The Shochet's Trembling Hands

"Just look how his hands are shaking," one shochet pointed out to another, and his friend nodded in silent agreement. It was not the elderly shochet's fault. He had simply reached a venerable old age, and with it came rheumatism and trembling hands. The townsfolk agreed on one thing: they no longer trusted his unsteady hands, and they wanted him to retire. But the shochet had his pride and refused to be forced out. Neither side would yield.

In the middle of the dispute a new rabbi arrived, and with him came new hope. Rav Sholom Sofer, a scion of the family of the Chasam Sofer, had been hired to replace the town's recently retired rav. He was still a young avreich and lacked the authority to remove the old shochet. As each side dug in, machlokes took over the town, and clear lines were drawn between those who supported the respected but elderly shochet and those who opposed him because of his shaky hands.

"How can you dare retire our beloved shochet, who has dedicated his life to ensuring that we eat kosher meat? Have you no shame?" argued one side. "How can you not retire an old shochet? It is exactly our dedication to kosher meat that forces us to replace someone whose hands tremble and who can no longer serve as a competent shochet. Have you no yiras shomayim?" argued the other.

The new Rav watched the controversy and decided to speak with the shochet. "You see how bitter this dispute is," he told him. "I am on your side, and I do not think there is any substance to their complaint. But as a new rav here, I lack the authority to take any concrete step to help you keep your position and end the machlokes. My suggestion is that you go to the gaon, Rav Moshe Yosef Teitelbaum of Uhjel, and ask him to test your abilities. Once he sees that your abilities as a shochet have not deteriorated, he will surely write you a letter of approbation. He will attest that the meat is kosher, and that will settle the matter." The shochet agreed and left for Uhjel.

When the Uhjler Rav saw the shochet, he saw for himself how unsteady his hands were. Yet he was unwilling to embarrass the elderly man. He said, "I do not have time this minute to sit and write the letter. Go back home, and as soon as I have the time, I will write a letter and send it straight to your rav, Rav Sofer in Brezhna, where you live." The shochet agreed and returned home.

Some time passed, and the yahrzeit of the Yismach Moshe approached. When Rav Sholom Sofer traveled to Uhjel for the yahrzeit, he stopped in to visit Rav Moshe Yosef as well.

"Well, well, I owe you a letter," the Uhjler Rav apologized to the Brezhner Rav. "Please see what happened to the letter you wished me to write." He pointed to a stack of papers, on top of which lay a letter made illegible by a great blot of ink.

"Let me tell you the story of this letter. When I met your shochet and saw firsthand how his hands shook, I realized I should write to you. Still, I did not want to shame the poor old man, so I sent him home and promised to send you the letter. When I finally sat down to write and address it, I fell asleep. As I slept, I had a dream. In my vision I saw my venerable zeide, the holy Yismach Moshe, and he asked me in consternation, 'If they are searching high and low across the whole country for a murderer, someone who wishes to harm an old man's livelihood and shame him, spilling his blood, could they find no one better than you?' When the vision ended, I awoke with a start, and the inkpot tipped over and spilled across the freshly written letter and ruined it, just as you see it here. I took this as a sign that I was not to be the one to send you this letter. That is why I have sent you nothing until today."