On a bench near the stove in the Hasidic shtibl sat several Hasidim. Around them stood some young men and boys, listening to Reb Zanvele the toomtoom. Reb Zanvele was tall, broad, with the big head of a scholar, a high forehead, deep wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and sidecurls down to his shoulders.
But, alas, he did not have a beard. His face was as smooth as a woman’s—even worse than a woman’s. It did not have even a trace of hair. His beardless face bore testimony that Reb Zanvele had earned his nickname. His voice was a little deeper than a woman’s, but not as deep as a man’s. He said, “He who was not present at the Alexander Rebbe’s court on the second night of the holiday has no idea what pleasures this world can offer. And of the world to come, it goes without saying! Oh my, what do today’s Hasidim know about Hasidism? He who has not known the rebbe cannot know what a wise man is! His wisdom cast a glow over the world. He could do everything at once: study Talmud with commentaries, chat with young people, and hear what a boy was saying at the far end of the study hall. He came
up with witty sayings that made you explode with laughter, but when you recalled them later, you realized that they were also profound and deep, deep as the ocean.”
The Hasidic rebbe whom Reb Zanvele praised was in a way similar to Reb Zanvele. That rebbe was a eunuch, which is also a kind of toomtoom. In praising the rebbe, Reb Zanvele was also subtly lauding himself. The Hasidim understood this and exchanged glances as they listened. Yes, one can be either a eunuch or a toomtoom and also have a great soul. One thing has nothing to do with the other. Even the prophet Isaiah consoled the eunuchs who kept the Sabbath and did good deeds. Nevertheless, it was still a humiliation to walk about with a naked face among an entire congregation of bearded Jews. Indeed, although Reb Zanvele was not married, he wore a tallis when he prayed. He had no source of income; the Hasidim supported him. Reb Zanvele either studied or prayed or paced back and forth in the shtibl deep in thought. He smoked a long pipe, and from a little ivory box he sniffed snuff into which he had mixed a couple of drops of brandy in order to make it stronger. Occasionally he would approach a young boy, pinch his cheek, and ask, “So what’s going to be, huh?”
He lived in a little rented room somewhere. On Sabbaths he was invited for meals, but going to a stranger’s house was painful for Reb Zanvele. Women and girls were somehow afraid of him, and terribly embarrassed, too. Since he wasn’t a man, then in a way he belonged to their gender.
Once, a girl began laughing at the Sabbath table and couldn’t stop. Reb Zanvele knew quite well she was laughing at him. But what can one do? If it was ordained in heaven to be a
toomtoom, and a pauper to boot, one must bear the yoke. While the girl was laughing, Reb Zanvele perused a Pentateuch which happened to be on the table. As he read the commentaries, he took hold of his beardless chin and began tugging at it as though a beard were growing there.
“What a delight! Sweet as sugar!” he said.
On another summer afternoon, while Father sat in his courtroom writing his commentary and Mother read a book in the kitchen, the door opened and in walked Reb Zanvele the toomtoom. Following him was a woman. She wore a wide-brimmed, satin-fringed bonnet decorated with little glass beads, a satin coat, a beaded dress, and pointy shoes that looked as though they had been made in the Middle Ages. On her beaked nose sat a pair of brass-rimmed glasses. One look told us she was a rebbetzin.
Reb Zanvele hurried in to see Father, for it wasn’t his habit to speak to women. After Mother welcomed the woman, she remained for a while in the kitchen.
“Rebbetzin, I am the Chentchinner Rebbetzin. My late husband was the Chentchinner Rebbe.”
“Oh! Please sit down.”
“I can stand. Rebbetzin, do you perform weddings here?”
“Yes, why not? Small weddings with just a wedding canopy.”
“What else do I need? A tumultuous wedding? I would like to get married to Reb Zanvele.”
Mother stood there tongue-tied. She seemed embarrassed. Seeing me, she called out, “Why are you hanging around in the kitchen? Go into the other room!”
I was dying to hear the rebbetzin explain why she was marrying the toomtoom. But I also wanted to hear what the toomtoom
himself would say about this. I went into the bigger room and heard Reb Zanvele speaking.
“Her husband was a great scholar. One of the very great ones. He left sixty books.”
“Sixty? Published?”
“Well, here’s the story: They’re all in manuscript. His handwriting was very hard to decipher. She wants me to get his books published.”
“Where are you going to get the money?”
“She wants me to sell advance subscriptions.”
“That’s going to be very hard.”
“Jews are generous. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, but I’m getting older and I can’t wander about anymore. Eating at strangers’ tables is painful for me. This way I’ll have another human being in the house.”
“It’s not unreasonable.”
“So since she’s willing, what can I lose?” Reb Zanvele asked.
“You’re absolutely right.”
“I would like you to officiate at the ceremony,” said Reb Zanvele.
I looked at Father. I wanted to see in his eyes a trace of amazement, some of the bewilderment I had detected on Mother’s face. But Father wasn’t surprised at all.
“Well, fine …”
“Uh, do we need some refreshments?” Reb Zanvele asked.
“Well, you will need wine for the blessings. But the custom is to offer the minyan some cake and brandy.”
“Fine, we’ll have it. I see you’re studying the Tractate Bekhoros,” Reb Zanvele said, changing his tone.
“I’m writing a commentary on Rabbi Yom-tov Algazi’s book, The Laws of Yom-tov,” Father declared.
“Oh, really? Well, everything is useful. In a couple of hundred years somebody will write a commentary on your commentary.”
I saw at once that the conversation was not heading in the direction I wanted it to go and I quietly returned to the kitchen, where I could hear the woman.
“Yes, we spent fifty years together, but one cannot remain alone. I come home on Sabbath from the synagogue and I have to go to a neighbor’s house to hear the Kiddush. My neighbor is a tailor, but he pronounces Hebrew like a boor. Reb Zanvele, alas, is not healthy, but he is a learned man. What more do I need at my age? I am not the matriarch Sarah who gave birth when she was ninety.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“He promises me that he’ll get my husband’s manuscripts published.”
“Well, perhaps …”
“My late husband, may a bright Paradise be his, wasn’t well either. Unfortunately, he was sickly all his life. I was as healthy as a giant and I’ve remained that way. May no evil eye harm me, I’m already sixty-eight years old and I still have all my teeth. But don’t judge me by the way I look now. I once was a beauty …”
“One can see it on you.”
“I used to dazzle the entire street. They wanted to match me up with a merchant’s son, a strapping young fellow, but my good
mama—may she intercede on my behalf—wanted to have a son-in-law with a rabbinic ordination. Nowadays they ask the girl what she wants. In my day children weren’t asked their opinion. Right after the wedding he started ailing and remained ill for the rest of his life. He lay in bed and studied. For days on end. All night, too. So since I was deprived throughout all my young years, what do I need now? I’m afraid of just one thing: I hope he doesn’t hold it against me.”
“You mean your husband?”
“Yes. After all, a hundred years from now I’ll be in Paradise with him.”
“Everything will be as it is destined to be,” Mother replied.
Despite the fact that we did our best to keep the wedding a secret, people on the street and in the courtyard learned about it. On the evening of the wedding, youngsters tried to break into the apartment. Father went out to meet them.
“So you’ve come to mock, eh? What is there to mock here? Reb Zanvele is a scholar.”
“But he’s missing something!” one of the youths yelled.
“Everything he has is a gift of God,” Father responded. “Go home. The world is not under the rule of chaos!”
But the street youths and the low-class girls who had gathered at our steps apparently thought that the world was indeed ruled by chaos. When the groom passed by the steps, they greeted him with catcalls and katzenjammer music. One of the youths hooted, “Toom …” and another concluded, “toom!” Girls laughed lasciviously.
A shoemaker came running and yelled at the youths: “With one slice of a knife we can make you just like him … You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”
Making fun of a person with a defect has vexed me terribly ever since I was a little boy. I thought it grossly insensitive and indescribably cruel. But most boys my age could not comprehend this. They would run after a hunchback. They would shout nasty nicknames at every cripple. They would chase a madman and pull all kinds of terrible tricks on him. Woe, I myself was not totally innocent of this sin. I would make fun of fools. But isn’t a fool also a human being with a defect? Can a fool make himself wise? And why does an ox deserve to be slaughtered? Can an ox transform itself into a human being?
The shouts and catcalls directed at Zanvele the toomtoom continued throughout Father’s entire reading of the marriage contract and the wedding ceremony, too. Even the men who had been called in to complete the minyan made jokes and winked at each other. The woman, the rebbetzin, nodded her bonnet-bedecked head. Reb Zanvele wore the white kittel grooms wear to remind them of the day of death. By the light of the kerosene lamp his beardless face was white as chalk. In fact, he looked very much like a priest. His eyes shone with both chagrin and laughter. It seemed as if his eyes were asking, Is this what human beings are?
The quorum of Jews departed after the ceremony, but Reb Zanvele and his new wife sat in Father’s courtroom for a long while, because they didn’t want to pass through the crowd that awaited them. In the meantime, Reb Zanvele told stories about Hasidic rebbes. I no longer remember about which rebbe he spoke, but he said, “Standing by the mezuzah, he prayed that large numbers of people would not come to him.”
“Really?”
“Relatively few people came. Even on Rosh Hashanah the study house was half empty.”
“He didn’t take any money either, did he?”
“God forbid!”
“Every Hasidic rebbe has his own way,” Father stated. “The Rizhiner Rebbe used to ride on a coach with silver wheels … The Rimanover Rebbe used to sniff snuff from a golden box.”
“Don’t you think I know that? But why does a rebbe need a golden snuff box?”
“The Holy Temple was also made of gold.”
“And so was the golden calf, forgive the comparison.”
Soon the street youths and the low-class girls tired of waiting. They dispersed and silence reigned. Reb Zanvele and the former rebbetzin bade us good night. The rebbetzin had her own apartment and Reb Zanvele went to sleep there.
I lay in bed until late at night unable to fall asleep. By then I already knew some of the secrets pertaining to the sexes. I recalled the shoemaker’s words: “With one slice of a knife we can make you just like him.”
What kind of strength was it that could be sliced away with a knife? A knife could make a thousand men toomtooms and eunuchs. One pin could blind a thousand seeing eyes. One stone could break a million people’s heads. So how then can a human being consider himself so high and mighty? I liked the rebbe who took no money better than the rebbe who rode in a coach with silver wheels.
That night I wanted to become a rebbe to whom only a select few would come. And I wouldn’t take money from them. God forbid! And I would sniff snuff from an old little wooden box, just like the one my father had.