A True Taste of Shabbos

This is a very famous story about the Be’er Mayim Chaim. A version of it was also told by Reb Shlomo Carlebach.

Hershel was a pure comedian, one of a rare breed. He did not just tell jokes; he breathed them. It seemed to the people of his village of Mosayov, in the Marmorash area, that he had never drawn a serious breath in his life. He lived for laughs, nothing was sacred or out of bounds to him, and fear of Hashem was absolutely foreign to him. The grin never left his face.

Hershel soon became the most popular man in Mosayov among the idle, the crude, the silly and the drinkers. Whenever a crowd on the street or in the village tavern was laughing hilariously, Hershel was sure to be in the middle of it, perfecting his craft.

He himself was not among the unemployed. He made a nice living as a seller of livestock, and since his business took him to all the neighboring towns and villages, his reputation as a comic spread throughout the Marmorash region.

Each year he traveled to the great annual livestock fair in Czernowitz. Another regular at the fair was the Rav of the city, the well-known tzaddik and scholarly author Rav Chaim of Czernowitz. He would circulate among the merchants and give them the opportunity to contribute to the many worthy causes he supported, helping needy people and educational institutions.

One year the fair ran from Sunday through Friday. By the last day the tzaddik had already gathered a significant sum. As he made his final rounds of the stalls, he came upon a large group laughing raucously, slapping their thighs and winking at one another. There was no doubt that Hershel the Mosayover was in the midst of them, and in top form.

Rav Chaim thought to slip around them inconspicuously. He knew he could not expect much “business” from such crude, empty-headed types. But Hershel was quicker. “Hey, Holy Rebbe, Sholom Aleichem,” he called out, still grinning from the last joke he had cracked.

“Aleichem sholom, my fellow Jews,” the Rav answered warmly. The die was cast, and now he could not turn away. “Perhaps you gentlemen would care to take a share in the great mitzva of tzedoka?”

“And why would you need charitable contributions?” asked Hershel, still smirking.

“For pidyon shevuyim, redeeming Jews in captivity, which is called the greatest mitzva of all,” the Rav answered promptly. “There is a poor, unfortunate Jew who owes a large debt of 1500 zylotas, the Polish gold currency, to his noble. Now he is languishing in a dungeon.”

Hershel’s companions grinned in anticipation. They waited eagerly for their friend’s witty riposte in the rabbi-and-jester dialogue.

Hershel put his hand in his pocket and took out 1500 zylotas, all the money he had brought to replenish his livestock. “Here you are, Rav,” he said quietly, with a strange look on his face. “Here is the entire sum you need for the mitzva of redeeming captives.”

The onlookers were startled for a moment, but then they realized this must be one of Hershel’s clever jests. The naive Rav would put out his hand, Hershel would pretend to give him the money, and at the last moment he would snatch it back and make a fool of the gullible scholar.

But the tzaddik was not so naive after all. He held back and gazed thoughtfully at the clownish Hershel.

“No, no,” Hershel exclaimed, his face now completely serious. “I really mean it. No joke. Please. Take the money.” As he spoke he approached the tzaddik and pushed the bulging wallet he had drawn from his pocket into his hand.

The astonished Rav was overwhelmed with emotion. He felt excitement and relief at being able to free the poor imprisoned Jew, and amazement that such a lowly soul could rise to the highest of peaks in the briefest of moments. His cheeks were flushed, and warm tears pooled at the corners of his eyes.

Hershel himself was stunned. He could not understand what he had just done. It had been a spontaneous impulse, but why had it been so irresistible?

The tzaddik wished to bless his donor appropriately, but he was not sure how. For Rav Chaim, life turned on one hinge, Shabbos. He had even written a unique sefer, Sidduro Shel Shabbos, explaining, according to mystical principles, the exaltedness and holiness of the Seventh Day. But how was that relevant to the loutish man who stood before him? Still, he thought, such a deed deserves the greatest blessing of all. Brimming with enthusiasm, he exclaimed, “I bless you that, in the merit of this great mitzva that you have done, you will experience the true taste of Shabbos.”

Hershel was still numb. He nodded as if he understood what the tzaddik was talking about and answered, “Amen.”

On Sunday Hershel returned to Mosayov. Since he had no money, there was no reason to remain in Czernowitz. He was still his cheerful, joking self.

As the week went on, however, a strange feeling began to well up inside him, a spirit of holiness such as he had never felt in his life. When Friday dawned and the feeling grew even more intense, he realized that it must be connected to the coming Shabbos, and that this Shabbos would be like no other he had ever known.

He went shopping for appropriate food, and he could barely control his trembling. As the hours passed, his inner upheaval grew stronger and stronger. He did not know what would be.

Those who met Hershel that Shabbos could hardly recognize him. Was that really him, singing, dancing, studying, praying with ecstasy? Hershel could barely recognize himself. His entire being was bursting with the pleasure of Shabbos.

It was the talk of the town. The idea that Hershel the clown could be caught up in a tzaddik’s intense love of Shabbos made everyone who heard it laugh even harder than at Hershel’s intentional jests. Some even entertained the possibility that he had gone insane.

Then the news spread of what had happened at the livestock fair in Czernowitz, of the incongruous charitable deed Hershel had done and the extraordinary blessing of the tzaddik. People began to consider the matter more seriously.

After that Shabbos, Hershel went back to his customary light-hearted joking. But by the following Shabbos he was again overwhelmed by the same spirit of holiness. It was as if there were two Hershels, the weekday man and the special Shabbos man.

Weeks went by, and months, without change. Hershel felt himself cracking under the strain of his dual personality. He decided to travel back to Czernowitz to discuss his situation with the tzaddik who had blessed him.

Rav Chaim told him that in order to absorb the taste of Shabbos without spiritual and psychological damage, he would have to refine his weekday behavior. Hershel decided to stay on in Czernowitz, to attach himself to the tzaddik and learn from him. He did so, and he became a completely different person as his daily life changed to be in harmony with his weekly Shabbos elevation.