Gerary: The Jewish Folk Legend of the Reznik Family

By Michael Reznik

A life story of a Middle-Ages Jewish scholar, who was so perfect, that his very birth needed a supernatural intervention. The scholar is to experience a long, convoluted chain of ordeals, misfortunes and adventures in order to accomplish the mission of his life. However, the book is concluded by happy end, as the hero succeeds ultimately to bring salvation of blood libels and pogroms to the Jewry of entire kingdom.
The book "Gerary" emerged from the legend narrated by my late father at my early childhood. The publicity of "Gerary" began back at 1992, in Russian language, on Israeli soil. Lot of people told me after having read "Gerary" that that reading was one of the best experiences of their life. Some of readers shared with me their secret that the optimism radiated by "Gerary" helped them to overcome a deep personal psychological crisis, being caused by whatever circumstances: political, or romantic, financial or medical. Major Israeli newspapers reprinted great parts of this book, in Russian, as well as in Hebrew; but only at 2012 "Gerary" had finally reached the world-wide tribune, through AuthorHouse's advanced publishing technology, and its highly professional, dedicated personnel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468552348

Michael Reznik

Author is a Practical Electronics Engineer with 30 years of experience in the field, mostly in Research & Development. Author experiments continuously with the magic of written words since he was seven; mostly with poetry. Author's most amazing literary experience (as reader) was to discover that Ashmedai, King of Demons (Satan) had weep on meeting a bridal party. Being questioned by the King Solomon on the cause of his tears, Ashmedai, the source of cruelty (!), excused himself by explaining that the bridegroom was doomed to die five days only upon his wedding party. And the wisest of men was not even surprised. Author had read that passage of Talmud with tears in his eyes: earlier that day a terrorist had shot to death from close range a groom along with his bride and several guests…

Book preview

Contents

Afterword

Author Notes

Glossary

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

©2012 Michael Reznik. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/15/2012

ISBN: 9781468552362 (sc)

ISBN: 9781468552355 (hc)

ISBN: 9781468552348 (e)

Painting Moshiah’s Face on the front cover by the Chasidic Painter, Mr. Boruch Nachshon.

Cover design by Mr. Isaac Nachshon.

Pencil drawings contributed by Mrs. Miriam Pekelis.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Image366.JPG

Inspirited by Rosa Reznik Image374.JPG

Encouraged by Anna Abramov (Reznik) Image381.JPG

Restored, written, edited and published in Russian by Michael Reznik ©

English translation by Michael Reznik © All rights reserved to Michael Reznik ©

With commitment to

Image389.JPG

Lubavitcher Rebbe Image398.JPG who gave his Holy Blessing to this book

In beloved memory of

Image405.JPG

My father, a man of courage, who observed Jewish Tradition in dark days of Stalin’s regime, and gave me this tale

Image413.JPG

My mother, who was the midwife to thousands women in labors, and gave me my life

In memory of

Six million European Jews, betrayed by the hypocritical international community, and slaughtered by ungodly marauders

Killed in terrorist attack on WTC, victims of the pan-continental ungodly hatred

The Mumbai Chabad House Community, decimated by blasphemous anti-Semitism

Fukushima’s and Chernobyl’s victims of ungodly technocratic arrogance

With utmost Gratitude,

Dedicated to

Rav Zalman Abelsky,

Whom I owe every bit of my modest knowledge in Kabbala and Chsidishkeit¹⁰

The Chassidic Painter Baruch Nachshon,

For the Moshiach’s face on the front cover

My sincere thanks to

A lot of good-hearted people:

Those not-yet-observing as well as observing Jews on one hand;

Those Catholics, Pravoslav and Protestants on the other;

Those Chinese and Englishmen of Hong Kong; those Japanese;

and those Druze, Bedouins and Arabs,who helped this book to become a reality in one way or another, intentionally or not, and who are too numerous to be mentioned by name

My Father of blessed memory loved to recite this tale the most...

On cold winter nights as children, we loved to gather around Daddy, begging him to tell us a tale. Daddy loved us so much, yet he would always begin by playfully discouraging us, as his wise, soft, loving eyes sparkled with a smile... And then, as we became afraid that it was too late and that Daddy was indeed too tired, he would suddenly give in.

Then Daddy would ceremoniously open the iron door of the fireplace, and down would go the electric lights. Outside the window, the wind would howl wildly at the darkness; at the fireplace, the coals would die down, glowing reddish as long shadows crawled along the bedroom floor. We would sit on the warm floor in front of the fire, and Daddy would lead us into his tale. Tongues of flames would occasionally burst above dying coals, rendering every detail of Daddy’s recital in our imagination. Little by little, Daddy and the dimly lit bedroom would eventually disappear, as we would find ourselves lost and alone and facing.

Image421.JPGImage428.JPG

Ages ago, nearby the crossroad of Kings Roads, at the very foot of the Thick Woods, there stood a small Jewish shtattí³, a village. At the very outskirt of that village, in a modest house, close to woods, there lived in want a poor family of a shuster, a shoemaker. A shuster is always just a poor shuster, especially the one who lives in the middle of nowhere, in a nameless, poor Jewish shtattl.

Poor as they were, the shuster and his wife lived in perfect accord and love, just like a pair of doves. Fair and honest Jews, they were constantly grateful to the L-rd for his merciful gifts: their healthy bodies, their diligent, hard-working hands, their humble house, and their modest living.

Just one sorrow disturbed the harmony of the couple, casting a gloomy shadow upon their happiness—never had they been fortunate enough to have a child. What in the world had the misfortunate family not try for a remedy of that adversity! Now and then they had managed to save a few pennies, that would scarcely cover the expenses of seeing some of most famous doctors, but useless was the advice of those doctors. Meanwhile, young couple’s years vanished quickly.

Having nothing much to do about it, the aged couple paid visits to some of the greatest Tzoddiks, asking for their Holy Blessings; but even that didn’t help. The shuster and his wife went on aging; they grew gray, and their lifelong dream of becoming parents eventually faded away.

And perhaps that was the cause for their heartfelt concern about every wayfarer passing by. According to the Jewish Torah, one must show hospitality to travelers, especially Jewish wayfarers, approaching on the eve of the Shabbat, since traveling on Saturday is forbidden for Jews, and Jews ought to celebrate every Saturday eve with a festive supper.

Image438.JPG

A Shuster—a Shoemaker

Hence, a family hosting a stranger for Saturday is performing a great Mitzvoh, a holy deed.

But not for the sake of the Mitzvoh only did the shuster and his wife nurse their guests. Any guest or stranger in their home was taken care of with love, as though he was their own only son, as though they were living and breathing solely for the sake of the guest. And the grateful passersby spread the most fantastic stories about the poor Shuster and his wife who offered the hospitality of kings to their guests, whom they cared about with a maternal care.

One summer afternoon, a Saturday Eve, a walker begged for a single night’s shelter beneath their roof; he was a stranger and an old Jew. The sun was declining already, and the realm of the Saturday was but a few hours away. For the Shabbat reigns over Friday night, as the Book of Books reveals: and there was EVE and there was DAYBREAK—One Day.

Poor were the worn-out and patched garments of the stranger. He was tall and lean. He held a staff in his hand, and his face, framed with a long silver beard, resembled that of a Tzoddik. He said he was a poor man, wandering from afar, and that the Shabbat had happened on his path.

Could the noble host free a corner for him in the coalhouse, in the backyard? begged the stranger, For the Shabbat Day only, if you please?

The shuster protested, The shed is dirty, though indeed it is empty of coal for the summer. Here, we have a separate room in the house, kept ready especially for guests.

No, replied the guest. That room should be kept for your would be son, even as you use to accommodate your guests therein. See, I am but an old, ill man. Occasionally, I may even cry out in my sleep, I wouldn’t dare to disturb your Saturday Peace.

The shuster exchanged a quick glance with his wife. How on earth had this stranger come to know their solemn secret about the empty child’s room? Let him know, they decided. It must be one of their neighbors who had gossiped to him on his way.

There was no time left for persuading, so the host and his guest ought to get to work right away. They worked hard for a better part of an hour, trying to make a safely clear night passage to shed and settling the ground in one of its corners smooth enough to become a suitable place for a bed. Then the Shuster’s wife swept the corner tidily and prepared the bed. She barely managed to get everything ready for the Shabbat in time. Meanwhile, the shuster and his guest went off to pray in the synagogue.

That night, they sat at the, and the host performed a traditional Kiddush, blessing the Shabbat over a ritual cup of wine. In the course of the ritual Supper of Shabbat, the guest remained silent, giving little respect to the tradition of reciting a guest’s recent journey. When the time came to honor the guest by leading traditional songs and hymns of Shabbat, the stranger refused, claiming total ignorance and exhaustion.

The guest whispered after-meal blessings, and then pleaded for the host to excuse him, so he could retire to bed.

The Saturday candles had not yet burned down to their halfway mark. The host tried to study the Babylonian Talmud14 aloud, but a strange weariness crept over him and his wife. You know what? she said, Let’s go to bed too. That exhaustive coalhouse cleaning was a bit too much for us. After all, we’ve long been aged far beyond our twenties, haven’t we?

And so they too had retired to bed.

In the middle of the night, the shuster woke up abruptly. The Saturday candles must have died away only recently; their smoke still curled above the emptied candlesticks, exuding the smell of the hot beeswax. The dead of night ruled all around. What had awoken him then?

The Shuster sat up in his bed; his glance wandering towards his wife. To his utter surprise, she was not at all asleep. Her eyes were open wide with fear and wonder.

Did you see that? she whispered. Where is all of that light coming from?

Image445.JPG

...the stranger refused, claiming total ignorance...

The shuster instantly grew cold with terror and astonishment.

He recalled at once how total darkness has reined all about as he had made his way back from the synagogue. The night had been dark, like black velvet. That was the way it should always be on the last night of the Jewish month—the night of the dark of the moon. The moon should have waned completely. But a bright light shone through the window, brighter even than that of a full moon. The shuster had jumped to his feet.

Oh L-rd, the Saturday candles in the shed must had overturned. It must be a fire. I must hurry to save my guest!

The shuster wished to shout, to cry-out for help, but his voice betrayed him. His hands and legs moved out of control. He made one last-ditch effort to put on his dressing gown and slippers.

With great effort, he was finally able to make it to the back door of his house. He swung it open wide and immediately froze like a stone on the threshold.

In his wondering eyes, the shed shone and sparkled with light. Beams of light as bright as sunlight shone through all of its cracks and slits, and the backyard was lit as if by daylight. Thanks to Merciful One, it had nothing to do with fire.

Warm as it was the summer night, an icy fright crawled down the shuster’s spine. He forced himself to move towards the shed and mobilized all of his courage to peer in through a slit. The interior happenings caused his hair to stand on its end, and he broke into a cold sweat.

The guest was standing, facing Jerusalem, and praying with ardor. His lips moved voicelessly; while his entire body swayed back and forth in divine movements of righteous prayer, emitting a bright white light that was brighter than sunlight. That light did not blind the shuster but warmed his soul.

The entire Shuster’s being was overwhelmed by the sensation of seeing an unearthly singing. It was singing of Angeles accompanying the Tzoddik’s prayer; so much sanctity was in the air, that the shoemaker’s soul perceived the words and the melody by sight rather than hearing, as it had happened ages ago, at the foot of the Mount Sinai.

Because no mortal was allowed to witness a phenomenon of that kind, the shuster was ready to flee, but his legs gave way. His got dizzy, collapsing into the grass and losing consciousness.

He lay there in the grass for an hour or perhaps two. When he finally recovered his consciousness, it was already daybreak. The singing and the light had vanished. The grass was wet with dew. The shuster forced himself to his feet and entered the house, fearing to look back at the shed.

His spouse had been lying motionless in bed, weeping. Her pillow was soaked with tears.

My goodness. I was so afraid for you, she whispered.

He made haste to embrace her, gently stroking her head.

Everything is going to be all right now, he said softly, trying to soothe his wife.

They dressed and washed up. The shuster, who was still excited, began reciting Psalms from heart with enthusiasm. The wife brought the leikech, the sponge cake, and cups to the table.

The guest entered, bidding them "A gut Shobbeth", which means A Fair Saturday in Yiddish.

A gut Shobbeth, replied the host in Yiddish, Please take your seat at the table.

They had their tea, saying not a word, and each ate a piece of a cake. Then the men left for the synagogue, the place of public Saturday prayers. Peaceful and quiet was the rest of the Saturday.

When the Shabbat was over, the host enthusiastically tried to persuade his guest to delay his departure until daylight. The guest was only able to argue weakly and gave in soon enough, retiring to bed after a brief while. Then the wife addressed the Shuster.

Well, my dear, such a lucky occasion is the matter of once-in-a-lifetime chance. This man certainly has the power to bless us with childbirth. Should he too let us down, there would remain no hope for us ever having a baby.

The Shuster nodded.

He already realized that their mysterious guest was a Nistar, a secret Tzoddik. Every competent Jew must know that a Tzoddik is more angel than human. A Tzoddik descends to this world with a special mission from the L-rd Creator. Hence, from his birth he is gifted with supernatural powers. He is capable of deeds that a plain mortal couldn’t even dream of. But all that is just about common Tzoddiks, who are nothing, compared to a Nistar. For Nistars pose an enigma even to the wisest of men, because they have been assigned the most difficult and vital missions by the L-rd.

A Nistar could see the present, past, and future as easy as he could read an open book. Nothing is impossible to him. Even his flesh and bones are not material in the common sense but rather comprised of condensed spirit. Thus, a Nistar has no need of rest or food, but eats and rests mostly for the sake of fulfilling a blessing mitzvoh, and to avoid attracting unnecessary attention.

One who unravels the mystery of a Nistar risks being prematurely deprived of his life by G-d. And if that person moreover shares the secret with others, thus impeding the fulfillment of the Nistar’s mission, then neither he nor his children nor even grandchildren will ever be happy in this world. Oh, yes—one could ask a Nistar for anything. For a Nistar’s will is Nature’s command.

Yes, of course, my dear, the shuster said. I will certainly ask for his blessing, if only I could find the courage to address my plea to the Tzoddik.

The wife had washed up the day’s dishes.

Her husband had been trying hard to study the Babylonian Talmud. But all his efforts were in vain. The miraculous events of the previous night continued to appear in front of his eyes, obscuring the letters of Talmud. His thoughts wandered: he absently called to mind various names, as though to choose an appropriate name for his would-be son. Which melamed (instructor), he wondered, would be best suited for teaching my successor? The shuster fought his desires, trying to drive those thoughts away; he knew just too well that it was a sin to plan anything related to the not-yet-born baby. Doing so might cast an Evil eye on the child, G-d forbid.

After a while, he gave up his efforts, closing the Talmud and slapping the table with his palm.

Come on, my dear lady, he said. Let’s go to bed. I wish it was already morning.

They tried to get asleep, but in vain. They kept turning and sighing in their beds, over and over again. Only at dawn, after nightlong restlessness did they fall asleep exhausted.

Soon, they were awakened by a knock at the door. They quickly dressed themselves, promptly muttering the regular awakening blessings.

I’m sorry to interrupt your sleep, said the visitor. But I ought to thank you for your hospitality and to bid you good-bye, prior to leaving here; even being as much in a hurry as I am.

No, it’s you who should excuse us. I won’t let you leave without having a cup of tea with us.

The wife boiled water for tea and prepared breakfast while her husband hurriedly prayed. Then the guest and the host sat down to the table and blessed the L-rd, the Creator of Bread. As they were having their breakfast, the wife ran out to call for a coachman. When she came back, they were already done with their meal and proceeding with after-meal blessings.

Did you ask for the Holly Blessing of the Tzoddik?-asked the women.

I ... well ... I could not. I had no courage.

Woe is me! said the woman, and she burst into tears. "Rebe, please don’t