Aleph, Baiz, Gimmel, Daled - First Teacher
by
Fred Narvey
The Rebbetzen, the Rabbi's wife, wrote the first four letters of the Hebrew alphabet in my scribbler and said I should practise writing them for the rest of the page.
The Rabbi lived in a little cottage on Pritchard Avenue in the north end of Winnipeg; his living room was the Kheder, the classroom. The Rabbi sat at one end of a long table and explained the intricacies of the Talmud to the older boys. Behind him was a large bookcase completely filled with the holy books; it covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. The Rebbetzen taught the little boys, like me, at the other end of the table.
I was seven years old and my parents said it was time for me to begin my Jewish education. I thought the Rabbi must be at least one hundred years old. He sat there wearing a little black skull cap and his body was completely covered by a snow white kitel, a shroud-like garment that he wore over his clothes. It was almost as though he expected the Malech Hamoves, the angel of death, to pay him a visit any day now and say to him, "Your time has come, Rabbi." And he would be all ready to go quietly, without argument or fuss — straight to heaven — and without having to trouble the good people of the burial society. The Rabbi's long, white beard covered his chest and almost touched the table. I found him so fascinating I could hardly take my eyes off him. 'every time he coughed, and the Rabbi coughed often, I would feel a pain in my chest.
One day the Rebbetzen came in from the kitchen holding a glass of hot tea in one hand and in the other a plate with a thick slice of buttered white bread with the crust removed. She placed the glass of tea and the bread on the table in front of the Rabbi. Not a word was spoken between them. Words weren't necessary between the Rabbi and the Rebbetzen. She looked at him with her soft, kindly brown eyes with such concern, such love, such devotion that I felt a lump in my throat as I watched them.
The Rebbetzen must be a lot younger than the Rabbi, I thought, not a day over ninety-five. She was a tiny little woman, hardly five feet tall. Her head was covered by a wig, as was the custom of the ultra-orthodox Jewish women at that time, and she always wore a long cotton print house dress, covered over by a long white apron. Her tiny face was so creased, it always reminded me of the prune I once swiped from Mrs. Greenberg's grocery store.
The Rebbetzen must have caught me staring because she walked over to me and said, "How are you getting along with your Aleph, Baiz?" She spoke Yiddish with the dialect and sing-song intonation of the Polish Jew, which was quite different from the Yiddish we spoke in our home because my parents came from the Ukraine.
"Not bad, not bad," said the Rebbetzen. "The left-handed ones are always the best writers. But you have only written two lines! Stop day-dreaming and start writing." Hebrew is written from the right to the left and, by a happy coincidence I was left-handed, so my Hebrew letters came out very nicely formed.
The Rabbi put a small cube of sugar in his mouth and began to sip the hot tea. He took one bit of the buttered bread and began to chew it with his gums. As he put is hand down, a big fly landed on the slice of bread he was holding. The Rabbi didn't move the hand that held the bread but continued to sip the hot tea using his other hand. This went on for a minute or two until I couldn't stand it any longer.
"Rabbi, there's a fly on your bread!" I said in Yiddish. The saintly Rabbi looked at me with his clear blue ayes and said, "So what? my child. When it eats its fill, it will fly away by itself."
Hay, Vov, Zion, Chess, Tess, Yude —
"Now practise writing these letters of the alphabet," the Rebbetzen said a week later.
"It's nice to be left-handed, but if you don't write you'll never learn, so stop dreaming and start writing." But I wasn't really dreaming. I was listening to the Rabbi teaching the older boys. It seemed to me that his voice was getting weaker and I had to listen very intently to catch every word he said.
One day I came to Kheder and the Rabbi was gone. The big chair at the head of the table stood empty, only the large bookcase crammed full of the holy books bore witness that a saint once lived here. Who sent the Angel of Death to take my Rabbi away, I wondered. The Rabbi loved all God's creatures and wouldn't hurt a fly. I knew that, and if I knew it, surely God must have known it. So who sent the Malech Hamoves?
A few days later, the Rebbetzen died. "The Rebbetzen went to join her husband in Gaan Aden (the Garden of Eden)," my mother said. "That's where all good Jews go when they die if they observe the Ten Commandments during the course of their lifetime."
Thus began my Jewish education.