S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Even our old Beit Midrash is caught in the grip of the winter. You come in, and warmth does not envelop you. You sit down, and you have no pleasure in your sitting. The wood is dwindling steadily, and Hanoch does not replace it. For three days Hanoch has not come to the Beit Midrash to bring wood. Hanoch, who used to come regularly every two or three days, has taken to other ways. I consider every stick before I put it into the stove, and I ask: Where is Hanoch and where is the wood?

A small fire burns in the stove, beguiling the eyes but not warming the body. Our stove looks like a stove in which a joker has set a burning candle to deceive people into thinking it has been lit.

What reason has Hanoch for keeping away from the Beit Midrash? Perhaps he has found a treasure in the snow and become rich, so that he need not toil any more at hauling wood. I inquired about him of the people in the Beit Midrash. Said Reuben, “I saw him today.” Said Simon, “Not so, but yesterday.” Said Levi, “You say yesterday — perhaps it was the day before.” Said Judah, “Did you see him with his cart or not with his cart?” Said Issachar, “What difference does it make, with his cart or not with his cart?” Said Zebulun, “It makes a great difference, for if he saw him with his cart he could not have seen him at all, for the day before yesterday was the Sabbath, so his very own words give him the lie.” Said Joseph, “What do you think, Benjamin?” “I think the same as you,” said Benjamin, “but in any case it’s worth finding out whether his horse was harnessed to his cart.” Said Dan, “And what if it was?” “If the horse was harnessed,” said Naphtali, “that means that he has gone out on the road.” “Is it possible a man should go out on the road in a cold like this?” said Gad. Said Asher, “And isn’t the cold of the Beit Midrash enough for us, without your having to remind us of the cold on the roads?”

I did wrong in not appointing Hanoch as a permanent attendant. A permanent attendant does not procrastinate in bringing wood.

“Oh, Hanoch, Hanoch,” I say to him, “why have you not brought us wood? Don’t you see that the stove has cooled off and Jews are shivering because of the winter? Where is decency and where is pity? What face will you wear to meet the heavenly court at the end of your allotted span of 120 years, when you have caused pain to men of Israel?”

And since he is silent, my bitterness grows, and I say, “You are cruel, Hanoch, and your horse Henoch is cruel, and your wagon is no better than the two of you. Jews are freezing with cold while you are strolling about for your own pleasure in the snow. Perhaps you are skating on the ice like the lords and ladies who have nothing in their lives but pleasure and enjoyment?”

All these things I did not say to Hanoch’s face, for he had not come to listen to my rebukes. Where was Hanoch? This called for a thorough investigation.

Again I asked the people in the Beit Midrash, “What could have happened to Hanoch that he has not come?” “It seems likely,” they replied, “that he has gone out to the countryside and stayed there because of the snow, for it is impossible to come back in snow like this. When the snow stops, Hanoch will return.” “I am not worried about Hanoch,” said I, “but I am worried that tomorrow we may not find wood for the stove.” “If that is what you are worried about, sir,” said they, “there is no reason to worry. Where there is money, there is wood, and if there is wood we will find a carrier to bring it.”

I thought that Shimke or Yoshke or Veptchi would go and bring wood. But Veptchi and Yoshke and Shimke preferred to sit by the stove. However, blessed is Reb Hayim, who went and brought the wood on his shoulder. From then on Reb Hayim would fill a sack with wood every morning and bring it to the Beit Midrash — on days when it was very cold, twice a day.

So a steady fire burns in the stove and a dozen pairs of eyes watch it to see that no one should come and take out an ember. As for myself, I do not care if a man takes an ember for his wife, but my friends disagree, saying, “Let the fingers of the women peddlers be chilled rather than trouble an old scholar twice a day.” Daniel Bach and I tried to hire a man so as not to trouble Reb Hayim, but he asked us to leave him this good deed until Hanoch should return.

The eyes of a miser are stronger than an iron lock, for if a man comes to take an ember, twenty-four eyes assail him, and he is startled and turns back.

The snow continues to fall and the city continues to freeze, but in our old Beit Midrash it is warm, and men sit around the fire and study the Torah or talk to one another. Once or twice I said to myself: It is only right and fitting to inquire why Hanoch does not come. But, pray tell me, who will go out on a cold day to look for Hanoch?

A steady fire burns in the stove, and new men come every day to warm themselves. Some rise early and come to reserve a place beside the stove before the others arrive. I have already said that every day we say the prayers with a quorum of ten. Now — and may the devil stay far from us — I can add that we have no less than three quorums. On Sabbath eves they even bring the children in order to give them a little warmth, and the children answer “Amen”; for apart from answering “Amen” and reciting the “Hear, O Israel,” they know no prayers, because there are no teachers for the children in our town, and their fathers are too busy earning a living to teach them.

I blessed myself with a deed. I bought a quart of wine and restored the ancient custom of our fathers, who would have Kiddush said on Sabbath eve in the Beit Midrash; and I let the young ones sip from the wine. The next Sabbath I took a paper bag full of sweets, and after the prayer distributed them to the children. Not to accustom them to come (and for this I have my good reasons, as it is said in the Gemara: “Why do they not bring the fruits of Ginosar to Jerusalem? So that the pilgrims should not say: If we had made our pilgrimage only to eat the fruits of Ginosar — that would have been enough; and they would not be making the pilgrimage for its own sake”), but to give them a taste of sweet things, for they and all their families have forgotten the taste of sweetness.

One day we were sitting as usual beside the stove, when the door opened with a sound of weeping and moaning and several women came into the Beit Midrash. I thought they had come to cry out at me for not allowing their men to bring them embers, but in fact they had come to cry before the Creator of the universe because of Hanoch who had not returned.

Hanoch had not returned, and his wife and children had come to tell their woes to the heavenly ear. They opened the doors of the Ark and cried, “Hanoch, Hanoch, Father, Father!” I have forgotten to tell you that there were some Jews who were not afraid for themselves or afraid of the cold, and had gone out to look for Hanoch, but had not found him. The peasants who accompanied them said that the wolves had devoured him and no doubt his bones were hidden under the snow. But a woman’s heart still hopes for mercy. So now she had come before the Blessed One with weeping and supplication and clamor, begging Him to restore her Hanoch, and her sons and daughters stood with her before the Holy Ark joining the sound of their weeping to hers.

The Scrolls of the Law stand silent in the Ark. All love and mercy and compassion are enclosed and enfolded in them. How right it would have been had the door opened suddenly and Hanoch entered alive! Dear brothers, how much good it would have done in Israel in this fallen generation of the poor in faith! Alas, the door did not open and Hanoch did not enter. Heaven forbid that the Gentiles had told the truth when they said the wolves had eaten him.