The Day My Mother Cried and Other Stories: and Other Stories

At the Rebbe’s Tish

150 At the Rebbe’s Tish think I was the one and only nonbeliever in the maelstrom of frenzied dancing and whirling men, young and old, who were participating in a Friday night tish (dinner) with a Chasidic rebbe on an unforgettable Sabbath eve in Petach Tikvah, Israel. The rebbe, I cannot recall which town or village in Poland his name is associated with, was seated on a throne-like chair at the head of the table holding his head in his hands, moving it right to left and back as he kept time to the niggun (melody) that was being sung loud and lively by the dancing Chasidim and onlookers, such as myself, my host Rabbi Mottele Spitalnik, and about a dozen other visitors. Mottele, as I called him, was associated with the seminary in Jerusalem where I was a student. He was considerably younger than I, half my age actually, and we had struck up a friendship, a strong one, that was rooted into our natural curiosity about one another. He was trying to understand why an old geezer like me had returned to study after a half-century hiatus. As for myself, I was using Mottele as my personal encyclopedia into the myriad pathways of Jewish learning. I knew I was getting the better of the bargain. Accepting his invitation to spend the Sabbath with him and his family in Petach Tikvah was part of my learning itinerary, though I must confess I mounted the bus to Petach Tikvah that Friday afternoon with mixed emotions. A few days earlier, Mottele had piqued my imagination and my abdominal juices with the casual mention that after shul on Shabbat, we would return home to a meal of his wife Essie’s cholent. For me, a cholent properly made, and even improperly made, is a meichel (delicacy ) for which there is no equal. It is a kind of stew that has been At the Rebbe’s Tish | 151 simmering in an iron pot containing a mix of barley, lima beans, potatoes , onions, and meat. It is cooked over a slow fire for twenty-four hours or thereabouts and what emerges is a mélange of sheer heaven. When Mottele disclosed that his wife was something of a cholent aficionado, I reacted fast but skeptically. “So you say that Essie makes a good cholent?” I asked. “One of the best,” he answered. “One of the best, you say?” “I guarantee it,” Mottele replied. “You guarantee it?” “You have my word,” he said. “OK,” I said, adding, “I hope you’re right.” Mottele then switched gears. “Before the cholent, Bill, I am going to take you to a sort of banquet on Friday night.” “A banquet?” I asked. “Well, not exactly a banquet. I will be taking you to the rebbe’s tish.” “The rebbe’s tish?” “That’s right,” he answered. “Isn’t a tish a table?” I asked. “Exactly. But it’s more than a table, much more. It’s an experience.” “Can you be more explicit, Mottele?” I asked. “Oh, sure.” He paused. “This rebbe has followers, Chasidim, mostly in Israel, but spread all over the world. America, Argentina, Canada, England, France, and other faraway places. Wherever they are, they are under his influence. They conform to his belief in God, his teachings, his belief in humanity. They seek his advice and take it. Are you following me?” he asked. “Of course,” I answered. He continued. “On Friday nights he invites his Chasidim to a tish, a table, which is really a celebration, a happy celebration, where his followers eat and drink, sing, dance, and then listen to the words of the rebbe. Nothing is really rehearsed. His words, they say, are dipped in Torah.” Mottele was excited. “Most of his Chasidim, probably all, are convinced that what comes out of his mouth was put there by God Himself. 152 | William D. Kaufman He is God’s messenger. He is more than a holy man. He speaks to God and God listens.” He paused. “That is what his followers believe.” Mottele stopped talking. I think he was a little embarrassed by his passion. “I am not one of his Chasidim, you understand. Nor do I believe that God sits on his shoulder as his followers do. I believe you will find the tish interesting and enjoyable and you will learn something.” I mumbled a few words about...