Bandit, scholar, son
By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF
Isaac, the Tzadik of Riegle, had just finished his supper of Kasha. Time to study. His favorite time of night. Total quiet of the woods, a full stomach, which allowed him to concentrate on Torah. And best of all, no insistent raps at the door, no visitors. And believe ithe had plenty out here in the woods – 4 versts from town.
They had questions, disputes, divorces, convoluted legal complexities of halachic law, which demanded the wisdom of Solomon. What did the law say if one partner stole money and the other partner, in revenge, seduced his wife? Who owed who? What and when? And if the dishonest partner paid the debt – over time – what about the interest? (It’s forbidden among Jews, you know. I mentioned this to my banker, Abe Cohen – “I’m a Presbyterian,” he said – a second sin.) Or what if the seduced wife fell in love with the victimed partner and demanded a divorce from her larcenous mate? Did it ever end? How could the world outside his cabin be so evilly complicated? Of women and money and fame they couldn’t get enough. Why couldn’t they be like sheep in the meadows who nibbled grass to stay alive and only came when the shepherd called.
But the Tzadik meditation over Baba 4 was interrupted – frightened is a better word – by a banging at the door. What could it be? Another question about Lev Rostous chickens who made breakfast, lunch, and supper on Shmuel Larons front yard garden. “Three drumsticks for a package of marigold seeds, rabbi? Isn’t that fair? Or maybe a skillet of stewed chicken.”
Before the Tzadik could formulate at least a tentative position, open burst the door and into the room came Chayim Brodsky – a man feared by all. Violence was his only talent and he exercised it often. The Rebbe wondered if it would be wiser to run out the back door or make a play for the poker. After all, in a district full of thieves, burglars, con men, and bandits Brodsky was most feared.
“Hold it,” shouted the renegade. “Relax, Rebbe. I mean no harm. Please sit with me and listen carefully,”
They sat at the wooden table that served as supper table, reading table, and sometimes a rude pillow for the rebbe’s head when sleep overcame him at his studies. The bandit chief talked first and he talked at length. He talked ‘til the moon could be seen at the window as though she, too, wanted to listen. He talked of his child, a son, and a father’s universal dream that the son should excel the father. “His destiny must not be corrupted by me.”
In short, Chayim Brodsky proposed a bargain. He would donate a large amount of money, many thousands of rubles, to charity if the rebbe would undertake the raising of the child, now two, in the study of Torah. A double mitzvah, expounded the highwayman. First think of the good you could do with the money. Secondly and closer to his heart, the child would be rescued from the corruption of the father.
How could such a pious one as the Tzadik of Riegle say no? The bargain was consummated. The child never knew. And the boy who was genetically blessed with genes of cunning, courage, leadership, and understanding – the same genes that make one a successful highwayman – flourished intellectually within the community. Meanwhile, he thought himself to be the Tzadik’s son. His real father never showed his face.
He proved to be a perseverant, dedicated student. The same genes that made his father a leader of men, a skillful strategist, and an evasive target made his son a brilliant student. The age-old mystery, the only mystery: God’s toleration of evil awed him every morning as he sat at the pine table with the rebbe. After all, talent has no choices, but its use poses ethical choices. And the child chose to follow his foster father.
The years rolled by. As the father pillaged and robbed, the son sought the revelations of Torah – the mystery of Talmudic truth hidden within its coils; and why justice was hostage to fate and fortune. Respect for him grew within the community. He was appointed head of the district Sanhedrin that administered justice to the Jewish community – a role much like his real father’s, dispensing life or death – only now a highly formalized process that mingled G-d’s Torah and man’s mercy.
His reputation for fairness, his love of justice, his knowledge of Talmudic law was well known and he was a beacon of hope to those who came before the court. “Hatikvah” the hope they called him.
Of course, the inevitable day came. Before the court stood an aging highwayman – Chayim Brodsky, himself. At the high table sat he, who was called Hatikvah. Before him stood a scarred and wrinkled bandit, now far too old for his profession, but still cruel, evil, cunning, and larcenous enough to make a living off violation of the two key commandments regarding theft and murder. He knew his judge well. But the judge saw only an over-the-hill criminal – far too old and dull- witted to get away with his earlier transgressions. Somehow, it was clear that he yearned for punishment, a form of redemption – the only penitence he could offer.
The case was clear. Many witnesses testified to his guilt. It was only a matter of sentencing. A simple decision made by the judge. He had been raised well.
But the old man said not a word. Something choked in his throat – the evil of his heart, said the onlookers – as he admitted his guilt and was sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment by his son.
The man that stood before his judge was not recognizable as kin, but his curly, gray hair resembled that of the judge and his eyes, like the judge’s, were bright beacons searching for something lost in a stormy world. The boy – now a man – on the bench was his only accomplishment. And from him came deliverance. With a rueful smile, he accepted his punishment. He had given something back to the world.
