The first friendly rays of sunlight would sneak through a missing slat in the faded shutters to announce a new day to the rugged boards that lined his tumbledown cottage — and Itzik the water-carrier knew it was time to be up. First, he would settle down next to his simple table and study a page or two of Torah. He said his morning  prayers with all his heart and would then leave his simple home to go down to the bank of the river that twisted and turned through the fields surrounding his village. He would fill his two homemade pails, hoist them up to the long bar borne on his broad shoulders, trek uphill, and then down again. He did this for hours on end, bringing a day’s supply to his regular customers. He was not a wealthy man, but at least he earned enough to feed his family. He was content with his life, and loved by almost everyone.

Then one day, quite suddenly, everything changed. Itzik, the self-respecting water-carrier, was asking for tzedakah (charity) in his spare time. The quiet village quickly filled with whispers and curious looks. This did not prevent those same generous people from filling his little charity box — except for one very angry merchant. That someone who could support himself by his own efforts should decide one fine morning to grow fat at the expense of the hard work of others, was nothing less than shameful. He would inform the local rabbi in person!

A few days later, sure enough, a messenger of the rabbi sternly tapped his cane three times on Itzik”s creaking door, and sum­moned him to appear before the rabbi. Itzik set out at once, and was greeted warmly.

“Tell me, Itzik,” asked the rabbi, “are you managing to make a living?”

“Thanks be to G-d, day by day,” said Itzik, echoing the words of the Psalmist, “I’m happy with my lot, and manage with what I have.”

“Then why, may I ask, do you collect donations?”

Silence.

“Why don’t you answer my question?” The rabbi asked irritated; Itzik remained silent.

“Listen to me,” said the rabbi. “I must ask you to give me your word that you will stop collecting donations in the marketplace.”

Silence still.

The rabbi’s patience ran out and he raised his voice: “Has it occurred to you that it is disrespectful for you not to answer the questions of the rabbi of this village?”

Itzik blurted out three quiet words: “I can’t promise,” and looked at the floor in silence.

Now Itzik was not the only person in town to visit the rabbi that day. While their tense conversation was taking place, the richest man in town — “Moshe the Nagid,” the locals called him affection­ately — calmly took a seat in the waiting room. He wanted to consult the rabbi on some important business matter. Surprised to hear the rabbi raising his voice, and what he overheard made him very upset. He became sick to his stomach and began to tremble until he was driven by his emotions and he burst uninvited into the rabbi’s study.

“Rebbe!” he exclaimed. “This man here is taddik nistar (hidden saint)!”

For a moment, the three stood in amazed silence. The rabbi, confused, looked first at the one, then at the other. This tightlipped water- carrier — a tzaddik nistar?

Moshe burst into bitter tears.

 “Itzik,” he sobbed, “you’ve got nothing to hide. Tell the rabbi the whole story.” And with that, he slipped out of the room, leaving the rabbi the task of ordering Itzik to speak up.

Itzik took a deep breath. “I suppose you know,” he said, “that every day I visit the houses of all those who can afford the luxury; and bring them water right to the door. One of my old customers is Moshe the Nagid. One day, unexpectedly, he stops paying me, and says that when the account reaches a sizeable sum, he’ll pay me all at once. That’s fine by me — except that for two whole months he didn’t give me as much as one little kopek. Then one day Moshe wasn’t at home. So his good wife, begging your pardon, takes me aside and says: ‘Itzik,’ she says, ‘I want to tell you some­thing, but on condition that you don’t breathe a word to a soul.’

“Okay, I won’t tell anyone”, I answered, and she told me her story.

“‘You know our big fancy business?’ she says.”Well, the bottom’s suddenly fallen out of it, and now we’re as poor as the poorest paupers in town. My husband is too ashamed to speak of it, but I can’t hide the truth any more. Our debt to you is growing, and I don’t know what’s going to come of us.’

“The tears of that poor soul broke my heart, and I decided there and then that I would do whatever I could to help them out — though without giving away their secret, of course. The next day I started collecting donations. Let people talk behind my back! Let people make fun of me!  I wasn’t going to let that family go hungry!”

Itzik paused for breath, then added bashfully, “So I ask you
now, Rebbe, could I possibly have promised you to stop collecting:

The rabbi was in a daze. Before him stood the famil­iar brawny frame of a simple water-carrier who could barely translate the daily prayers or a simple chapter of Torah. Through the rabbi’s tears, he saw before him, in all his glory, the true love of a neighbour. Here was a man who had always held his head erect, yet was prepared to lower it in humiliation — so long as his fellow’s honor would be spared!

He sprang out of his chair, and embraced the embarrassed water-carrier.

“Would that there were many like you among Israel!” he ex­claimed. “I pray to G-d that in the World of Truth I be allowed to share your lot in the inheritance that awaits the righteous!”

And with warm tears he kissed that suntanned brow.

May all your tales end with Shalom (peace)

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