Rabbi Leib Sarah’s zt"l
4 Adar 5551
In a village near Kovno, Lithuania there was a Jewish innkeeper. He had a daughter, Sarah, who was a strikingly beautiful girl. Sarah did not let her beauty turn her head, and she remained a modest, G‑d-fearing young girl.
One day, the young son of the Poritz chanced to stop at the inn. The moment his eyes fell on Sarah, he was attracted to the beautiful young girl. He called on her to serve him one drink after another, and the more he drank, the more he liked her. When he was pretty well drunk, he asked her, “Will you marry me?”
Sarah ignored his marriage proposal, but when he kept on telling her that he was serious, she told him, politely but firmly, that she was Jewish and would never marry a non-Jew. For his part, the young squire said that he would return, and insisted that he would definitely marry her.
When the young squire returned home and told his father that he intended to marry the Jewish innkeeper’s daughter, the old nobleman could not believe his ears. The father tried to dissuade his son, but the young man remained adamant. The elderly nobleman, who had pampered his son all his life, once more gave in. But on one condition, the girl had to convert to Christianity.
Happily, the young squire raced back to the inn to tell Sarah the good news that his father had consented to the marriage. There was, of course, the small matter of conversion, but once done, she would live a life of luxury.
Sarah was horrified. She told the young squire that she would never marry him under any circumstances, and ran from the room. She decided not to say anything to her father, in the hope that this was a passing whim.
The young squire, however, was used to getting what he wanted. And his father, although he was originally opposed to his son’s idea, was deeply insulted that a poor Jewish girl was turning down the marriage proposal of a wealthy and handsome nobleman! The old squire sat down at his desk and wrote a letter to the innkeeper, expressing his outrage at the fact that after his son had graciously consented to marry his daughter and lift her up from her lowly station, the Jew had the audacity to refuse, and insisting that he agree to the match.
The young squire rushed with a few of his friends to deliver the letter. En route, a tremendous rainstorm broke out, and they stopped at the closest inn. At the inn, the group began drinking and offered a round of toasts to the young squire. “Drink,” they said. “Once you marry that pretty Jewish girl, you will have to behave . . .” and they burst into laughter.
All this time, an old man bent sat quietly in a corner, bent over a Sefer. He was Reb Yosef, the melamed (tutor) of the innkeeper’s two sons. His ears caught the conversation of the company and the mention of Sarah, the daughter of the neighboring innkeeper. He listened intently as the young squire read out loud the letter from his father to Sarah’s father.
When the young squire and his friends fell into a drunken sleep, Reb Yosef closed his book and traveled quickly to the next village, where he immediately alerted Sarah’s family to the situation at hand.
“Rabbi Yosef,” Sarah’s father cried, “what shall we do? They are perfectly capable of carrying her off by force.”
“Sarah must get married immediately. There is no time to wait,” said Rabbi Yosef.
“But with whom will she go to the Chupah? There is not one Jewish man of marriageable age in this village,” the innkeeper lamented.
“In that case, there is myself,” the teacher said. “I am not young man, I am a widower, and Sarah deserves someone worthier. But I am prepared to be the groom. Of course, once the danger has passed, we will go to the Rabbinical court in Kovno and arrange for a proper divorce.”
The innkeeper hesitated, but Sarah herself immediately accepted the plan. “Rabbi Yosef is risking his very life for our sake,” she said. “There is no other way. We have no time to waste.”
That very night, a Minyan of Jews was hastily assembled, and a Chupah set up for the strangest marriage in the memory of the village, the white bearded melamed with the innkeeper’s beautiful young daughter.
When the young squire and his companions rode into the inn, they were amazed to find that they had arrived right in the middle of the wedding feast.
“What welcome guests!” the innkeeper called to the new arrivals. The young squire was flabbergasted. He had come too late; Sarah was already married. He and his friends quickly made their exit.
Rabbi Yosef stood up. “My friends,” he said, “we must be truly grateful to the Hashem for this wonderful salvation. We celebrated this wedding to save Sarah from a calamity. Now that the anger has passed, I am ready to arrange for a divorce, so that Sarah is free to marry the man of her choice.”
The innkeeper once again thanked Rabbi Yosef for his selflessness, and thanked the guests for their cooperation. “Well, my daughter, remove your bridal veil, for we are going to the Rabbinical court,” he said to Sarah.
“I am prepared to venture into town with my new husband, but not for a divorce,” Sarah replied. “Hashem has brought us together, and made us husband and wife. I am certain that this marriage was made in Heaven. I could not have chosen a more devoted and loyal partner, who risked his life to save me from a fate worse than death . . .”
The following year, Rabbi Yosef and Sarah were blessed with a son whom they named Aryeh Leib. Leib’s father did not live long to enjoy his young treasure and it was Sarah who brought up and educated the child. In adulthood he became famous as a great Tzaddik and wonderworker, and was known as Rabbi Leib Sarah’s, so called in honor of his pious mother Sarah. Rabbi Leib would often tell the story of his parents’ marriage, citing his mother as an example of a Jew’s ability to withstand the most difficult of tests and to make great sacrifices for his faith.
Rabbi Leib Sarah’s and the Repentant Poritz
Heavy rain poured, but it did not prevent Rabbi Leib Sarah’s from reaching the village. It was only several hours before the beginning of Yom Kippur. He was some distance from his intended destination, but he was relieved to learn that in this village, too, there would be a Minyan with which to pray, eight local villagers would be joined by two men who lived in the nearby forest.
Rabbi Leib immersed himself, in preparation for the holy day, in the purifying waters of a river which ran by the village; ate the meal which precedes the fast; and hastened to be the first in the little wooden synagogue. There he settled down to recite the various private Tefilos with which he was accustomed to enter the Day of Atonement.
One by one, the eight local villagers arrived in time to hear the words of Kol Nidrei. Together with Rabbi Leib, there were now nine. But there was no minyan, for it transpired that the two Jewish foresters had been imprisoned on some malicious libel.
“Perhaps we could find just one more Jew living around these parts?” asked Rabbi Leib.
“No,” the villagers all assured him, “there’s only us.”
“Perhaps,” he persisted, “there lives here some Jew who converted out of the faith of his fathers?”
The villagers were shocked to hear such an odd question from the stranger. They looked upon him quizzically.
“The doors of repentance are not locked even in the face of an apostate,” Rabbi Leib continued. “I have heard from my teachers that even when one pokes about in the ashes, one can light upon a spark of fire . . .”
One of the villagers now spoke up. “There is one apostate here,” he ventured. “He is our Poritz, the squire who owns this whole village. But he has been sunk in sin for forty years now. The gentile daughter of the previous squire fell in love with him. So her father promised him that if he converted and married the girl, he would make him his sole heir. He didn’t withstand the temptation, so he did exactly that . . . They had no children, and his wife died many years ago; he now lives alone in his great big house. He is a cruel master, and deals especially harshly with the Jews on his land.”
“Show me his mansion,” said Rabbi Leib. He removed his Tallis in a flash, and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the mansion, with his white Kipah on his head and his white kittel billowing in the wind. He knocked on the heavy door, opened it without waiting for a response, and found himself confronting the squire. For a few long, long moments they stood in silence face to face, the Tzaddik and the apostate. The latter’s first thought was to summon one of his henchmen to seize the uninvited intruder and hurl him into the dungeon in the backyard. But the radiant countenance and the penetrating eyes of the Tzaddik softened his heart.
“My name is Leib Sarah’s,” began the visitor. “It was my privilege to know Rabbi Yisrael, the Baal Shem Tov, who was admired also by the gentile noblemen. From his mouth I once heard that every Jew should utter the sort of prayer that was first said by David Hamelech, ‘Save me Hashem from blood-guilt.’ But the word used for ‘blood’ (damim) can also be translated as ‘money.’ So my teacher expounded the verse as follows: ‘Save me, so that I should never regard money as my L‑rd . . .’
“Now my mother, whose name was Sarah, was a holy woman. One day the son of one of the local gentiles took it into his head to marry her, and promised her wealth and status if she would agree, but she sanctified the name of Israel. In order to save herself from that villain, she quickly got married to an old Jewish pauper who was a schoolteacher. You did not have the good fortune to withstand the test, and for silver and gold you were willing to betray your faith. Realize, though, that there is nothing that can stand in the way of repentance. Moreover, there are those who in one hour earn their portion in the World to Come. Now is that hour! Today is the eve of Yom Kippur. The sun will soon set. The Jews who live in your village are short one man to make up a Minyan. Come along now with me, and be the tenth man. For the Torah tells us, ‘The tenth shall be holy unto G‑d.’”
The squire paled at the words spoken by this white clothed man with a radiant face. Meanwhile, down the road, the eight local villagers waited in Shul, huddled together in frozen dread. Who could tell what calamity this odd stranger was about to bring down upon their heads?
The door burst open, and in walked Rabbi Leib, followed closely by the poritz. The latter’s gaze was downcast, and his eyelashes were heavy with tears. At a sign from Rabbi Leib, one of the villagers handed the apostate a Tallis. He enveloped himself in it, covering his head and face entirely. Rabbi Leib now stepped forward to the Holy Ark, and took out two scrolls of the Torah. One he gave to the oldest villager present, and the other to the Poritz. Between them at the bimah stood Rabbi Leib, and he began to solemnly chant the traditional tune for the opening lines of the Kol Nidrei prayer: “By the sanction of the Almighty, and by the sanction of the congregation, . . . we declare it permissible to pray together with those who have sinned . . .”
A deep sigh broke forth from the depths of the broken man’s heart. No man there could stand unmoved, and they all wept with him. Throughout all the prayers of the evening, and from dawn of the next day right until nightfall, the Poritz stood in prayer, humbled. His sobs shook his whole body as he recited the confession, and the other nine shuddered with him.
At the climax of the Ne’ilah service, when the congregation was about to utter together the words “Shema Yisrael,” the Poritz leaned forward until his head was deep inside the Aron Hakodesh, embraced the Torah scrolls that stood there, and in a mighty voice that petrified those present, cried out: “Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad!” He then stood up straight, and began to declare with all his might 'Hashem hu Ha'Elokim' -' The L‑rd is G‑d!'. With each repetition his voice grew louder. Finally, as he cried it out for the seventh time, his soul flew from his body.
That same night they brought the remains of the Poritz to burial in the nearby town. Rabbi Leib himself took part in the purification and preparation of the body for burial, and for the rest of his life observed the yahrzeit every Yom Kippur by saying Kaddish for the elevation of his soul.
The Ballad of the Forest and the Rose
Stepping outside, he summoned his coachman. In a short time they were off. The Tzaddik whispered something in the coachman's ear, and then switched places with him, taking over the reins while the coachman went to sleep inside the carriage. When the coachman woke, the sun had already risen on Sunday morning, and he was amazed to discover that they had actually crossed the border and were deep into Hungary. He could barely believe the evidence of his eyes.
Little Isaac was only ten years old, but was already the man of the house. His father, Yossele, had recently passed away, and his mother Reizel desperately needed him to help support the family. She took whatever meager work was available to her, while little Isaac took care of their tiny flock of geese.
Actually, Isaac liked his job. Every morning he rose early to pray in Shul and say Kaddish for his father. He would then lead the geese to one of the fields outside of town. He loved the quiet and peacefulness there. After carefully counting his meager charges, he would sit against the trunk of a tree and enjoy the cool shade under its big, leafy branches.
Many thoughts would race through his little head, some joyous, some sad. In those moments when his young soul was bursting with a variety of different feelings, he would open his knapsack and seek the soothing comfort provided by his beloved flute. Quickly he would extract from it a medley of folk tunes, passed down from generation to generation in the Hungarian countryside, which he had picked up from the other shepherds in the fields. Of his whole repertoire, he liked best the song whose words went:
Forest, forest, how vast you are, Rose, oh rose, how far you are.
If the forest were smaller, then the rose would be closer.
If you would take me from this forest, Then we could be, the two of us, together.
Whenever he played the notes of this tune, he would close his eyes and allow the lyrics and the music to carry him off to a world of distant pleasurable visions.
Little Isaac was startled in the midst of his song by the regal appearance of the bearded Jew who appeared suddenly from behind him. "What are you doing here, little boy?" the man asked gently. "Helping my mother by tending to our geese," Isaac answered. "But what about learning Torah in school like the other boys?" the man continued.
Isaac looked away. "Not so long ago, I still went to Cheder. And I was doing pretty well too. But ever since my father died, I've had to help my poor mother support our family."
Leib Sarah's immediately went to visit the poor widow, Reizel. After introducing himself, he asked her for permission to take her Isaac away with him. "Know that your son has a very lofty soul," he explained, "and he can become very great. But for that he must be brought up in the right way, and that means he has to study Torah intensively." He promised her a monthly stipend to more than make up for any loss of income that the boy's departure would entail.
It took a lot of entreating, but finally Isaac's mother agreed. Leib Sarah's took little Isaac to Nicholsberg, to the Yeshiva of the great Rav and Chassidic Rebbe, Reb Shmelke, a friend of Reb Leib Sarah's and one of the inner circle of disciples of the Maggid of Mezritch. He said to him: "I have brought you a special soul from the Chamber of Melody. I hope you will help it to realize its full potential in this world."
The boy remained in the yeshiva for many years, and thrived and grew great in Torah and Chassidus. Years later, when throngs of Chassidim would crowd into the Shul of the great Rebbe, Rabbi Yitzchak Isaac of Kaliv, he would sometimes relate to them the long path of his development from a goose-tending childhood to the present. He would also tell them about his favorite tune when he played the shepherd's flute, the Ballad of the Forest and the Rose.
On these occasions, he always mentioned his great debt to the Tzaddik Reb Leib Sarah's, who went to such trouble to discover him and to redeem the holy melody which had been languishing in captivity for centuries.
"Now, however," he would always conclude, "the words are a little different." The Chassidim would listen intently, for the Rebbe's musical talents were well-known.
Galus, Galus, how vast you are,
Shechinah, Shechinah, how far you are,
If only the Galus were shorter,
Then Your Presence could be closer,
If You would take us from this Exile,
Then we could be, the two of us, together.
This song is still sung by Chassidim till today.