Serial
The Beggar
by Daniel Meijers and Marilyn Zwaaf
Part Six
“That very evening Shimon set out to find Reb Yitzchok Meyer Margolis. He
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caught the bus to Batei Hungarim situated at the edge of the Meah Shearim
quarter. His mission took him through the narrow, winding streets paved with
cobble stones that are more than a hundred years old. He walked down little
stone steps and through the narrow alleys that give this neighbourhood the
atmosphere of an old Eastern European ghetto.
Laundry was hanging out to dry on washing lines strung up high in the
courtyards and alleyways between opposite apartments. Stray cats of all hues,
skinny-looking things, scrounging scraps and catching the odd mouse, were
hanging about the buildings, meowing. From one of the schools of learning
came the sounds of Talmud students, chanting, as they learnt texts by rote.
At one stage he was swiftly overtaken by a young man in a grey caftan and
Jerusalem-style hat whose long curly payes bobbed up and down like little
boats on the waves. The man greeted him on passing, before vanishing into the
darkness of the dimly-lit street. Shimon lost his way in the maze of small streets
and found it well-nigh impossible to read the almost illegible house numbers.
“Could you please tell me where Reb Yitzhok Meyer Margolis lives?”
Shimon asked a somewhat elderly man passing by.
“Reb Yitzhok Meyer, the scribe?” asked the man. “Follow me, I’ll take
you there.”
Leading Shimon by the arm, he first took one turn and then another
before stopping in front of a front door in need of a coat of paint. “Here we are.
This is where Reb Yitzchok Meyer lives.” He nodded goodbye and was gone.
There was no bell so Shimon knocked on the door. At first nothing
happened, so he knocked a second time and then the door was opened by a
man of middle age. He wore a small, round pair of glasses on his nose and
was dressed in old clothes that had been patched and mended time and
time again. But he still looked clean and tidy.
‘Come inside, Reb Yid. What can I do for you?’
“Are you Reb Yitzchok Meyer Margolis” asked Shimon.
The man nodded.
“Then I’d like to ask you something.”
“Sit down first,” said Reb Yitzchok Meyer. “Can I
offer you some tea?”
He wiped the chair with a cloth. Shimon sat down
and wondered where to begin.
Once more Reb Yitzchok Meyer asked, “What can
I do for you?”
And once more Shimon, overcome with emotion,
broke down crying. “My wife, I’ve got to know what’s
happened to my wife.”
“If your wife is missing, you must tell the police,”
said Reb Yitzchok Meyer.
“She’s not missing,” answered Shimon. “When I left Russia
six years ago, I had to leave my wife and children behind. And
now I haven’t heard anything from them for more than a month.”
He told him the whole story. Reb Yitzhok Meyer listened quietly to
what Shimon had to say.
“But how can I help you? I don’t know anything about Russia. You
must do two things: Ask a rabbi for a bracha, and see the authorities who deal
with such cases.”
“You’ve got to help me,” Shimon said. “I’m here because of Reb Leizer
continued on page 45
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