The Two Moshiachs
This story was heard from the chief Rav of Teverya, Rav Yaakov Chai Zerihan:
When Rav Chaim ben Attar, mechaber of the Ohr HaChaim, arrived in Teverya, he went to the Bais Medrash and found a group of talmidim sitting together and studying under their master and teacher Rav Chaim Abulafia, who sat teaching them Torah and studying with them, supported by many cushions and pillows propped on either side for his comfort. When the Ohr HaChaim saw all the cushions and pillows, he said quietly to himself in wonder, “Does the Torah deserve this? [How can he relax and disrespect the Torah like that?]”
Rav Chaim Abulafia saw the Ohr HaChaim and immediately called out in a loud voice, “The Chacham Chaim has come to us!” When the Ohr HaChaim approached, Rav Chaim Abulafia rose to his feet and stood to greet him, reciting the pasuk, “Arise before your elders – mipnei seiva sokum,” and they sat and studied together sugyas of Shas. Rav Chaim ben Attar was amazed at Rav Chaim Abulafia’s great scholarship, erudition and breadth of knowledge in Torah. Then Rav Chaim Abulafia told the Ohr HaChaim, “The Torah does deserve this and requires it, due to my advanced age and weakness!” The Ohr HaChaim then asked his forgiveness.
Afterward, they left together to the kever of the Tanna Rav Akiva and, not to waste time, they rented an animal to take Rav Chaim Abulafia, who was some ninety-three years old at the time. When they arrived at the cave of the Tanna, Rav Abulafia dismounted from the donkey and they honored one another to enter first. Rav Chaim ben Attar sat and wept, “Woe are we that both Moshiachs have arrived here together at the right time!”
A great fog and mist crept over them and hid them from view. Whisperings and low conversation between them were heard as they both wept quietly. Those present later surmised that it was revealed to both Rav Chaims that they would pass away, one a year after the other. And so it was, that due to our sins Rav Chaim ben Attar passed away on the fifteenth of Tammuz 5503 and Rav Chaim Abulafia in Nissan of that following year 5504. (Hillula Kadisha p. 308 cited from Yalkut Yosef p. 42)
Hanging On A Hair
One year, as the holy days of Rosh HaShana drew near, Rav Levi Yitzchok sensed that a terrible decree against the people of Berditchev was about to be issued in Heaven. Perhaps it was because the insidious spirit of reform and modernity was seeping into the city, threatening to undermine the devotion of the people to Hashem and the ancient traditions. Perhaps it was for some other reason. Be that as it may, an ominous cloud was gathering over the city of Berditchev while the people continued as before, oblivious to the danger.
Rav Levi Yitzchok, the perennial advocate for the Jewish people before the Heavenly Court, took it upon himself not to rest until the decree was annulled. He assembled the people of the city and exhorted them to reaffirm their commitment to the ways of the Torah. His fiery words inspired the people, and they dedicated themselves with renewed fervor to the Torah, each according to his or her level, devoting more time and effort to learning, giving more and larger donations to charity, doing more acts of kindness or concentrating more in the performance of the mitzvos.
On the first night of Selichos, just days before Rosh HaShana, the people gathered in the shul at midnight. Rav Levi Yitzchok stood before holy Aron (ark), ready to begin, but he was overcome with a feeling of unease. He sensed that despite all his efforts, despite all his protestations to Hashem that the people had earned a reprieve, he had not been successful in rescinding the harsh decree. The sword still hung over the heads of the people. Something had to be done.
Rav Levi Yitzchok asked his gabbai (his personal attendant) to fetch his coat. They were going for a walk.
Together, they walked through the deserted streets of Berditchev under a moonless sky made even murkier by a thick cloud cover. Silent houses loomed in the darkness, the windows shuttered against the autumn chill.
“Where are we going?” asked the gabbai.
“I don’t know,” said Rav Levi Yitzchok. “We will know when we get there.”
They continued in silence, crisscrossing the city of Berditchev until the illuminated windows of the shul were nothing more than a glow in the distance. From time to time, Rav Levi Yitzchok would pause near a house for a moment –and then he would shake his head and continue walking.
Finally, they came to a small hut at the very edge of the city. The hut was silent and dark with no sign of habitation.
“This is the place,” said Rav Levi Yitzchok. “I feel a warm glow from within. Knock on the door.”
The gabbai put his hand on the door. Despite the Rebbe’s detection of a warm glow, it was cold to the touch. The gabbai rapped on the door with his knuckles, and after a few long moments, they heard shuffling from within. The door opened, and a wizened old woman stared up at them in puzzlement.
“Is that you, Rebbe?” she asked, clutching at her throat.
“May we come in?” said Rav Levi Yitzchok.
“Please ... I’m sorry that I have nothing to offer you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. We just want to talk.”
The interior of the hut was bathed in long shadows cast by the tiny flame of a candle. A Tehillim lay open right near the candle with minuscule droplets of wax hardening on the worn pages. The old woman offered her guests two stools, while she sat down on a rough bench beside the oven.
She took one look at Rav Levi Yitzchok and burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I am so ashamed.”
“Ashamed? Why should you be ashamed?”
“Because I am a sinner,” she said. “I have concealed my sin all these years, but now you have discovered it and came to my door. My secret has been revealed, and so has my shame. I am ready to receive your rebuke, because I deserve it. But I beg of you, please help me. Tell me, Rebbe, what do I have to do to atone for my sin?”
“What is your sin?” asked Rav Levi Yitzchok. “Tell me, and I will try to help you.”
“My story begins,” she began, “when I was six years old. Both my parents passed away that year, and I was left an orphan, all alone. My mother’s sister took me into her home. My uncle and aunt were kind to me. They leased a kretchma, a tavern, from the local poritz, the nobleman who owned the land. My uncle would serve whiskey and beer to the peasants who came into the tavern, while my aunt cleaned and cooked. My job was to help my aunt with the household chores. I was forbidden to step foot into the tavern, which was usually filled with drunkards and rogues. This went on for a number of years. This is how I grew up. Life was fine, I suppose.
“When I was fourteen, however, my aunt broke the rule for the first time. I don’t remember exactly why she needed money so desperately, but she did – and she sent me to the tavern to get some from my uncle. I had never been in a tavern before, and the sight shocked me. Some men were sitting at tables drinking and singing nasty songs, while others were staggering back and forth among the tables, hoisting tankards of ale to each other.
“I saw my uncle on the far side of the tavern and I made my way across the room to him. As I passed one of the tables, a drunkard reached out and touched my hair. I screamed and ran away, but he grabbed a lock of my hair and yanked it loose. I was beside myself with shock and shame.”
The old woman wept as she recalled that day in the tavern.
“My hair was my pride and joy,” she continued, “as it is for any girl of fourteen. I took a pair of scissors and cut off all my hair, and I pleaded with Hashem to forgive me and wipe away my sin. I knew I couldn’t look my aunt and uncle in the face anymore, so I left them a note that I was going away, and in the middle of the night, I stole away and went to the next town. I worked for a while as a maid in the homes of wealthy families, and then I met and married my husband, a simple Jew and a good man. He passed away a few months ago for no apparent reason. He wasn’t sick. He didn’t have an accident. He simply died one day, just like that, and I think it is because of my sin. Hashem is punishing me.”
The old woman looked at Rav Levi Yitzchok with abject pleading in her eyes.
“And now you’ve found me out, Rebbe,” she said. “So help me. Please help me wipe away this sin once and for all. Rosh HaShana is coming. Everyone is repenting and being forgiven. Maybe you can slip me in among them so that I too can be forgiven.”
“Tell me,” said Rav Levi Yitzchok, “what did you do with the hair you cut off on that day? Did you keep it?”
“Not all of it,” she said. “But I did keep one lock of it to remind me of my sin at all times.”
“Please give it to me,” he said.
The old woman stood up and shuffled over to a cupboard in the shadowy corner of the room. She opened the bottom drawer and took out a small cardboard box, which she handed to Rav Levi Yitzchok.
“You have no need to cry anymore,” he said. “You bear no guilt, and you have no responsibility for the death of your husband. It was not your fault. Hashem has accepted your tears and your tefillos. You will be blessed with a sweet new year.”
He stood and turned to his gabbai.
“Come, let us return to the shul,” he said. “We have what we need.”
When they returned, they found the shul packed with restless and curious people. It was very late, and they had still not begun the Selichos. And Rav Levi Yitzchok was nowhere to be found. His sudden entrance caused quite a stir as all eyes followed him to the front, seeking a clue to his mysterious departure and reappearance.
Rav Levi Yitzchok put on his tallis and stepped up to the holy Aron. He threw open the doors and placed the old woman’s cardboard box inside.
“Master of the Universe,” he cried out, “is there another nation as holy as Your own Jewish people? I came here straight from the simple home of a simple Jewish widow. When she was fourteen years old, an orphan living with her uncle and aunt, she had to go into a tavern to see her uncle, and the vile hands of a drunkard touched her hair. A fleeting touch, for she immediately fled. It was not her fault. She was completely innocent. Yet she has suffered feelings of guilt for all these years, because she was afraid that somehow she had allowed herself to be defiled. She has cried rivers of tears and poured out her heart to You with innumerable supplications. She even blamed her husband’s untimely petira on her supposed sin. And what does she want? Only that You, her Father in heaven, should accept her repentance and forgive her.”
He took the box containing the lock of the old woman’s hair and held it aloft.
“Master of the Universe,” he cried out, “who else is like Your people Yisrael? Don’t they deserve Your compassion and forgiveness?”
Then holding the box in his hand, confident that the harsh decree had been averted, he started to say the Selichos.
