The disputes that were brought to my father for arbitration—he was a rabbi in Warsaw—were usually petty ones. The sums involved would be about twenty or, at the most fifty, rubles. I had heard that there were rabbis to whom “big” cases, involving thousands of rubles, were brought, and each side would be represented by its own arbitrator. But this happened only to the rich rabbis who lived in the north of Warsaw, not in our part of town.

But one winter a major lawsuit was brought to our house. To this day I do not know why these wealthy people chose my father to be their judge, for he was known as a naive, unworldly man. My mother sat in the kitchen and worried. She feared that he would not understand these complicated matters. Early that morning, Father had taken down the Hoshen Mishpat and immersed himself in it: if he was not an expert on questions of business and commerce, he would at least be sure of the law. Soon the litigants came and brought their arbitrators—themselves rabbis. One of the litigants was tall, with a sparse, black beard and angry, coal-black eyes. He wore a long fur coat, shiny galoshes, and a fur hat. His lips held a cigar in an amber cigar holder. An aura of importance, learning, and shrewdness emanated from him. When he removed his overshoes, I saw gilt letters on the red lining and was told that these were monograms. He had brought an arbitrator—a rabbi with a milky-white beard and young, laughing eyes. The rabbi had a round potbelly and a silver chain dangled across his silk vest.

The second litigant was a small, gray mannikin, dressed in a fox pelt, a thick cigar between his lips; he had brought a spokesman who had a broad, yellow beard, a nose like the beak of a bird, and round, birdlike eyes to match. When he removed his hat he remained, for a few moments, bareheaded. Then he put on a silken skullcap of the style worn by Litvaks.

In our house, the study of Torah was the only subject of importance, but these men brought with them an element of worldliness. I gaped and wondered. The rabbis—the arbitrators—exchanged jokes. They smiled well-practiced smiles. My mother served tea with lemon and cookies left from the Sabbath, and the rabbi with the laughing eyes addressed her jestingly.

“Rebbetzin, perhaps you can do something about bringing the summer?” He did not avert his eyes, like my father, but looked straight at her.

My mother reddened like a schoolgirl and seemed for a moment at a loss. Then she regained her composure and answered, “If we have winter, it is probably because the winter is needed.”

Soon the actual hearing began; the case involved thousands of rubles. With all my might I tried to understand what was being discussed but I soon lost the thread. It was about buying, selling, ordering wagonloads of merchandise. They talked of credit, net value, gross income, account books, ledgers, interest, notes. The negotiating rabbis were well versed in the terminology of business affairs, but my father was constantly asking for explanations. As his son I suffered pangs of shame and embarrassment on his behalf. From time to time the discussion of the case would be interrupted by women from the neighborhood who came to ask whether their freshly slaughtered chickens were kosher.

The Din Torah lasted not one, but several days. During this time I learned that not all rabbis resembled my father. These two took out fountain pens and scribbled on sheets of paper—lines, circles, squares. Every few hours I was sent out to buy refreshments: apples, cakes, even sausages and cold cuts. My father never touched meat bought in a sausage shop, even one that was strictly kosher. But the other rabbis ate the smoked meats and discussed them like connoisseurs. At other times the argument would be halted while one of the rabbis told a story. Then the other would not want to lag behind, and he too would tell an anecdote. Then they got to talking about foreign countries and different resorts, and I learned that these rabbis had been in Germany, in Vienna, and in other distant places. My father, to be sure, presided at the head of the table but he seemed to shrivel in the presence of these worldly divines and their smooth conversation.

After a while I began to understand the issues and realized, to my amazement, that the arbitrators were not really concerned about who was right and who wrong, what was true and what false, but that each was looking for twists and turns to justify his party and to contradict the arguments of his opponent.

I resented these clever rabbis, yet at the same time I envied their children. From the way they spoke I realized that in their homes there were rugs, sofas, lovely things of all kinds. Occasionally one of the rabbis would even mention his wife, Mrs. So-and-So, and this was the greatest wonder of all. Never had I heard my father refer to my mother when he was speaking with other men.

The longer the Din Torah lasted, the more complicated it became. The table was covered with a thick layer of papers, calculations. They called in a bookkeeper who brought a stack of account books. The moods of the tall man with the black beard were constantly changing. One minute he spoke calmly, deliberately, as though each word cost a gold piece, then suddenly he would begin to shout, banging his fist on the table and threatening to file suit in a governmental court. The gray little man answered sharply, angrily, maintaining that he was not afraid of any court. For his part, the lawsuit could be brought before the highest tribunal. And the two spokesmen, although they were literally waging war against each other, still chatted amiably, lit matches for each other’s cigarettes, and continued to repeat to each other the sayings of rabbis, scholars, and famous lawyers. My father had almost stopped speaking, or asking for explanations. From time to time he would glance longingly at his bookcase. For the sake of the business quarrels of these rich men he had had to give up time he would otherwise have devoted to the Torah, and he yearned for his books and commentaries. Once again the world, with its calculations and falsehoods, had intruded into our life.

I was constantly sent on errands. One minute someone sent me for cigarettes—and the next, for cigars. For some reason a Polish newspaper was needed and I was sent for it. But most frequently I was sent for different things to eat. I had not known that anyone could eat so much—so many kinds of sweets and delicacies—and on ordinary weekdays, to boot. The rabbi with the laughing eyes wanted a tin of sardines. Apparently the two rabbis ate so much because it was all paid for by the litigants. They said so openly, albeit as a jest and with a wink of the eye.

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On the last day all was shouting and tumult. Every few minutes one or the other of the litigants would try to run out, and his rabbi would hold him back. Perhaps they were only acting? I had learned that they often said one thing and meant another. When they were angry, they spoke softly. When they were satisfied, they pretended to be enraged. When one of the rabbis was away, the other would enumerate all his sins and weaknesses. Once the rabbi with the laughing eyes arrived half an hour earlier than the others and proceeded to revile his opponent with the yellow beard and birdlike eyes. He said, “That one is no more a rabbi than I am the king of England.”

My father was stunned. “How is that possible? I know that he makes decisions on ritual questions.”

“His decisions, ha. . . .”

“But if that is so, he could—may such things not come to pass—cause other Jews to eat forbidden foods.”

“Well, he may know how to look up a reference in the Be’er Heitev² . . . . He was in America already.”

“What did he do in America?”

“He sewed pants.”

Father wiped the sweat from his brow. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Nu, he probably needed the money. It is written that it is better to flay carcasses than to take alms. . . work is no disgrace.”

“True, but not every shoemaker is a Rabbi Yochanan. . . .”

My father had told my mother that he would be almost happy if this Din Torah were taken to another rabbi for judgment. He had already diverted too much of his time from his studies. He could not devote more energy to all these tangles and “fractions” (a term my father used for any arithmetical process more complex than addition, subtraction, and multiplication). He foresaw that in any case the litigants might not abide by his decree. He was also afraid that the suit would eventually be brought into the civil courts, and he might be called as a witness. The very idea of standing before a magistrate, taking an oath on a Bible, sitting among policemen—cast terror upon him. He groaned in his sleep at night. In the morning he would rise even earlier than usual in order to be able to recite his prayers in peace and to review at least one page of the Gemara. He would pace up and down in his study and pray aloud, in a trembling voice:

O my God, the soul Thou gavest me is pure. Thou didst create it, Thou didst form it, Thou didst breathe it into me. Thou preservest it within me, and Thou wilt take it from me, but wilt restore it unto me hereafter. . . .

He was not simply reciting a prayer, but seemed almost to be pleading his case before the Master of the Universe. I thought that he kissed his phylacteries and the fringes of his prayer shawl with a fervor more intense than ever.

Yes, the final day was a stormy one. This time not only the litigants, but even the negotiators shouted. The erstwhile amity between the two spokesmen had evaporated, and they were now quarreling and abusing one another. They argued and shouted and gave vent to their pent-up emotions until their strength was exhausted. At that moment Father took out his kerchief and ordered the litigants to grasp it, a token of their submission to his decision. I stood by, trembling. I was certain that my father had understood nothing of all these entangled arguments and that he would pronounce a decree as ill-fitted as a blow for a Sabbath greeting. But now it became clear that in the course of these past days my father had, after all, grasped the significance of the issues at stake. He pronounced his old and tried formula of compromise: an equal division. . . .

For some time after he had given his decision, there was silence. No one had the strength to speak. The man with the sparse beard stared at my father with savage eyes. The little man made a grimace as though he had accidentally swallowed something sour. The rabbi with the yellow eyes smiled cynically, displaying a mouthful of yellow teeth. I noticed that one tooth was gold-covered, and this convinced me that he had indeed been in America.

When all had had time to recover, they began to tear my father’s decree apart. Insulting innuendoes were made. Father stated his argument simply. “I asked you whether you wanted an absolute decision, or were willing to accept a compromise.”

“Even a compromise must be reasonable!”

“That is my decision. I have no Cossacks at my command to enforce it.”

The arbitrators withdrew to confer with their clients. They muttered, argued, complained. I remember that the loudest protests came from the side that had actually benefited the most from the decision. After a while they seemed to have decided that the compromise was not, after all, so bad and that perhaps there really was no better way. The litigants, who were business partners, shook hands. The rabbis demanded that I go down to bring refreshments, so that all could recuperate from the fighting and quarreling. Again the two were the best of friends, and one even said that he would recommend the other to handle a case he knew of. At last everyone had left. In the study there remained only cigar smoke, a table full of papers, fruit skins, the remains of various delicacies. Father had received a generous fee—twenty rubles, I believe—but I could tell that he felt an unpleasant aftertaste. He asked Mother to clear the table as quickly as possible. He opened the doors so that the odors of wealth and worldliness might escape. The litigants were, after all, men of business—but the overly clever rabbis had caused him deep pain.

As soon as my mother had cleared the table, Father sat down to resume his studies. He reached for his books eagerly. There, in the holy books, one did not nibble on sardines, one did not make innuendoes, or flatter, or speak words of double meaning, or tell slippery jokes. There holiness, truth, dedication reigned.

In the Hasidic prayer house where my father prayed, the men had heard of the sensational Din Torah. Businessmen discussed it with my father. They said that he was becoming known in Warsaw, was gaining a reputation, but my father waved this talk aside with his hand.

“No, it is not good. . . .”

At that time, too, my father began to talk to me about the Lamed-Vov—the thirty-six hidden saints—the simple Jews, the tailors, shoemakers, and water-carriers upon whom depends the continued existence of the world. Father spoke of their poverty, their humility, their appearance of ignorance so that none would recognize their true greatness. He spoke of these concealed saints with a special love, and he said, “One contrite heart is of greater worth before the Almighty than thirty silk gaberdines.”

¹ Copyright © 1965 by Isaac Bashevis Singer.

² Be’er Heitev—a “digest” of the Code of Laws.