached
them gingerly. Carefully, so as not to disturb any other people at the Kosel,
he picked his way toward the front. Reaching out, he moved his hands across the
stones. Although it was freezing cold outside, a warm tingle seemed to run
through him. Hot tears sprang from his eyes as he was transported back to the
day where he’d pleaded to have his eyesight. And he remembered how his Rebbi
had taught him, had taught him how to see with his blindness. Now he needed his
Rebbi once more. Yitzchak davened and begged as his hands traced the stones of
the Kosel for the ability to learn with his son and help his son succeed. Tears
ran from his eyes down to his chin, where they then dribbled off and moistened
the floor below him. Yitzchak kept his fingers pressed to the Kosel stones as
he continued to daven.
Then,
as fast as his tears had started to fall, they stopped. His hand dropped
abruptly from the stones as he smelled a familiar scent. His face broke into a
smile, and he had to hold himself back from dancing. His Rebbi had returned!
Yitzchak quickly turned from the Kosel and went into a small Bais Medrash he
knew of a few minutes’ walk away. Thankfully, from what Yitzchak could tell, it
was empty, and Yitzchak sat down in one of the chairs, waiting.
“Yitzchak,”
came his Rebbi’s voice, soft and reassuring.
“Rebbi,”
cried Yitzchak, unable to contain his excitement. He smelled the reassuring
scent of sefarim, apple blossoms, and
a cool wind. He breathed it in as if he’d never breathed in his life.
“Yes,
Yitzchak. I heard you at the Kosel.” His Rebbi’s deep voice filled Yitzchak
with a warm sensation. He remembered the first time he’d heard the voice. Rebbi
had infused him with life after his accident. Now, he needed his Rebbi again –
this time, to help his son.
“Rebbi.
My son...,” he began. Yitzchak thought he could feel his Rebbi smiling down at
him.
“I
will teach you. I will teach you the Gemara
inside out, so you will be able to learn with Shalom.”
“Oh,
thank you, Rebbi.” Yitzchak sighed with relief and contentment.
“It
will be hard,” Rebbi said.
“I
know. I am ready,” Yitzchak replied with determination.
“I’m
glad. I will learn with you.”
“Thank
you.”
* * *
Shalom dragged
himself home from cheder. Rebbi had
offered yet again to learn with him, but he had refused. Tired, he entered his
house and dropped his Gemara down on
the table in the dining room, not giving it a single glance. He went into the
kitchen to see his mother and maybe steal a little bit of supper for an early
snack. Ima smiled and handed him a freshly baked cookie, still hot and slightly
gooey. Delicious. Shalom made a quick bracha
and wolfed down the cookie in two bites.
A
small knock at the door and then the squeak of hinges announced his father’s
presence.
Shalom
looked down. He had planned to talk to Abba this morning, but Abba had left,
gone to the Kosel even before Ima had woken up. He hoped Abba wasn’t still
upset at him. Shalom did feel bad for what he had said the night before, but
still, it was true. His father would never be able to learn with him like every
other boy’s father. Shalom sighed but forced a smile to his face as Abba
entered the kitchen. Even though Abba was blind, he could usually tell the
exact facial expressions of a person. It was uncanny.
“Hi
Abba,” he said.
“Hello
Ima. Hello Shalom.” He spoke to each of them in turn, his face turning to where
they were standing.
“Good
evening, Abba. Sit down. I just made some cookies,” Ima said. Abba took a seat
by the tiny two-person table in the kitchen.
“Scrumptious,
Ima. It smells like Gan Eden in here.” Ima smiled as she placed two cookies on
a napkin in front of Abba. After a momentary pause, while Shalom just stood
awkwardly at the side, Abba called to him. “Shalom, why don’t we chazer what you learned today in cheder. Go grab your Gemara and I’ll go through it with you.”
Shalom
was not amused. Why was Abba making the situation worse? But he did as he was
told and brought his Gemara into the
kitchen. Shalom slid into the chair next to Abba, placed the Gemara on the table, and turned to the
page they had learned that day in school. He had tried to pay attention today,
so he knew what page they were on. Abba smiled as he touched the pages. “Okay,
start reading,” Abba told him.
Shalom,
still confused, only said, “What?”
“Go
on, start reading,” Abba encouraged him.
“Okay,”
he mumbled with a glance at Ima. She nodded at him, so he began.
It was
a miracle. As Shalom read, Abba caught his mistakes and translated flawlessly.
When Shalom didn’t understand, Abba slowly and carefully explained the ideas to
him. Shalom even read Tosfos and Rashi, and Abba knew those too. Perfectly. It
was as if Abba could actually see the pages in front of him. Shalom was amazed.
After the pair finished going over the gemara,
Shalom finally felt, for the first time, that he knew it.
“How…what?”
he stammered, looking at Abba in amazement.
“You
aren’t the only one with a Rebbi,” his father said, in an almost whisper. A
small smile twitched on Abba’s lips. “I’ll learn with you nightly now, Shalom.
We’ll keep you up to par with the rest of the boys.”
“Th-thank
you.” Shalom could barely speak. This was a miracle. He gave his father a giant
hug as the widest smile he had ever smiled broke out on his face.
