Excerpt from The Blind Angel: New Old Chassidic Tales, by Rabbi Tovia Halberstam, translated and retold by Joshua Halberstam

The two most illustrious students of the Ba’al Shem Tov attend the funeral of Mordecai the peddler, a sinner in the town of Ostrov, and teach us a powerful lesson on the reward for a simple mitzvah.

I.

There are specialists even in the realm of the sacred. To be sure, the saintly Chassidic rebbes were scrupulous about fulfilling all the mitzvot with fervor, yet some were known for the distinctive attention they paid to particular religious deeds. One was renowned for raising funds for the poor, another for redeeming captive Jews, still others for their devotion to song, or prayer, or storytelling.

At one time, the town of Ostrov had the honor of being home to two of the Ba’al Shem Tov’s most illustrious students, Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polnoia and Reb Pinchas of Koretz. And each had his specialty. Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polnoia was famous across the Jewish world for his prodigious scholarship. After he joined the nascent Chassidic movement, he added a mastery of Kabbalah and the mystical tradition to his vast command of Talmud and Jewish law. Among the many virtues for which Reb Pinchas of Koretz was celebrated, particularly noteworthy was his devotion to halva’as ha’mes, the imperative to honor the dead by escorting them to their interment. The Koretzer Rebbe made sure to participate in the burial rites of all his townspeople, irrespective of whether the departed was pious or a sinner.

It was the custom in Ostrov, as elsewhere throughout Eastern Europe, that when a member of the community passed away, the synagogue assistant, the beadle, would make his way across town carrying a charity box as he called out, “Charity redeems us from death, charity redeems us from death.” In this way, the townspeople were alerted a funeral would soon be taking place.

One late afternoon, Mordecai the tailor died. Not that any of the Jews of Ostrov cared. Mordecai had no relatives in the vicinity, nor any Jewish friends. His clientele were local gentiles and his social circle consisted entirely of non-Jewish acquaintances with whom he’d share inebriated evenings, replete with ham sandwiches and vodka. Not that Mordecai the tailor cared a fig that the Jews considered him an outcast. And why should he? As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t one of them, anyway.

But Jewish law mandates all Jews receive proper burial rites, regardless of the deceased’s personal habits. So when the Angel of Death came to retrieve the sinful soul of Mordecai the tailor, a Jewish funeral was dutifully prepared, and the beadle began his trek through the streets proclaiming in his practiced drone, “Charity redeems us from death, charity redeems us from death.”

Who would bother to attend this funeral? Why make time for a reprobate who wanted nothing to do with his own people? At best, they’d manage to gather the bare minimum for a minyan, the quorum of ten men who’d recite the Kaddish prayer, hurry through the rites and be on their way.

Surely, the Rebbe of Koretz need not be among them. True, the rebbe regularly attended the funerals of simple Jews, but Mordecai the tailor was no simple Jew. He was a contemptible boor who disdained his own heritage and was surely undeserving of the rebbe’s time. When the beadle arrived at the rebbe’s street, he hastened his pace and lowered his voice; better the rebbe should remain unaware of this particular funeral.

The Rebbe of Koretz, however, happened to be standing at his window precisely at the moment the beadle passed his home. Seeing the charity box in the man’s hand, the rebbe inquired who had died.

“Trust me,” the beadle answered. “This is one funeral the rebbe can skip.”

“Who passed away?” the rebbe persisted.

“As I say, a coarse blasphemer.” The beadle struck his lips with his hand—one should not speak ill of the dead.

“But who?”

“Mordecai the tailor.”

“Mordecai the tailor,” the rebbe repeated, his voice heavy. “Well, well.”

The beadle turned to continue his rounds when the rebbe called to him.

“Please be certain to inform me when the funeral will take place. It’s imperative I be there.”

Soon, the stunned beadle was reporting to anyone who crossed his path how the Rebbe of Koretz was insisting on attending the funeral of Mordecai the tailor. But why? That was the question everyone asked and the beadle could not answer.

That, too, was the question Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polnoia asked himself when he was told of his illustrious colleague’s interest in the deceased. Surely, something unusual was afoot. The Rebbe of Koretz must know more about this Mordecai the tailor than he was letting on.

“Well, then,” Reb Yaakov Yosef decided, “if Reb Pinchas is so adamant about attending the funeral, so will I.”

Curiosity spread across Ostrov like an untamed blaze. “Did you hear?” one townsperson asked breathlessly of the other. “Both our Chassidic giants plan to attend the funeral of that good-for-nothing. Perhaps we should attend as well.”

Not since Ostrov had become a predominantly Jewish city many years earlier had the funeral hall been as packed as it was that morning. The elderly came. The women came. Even the children came, all with the same perplexed look on their faces.

At the conclusion of the funeral, the Koretzer Rebbe led the procession to the nearby cemetery. The rebbe stood next to the gravesite as the burial was performed, in perfect accordance with Jewish law and custom.

“All right, my friend, I give up,” said Reb Yaakov Yosef, placing his hand on the Koretzer’s shoulder. “I’ve been alongside you throughout the funeral and here during the burial, and I still have no clue. So tell me. What is the story with this Mordecai the tailor?”

By then, a crowd had gathered around the two Chassidic masters, eager to learn the explanation for the rebbe’s baffling attention to the deceased.

“Was he one of the lamed vovniks?” one of the assembled asked, referring to the thirty-six Jews of every generation who, according to tradition, live unnoticed lives of righteousness and whose secret merit upholds the world.

“Hardly,” said the Koretzer Rebbe. “No, as far as I know, Mordecai the tailor was as much the sinner in private as he was in public.”

“So why do you show him such respect?” asked Rabbi Yaakov Yosef, quieting the crowd.

The Rabbi of Koretz offered a half smile to accompany a long tug at his beard. “Well, you see, I promised him a place in heaven and I wanted to be at his burial to make sure my promise was fulfilled.”

Rabbi Yaakov Yosef leaned in toward the Koretzer, not needing to state the obvious question: Why promise a place in heaven to an unrepentant sinner?

The Koretzer settled back on his heels, looked around at the crowd circled around him and then at Reb Yaakov Yosef. “Let me explain,” he said.

A few months ago, on a cold, wintry evening, Beril Shuster, Beril the shoemaker, as he’s known to some of you, knocked on my door. Beril apologized for his unscheduled visit, but said he had an important request. Would I officiate at his daughter’s wedding? His daughter Chaya, admittedly advanced in years, had finally been presented with a decent match. More gratifying, still, was the attitude of the groom, who didn’t demand a dowry. This was no small matter to Beril, a man of limited means, who could hardly afford to sustain the young couple for the first years of marriage, as many grooms expect of their fathers-in-law.

When Beril informed me of the date of the wedding, I had to inform him that, alas, I’d already committed to meetings that day involving important communal affairs. Seeing the disappointment on his face, I suggested that if he wanted me to perform the ceremony, the wedding could be held in my house late in the evening after my work was completed. And so it was arranged.

The Koretzer paused, tugged again on his beard and continued.

On the night of the wedding, everything was in place. The families of the bride and groom had all arrived in their festive best. But then, right before the groom was to walk to the wedding canopy, a disturbance was heard in the back of the room. It seemed Beril had promised his future son-in-law a Turkish wool prayer shawl and had failed to deliver. The son-in-law insisted Beril procure the tallis then and there. Beril pleaded with the young man, explaining that he hadn’t had the money before the wedding to make this significant purchase, but would get it for him the following day.

But the groom was obstinate. He would not stand under the canopy and allow the wedding to proceed unless he was presented with a Turkish tallis as promised.

“Please,” begged Beril. “Please don’t shame your bride. Tomorrow, I’ll have the tallis for you. My word.”

“Your word?” said the groom. “You’ve deceived me several times since I’ve been engaged to your daughter, promising gifts that never materialized. And once I’m married, you’re even more likely to renege on your pledges. Enough is enough. No tallis, no wedding.”

The guests stood waiting with increasing frustration. I among them. Finally, I had to speak. “Please,” I beseeched the groom, “Let’s continue with the ceremony.” This young man, however, was exceedingly clever, and proceeded to produce a proof-text from the Torah to justify his behavior.

“The verses in Deuteronomy 22 that speak of a man taking a wife immediately follow the passage enjoining a man to wear a tallis. Thus, it is only right I receive a tallis before I marry.”

The groom, clearly, would not budge. In the meantime, at stake was the mitzvah of hachnasas kallah, facilitating a marriage and ensuring a bride’s joy. It was imperative the wedding take place. So I suggested to the groom that we hold off for an hour. I myself would go into town and try to raise the money for the tallis.

II.

The groom agreed, but it was already late. When I stepped out into the street, I was greeted by a dark, moonless night. The lights were already extinguished in all the houses. Nevertheless, I kept walking, hoping to find a home whose inhabitants were still awake. And finally I did.

It was the home of Mordecai the tailor. Finding the door open, I walked in to find the tailor hunched over a cloth, needle in hand. When Mordecai finally looked up, he was, naturally, startled to see me standing in his doorway.

What would bring the rebbe, alone and so late in the evening, to his home, of all places?

I explained the situation and asked Mordecai for his help. He listened to the request with disdain, but finally withdrew a few kopecks from his pocket.

“As you are well aware,” the Koretzer noted to the assembled at the gravesite, “a genuine Turkish tallis costs more than a few kopeks. So I turned to leave and continue on my mission, one that increasingly seemed hopeless. But as I reached the door, I heard footsteps behind me.”

“Rebbe, please wait a moment. Suppose I gave you the money? The entire sum, all you need to purchase the very finest tallis.”

“That would be wonderful,” I began to answer. “The mitzvah of helping—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Mordecai interrupted. “But I want something in exchange. I want you to give me a guarantee.”

“Guarantee? For what?”

“That I will be admitted to heaven.”

The Chassidim listening to the rebbe’s story clucked their tongues when they heard what Mordecai the tailor had asked for.

“How could I secure heaven for this sinner?” the rebbe asked his audience. “How could I pledge eternal reward for a man who transgresses all the commandments? How could I do such a thing?

“Then I recalled the Talmudic discussion that lists the few good deeds that yield rewards in both this world and the next. And even for these few mitzvot, the principal reward is reserved for the World to Come.

“Among this select group,” Rabbi Yaakov Yosef suddenly interjected, “is the mitzvah of hachnasas kallah, assisting in the wedding of a bride.”

“Precisely,” said the Koretzer. “And that’s what I thought about standing in the foyer considering Mordecai the tailor’s request. I looked around and didn’t see a single Hebrew book or even a mezuzah on the doorpost. Instead, all I saw was Mordecai’s uncovered head and the bottle of non-kosher wine on his table. Then I thought of the distressed bride waiting under the wedding canopy in her gown. So I agreed to the proposal. Mordecai the tailor excused himself and a minute later returned with enough money to purchase a fine Turkish tallis.

“When I heard Mordecai the tailor had died, I realized I’d have to attend his burial to remind the angels who’d come for his soul about his charity that saved a marriage. And a good thing, too. Because those angels arrived expecting to bring Mordecai to the lower rungs, but now found it impossible to grab hold of his soul. You see, Mordecai the tailor’s soul was wrapped in a protective tallis, the spiritual tallis created for him the moment he performed the mitzvah of hachnasas kallah.”

“I don’t understand,” came a voice from the crowd. “A life of constant, blatant sinning, and one good deed gets him into heaven?”

“Indeed,” replied the Rebbe of Koretz. “This is the lesson we learn from the life of Mordecai the tailor. No one should assume he or she is precluded from the rewards of the afterlife. For with a single worthwhile deed, one can purchase eternity. But this, too: we can never be sure who has made such a purchase.”