Some people can never be satisfied. They have an image in their heads of how things should be, and if reality does not fit the image in their head they never suspect that there might be something wrong with the image, but blame reality instead. Well, Shleiml Cantor does not have any images in his head. Like most beggars, his life is a succession of humble wants, momentary aspiration and immediate gratification.
An orphan since childhood, as the Almighty had wished, he was first sent to his uncle in Krakow, then to his great-uncle in Pinsk, and from the moment he could think for himself, he made a living polishing shoes for a pittance. If only there were a tale to tell about how, soon thereafter, he had caught the attention of a wealthy philanthropist who had extracted him from poverty and given him his first opportunity in life! How nice would it have been to imagine Shleiml Cantor as an apprentice metalworker who ended up as the owner of a railway construction company. Alas, his expectations of the Creator were far more modest. If all He had done was produce bread from the earth and not bring it to Shleiml’s mouth, this would have been enough. If all He had done was to bring it to Shleiml’s mouth, where the bread would prove unpleasant, this would have been enough. If the bread had tasted fine and He hadn’t send a potato his way every now and again, this would have been enough. If He had sent a spud his way every now and again, but did not let him have chicken thighs on the High Holidays, this would have been enough. If He had let him have chicken thighs on the High Holidays, but not gladdened his heart with brandy, this would have been enough. If He had gladdened his heart with brandy and not blessed him with the talent of singing “Adon Olam”, this would have been enough. Yet the Merciful Father doubled and trebled Shleiml’s good fortune, and often treated him to a stable or a barn for laying his head to rest. Can anyone appreciate Shleiml Cantor’s joy as he walks through the snowy nights of Uzda, stray dogs barking from all directions, when suddenly a Jew comes out to open the stable gate for him? Can anyone picture the moment when he is generously invited to join a festive dinner, take off his water-soaked boots and huddle with his hosts around the stove? Can anyone fathom how lucky he is?
But the Almighty’s charity is boundless and He does not turn His back on Shleiml Cantor. Look at him now, as the itinerant cantor is ceremoniously led into an army base. And he is shown the way to a tent! They give him a folding bed, with a mattress! And they give him a uniform, a clean set! True, it is too big, but why should a man complain when his own rags are soaked in . . . well, fortunately no-one has noticed. Now the emaciated cantor is wearing the uniform of the Czarist army, ready to entertain the soldiers by singing “Adon Olam”, especially when they are asking him such welcome questions. Have you eaten? No! Have you had anything to drink? Would you like to, maybe? Yes!
Frankly, the sour-faced trio that came along with him are ruining the atmosphere. He recognises one of them by his menacing eyes, but cannot remember from where. The lady who dragged him into this adventure seems out of sorts and won’t stop rubbing her cheek. He must remember to have a little heart-to-heart with her. A few words from Shleiml Cantor might improve her mood, and if not, a song will surely do it. And the burly character with the scarred mouth they call Zizek is so sombre that one might think he had just witnessed the third destruction of the Temple. They all sit dejected, as if disaster were about to strike, while bread, potatoes and preserved meats are brought into their tent. One piece of advice from Shleiml Cantor: disaster may or may not strike, but in the meantime, they should straighten their backs and enjoy a feast the likes of which he hasn’t seen in a very long time. But while the itinerant cantor is asking for more bread, without caring whether it was baked today or the week before, the three of them are sitting sullen-faced, picking at crumbs, drinking little and exchanging morose glances.
Any fool, and Shleiml Cantor is no exception, knows that the human soul separates itself from the body at the point of death with great agony. Most people imagine that the soul extracts itself from its corporeal bonds on one’s deathbed and ascends On High. But Shleiml Cantor is convinced that most people do not understand that it is the body that separates itself from the soul and withers away, because people yield to their mental torments from their most tender age to the point where, like his travelling companions, their anxieties deny them the pleasure of bread and potatoes. This is what happened to Adam and Eve, who were given the Garden of Eden to satisfy all of their desires, and instead of indulging in the bounty of God’s creation agonised over the prohibition to eat of just one particular fruit. So from the time of First Man until today, people learn to ignore their child-like bodies, which scream whenever they do not eat or sleep, imagining that the needs of the soul are more important. Unlike them, the cantor’s soul cleaves to his body, and when the latter asks for more bread, the spirit obeys. And when the body asks for more potatoes, the spirit says: no reason to delay. And when the body asks, is there any brandy, the spirit joyously replies, why not? By all means, have as much as you like.
Therefore, the cantor does not adopt the indifferent diet of his three companions. Their stomachs must be thinking that their mouths have lost their mind. And if they leave something on their plate, be it a crust of bread or a potato, he immediately inquires after it. Is it not to your liking? Why aren’t you eating? And what about this? Such a pity to leave all this food on the plate. What a shame. And when a soldier walks into the tent to inquire after them, the cantor does not clam up like his friends for fear that they will be thrown out into the black bogs, but shamelessly asks the soldier if he might wet his throat with anything other than tepid water. Any “variety” would do. The strange humour of the wretched rake makes the soldier grow serious, and for a moment it seems that the itinerant cantor will be punched in the face. But then the soldier walks out of the tent without a word, returning with two bottles of mead a moment later. And the cantor is beaming.
His melancholy troupe, however, obstinately refuses the drink, as if they were in the middle of serious negotiations. Is what is on offer so bad? A bit of joy for the heart and repose for the body? What is it exactly, that they are refusing? To feel better than they are feeling right now? There’s no reason for him to complain, though. Sometimes people’s souls isolate them from reality, forcing their minds to become obsessed with tomorrow and yesterday, chances and risks. This way, they leave freedom to those whose eyes are intent on the present and whose souls follow their bodies. Indulging in a tin of preserved meat and two bottles of mead never hurt anyone.