6. Beryl Beshtrufte

6. Beryl Beshtrufte

The Holoscheitzers call their Rabbi Yehoshua "the Wise" and from the stories I've heard, they're right. But from my own experience, the wisest thing he ever did was to marry that Rebbitzin of his.

I don't live in Holoscheitz. I live in Drovye, an hour and a half or two hours away, depending on the horse. I have a haberdashery in Drovye – socks, yarmulkes, shirts, fringed undershirts, and unmentionables for men. Not a big business, of which there are none in Drovye, but it keeps bread on the table and my wife off my back.

In Holoscheitz I have a cousin, Beryl Beshtrufte, – Beryl the Afflicted, the Suffering One. My mother – she should rest in peace and be a good pleader in Heaven for all Jewry in all places – my mother named him already at his circumcision, when he was only eight days old. She took one look at his tiny face, mottled skin, troubled eyebrows, and pinched lips and exclaimed –

"He looks like he's - beshtrufted, stricken, suffering!" and the name caught on. After that, it was rarely just plain Beryl. Most of the time it was Beryl Beshtrufte.

Actually he was born in Drovye. Unfortunately, though, his parents were carried off in that terrible influenza plague that swept through the shtetls that year. I remember it, even though I was a little kid – the number of funerals that stumbled through the ice-laden streets. So Beryl came to live with us. He wasn't really a burden, like an extra mouth to feed. He ate like a humming-bird – which means next to nothing. When he curled up in his corner to sleep you might have picked him with the rest of the laundry and not known he was there.

He ran with us boys – I should say he hung around us boys. But he always looked like he was suffering. His eyebrows forever curved upward as if in pain above his largish nose, his forehead was always creased, and his eyes red-rimmed with potential tears. His lips, since the day he was born, were pursed in what looked like he sucked constantly on a lemon.

He never laughed, not even on Purim, which is nearly a sin.

My father, may he live to be 120 – he's 72 now, and lives alone not far from me in Drovye – good health and long life to him – my father set Beryl up as an apprentice to Gedalia the Candle-maker. On one condition: that when he learned the trade, he would not remain in Drovye. There just wasn't enough room for two kosher candle-makers in this shtetl. Candle-making is not the cleanest profession. You always have wax somewhere – under your fingernails, in the cracks of your fingers clogging your pores. And the hot wax, if not handled right, can cause a nice lasting burn. Beryl Beshtrufte, being a new hand at it, certainly suffered his share of burns, but he never allowed even a mouse-like squeak to pass his lips.

So, after a few years, when the time came. Beryl Beshtrufte, still unmarried, left our town and set up in a shack in Holoscheitz, which never had a candle-maker.

Now I have to bring in Perl, my wife, into the story. Besides washing, cleaning, cooking, baking, and slapping the children around, she was a matchmaker. To her, a bachelor was an insult to Nature generally and to her in particular. And an unmarried cousin-by-marriage was a great insult indeed.

So she got to work on Beryl Beshtrufte. It wasn't too hard or too long a job. The girl she picked out for him was nearly twice as large as he was, but she limped and she had a yellowish color that did not advertise the best of health.

"Just for him, the beshtrufte," my wife crowed. "She'll never give him a moment of trouble."

How wrong she was, it seemed to us, as the years rolled on.

They moved into a hut in Holoscheitz, and Beryl built – I should say, rather, knocked together a workshop in the backyard. There he froze in the winter, not even the fire for heating the wax helped. In the summer, he sweated so much that pools formed at his feet. But all that happened was his eyebrows went up another millimeter and his lips set tighter.

Soon after the wedding the bride raised her voice. Her call, "BER-R-RYL-L" brought the whole shtetl to a standstill, accompanied by grins and whispers. One would nudge another and say, "Here he comes," and presently there came Beryl Beshtrufte running to the market for a forgotten potato, or down to the river for a pail of water, or to the Thaler store for a bit of thread.

After a year, a daughter, Dvorale, was born and the mother never seemed to lose the fat of the pregnancy. The call of "BER-R-RYL-L" rang out more frequently. His eyebrows rose still more, the forehead's lines became deeper, and the lips still more pinched.

It was clear that his wife was not well. With each pregnancy, her skin became more blotched, the eyes less bright, and a ring formed around her neck that didn't look natural to me. The fifth was too much, may she rest in peace, and be a good pleader in the True World, etc., and Beryl Beshtrufte was left with five little ones. He was lucky in one respect that his eldest, Dvorale, was what she was. She became a little mother to her sisters and brothers. Without her, not even Beryl Beshtrufte's suffering could stand it.

"So he's a bachelor again," observed my wife, Perl, "only this time with five children."

You could see that she was pre-occupied with the challenge. She baked and cooked, cleaned and washed out of habit, and slapped the children more and harder because they interrupted her concentration on candidates for cousin Beryl.

There I was in my haberdashery, looking into a Gemara, which I like to do between customers, when I was startled out of the beginning of a little nap by my wife who burst into the store like a shot from Napoleon's cannon. She was dressed in her Shabbos dress, coat, wig, and hat.

"What's this? What's this?" I cried.

"What's this?" she echoed in answer. "I'm going to Holoscheitz to see Beryl Beshtrufte. I have a wonderful widow for him. Widow Pfeffercorn. Only two children. That makes only seven. I can't ride into town for such a reason and not pay a visit to Rebbitzin Garfinkel. And you can't pay respects to a Rebbitzin dressed like for a kitchen!

"I'll be back tonight," she informed me. "Mrs. Grossfelder will take care of the little one, you take care of the others – supper, a quick wash, bed." And she was gone.

So what could I do? I closed early. I gave the kids supper, et cetera. I couldn't go, of course, to pray the afternoon and evening services in the beis medrash. A woman simply doesn't understand the obligations of the Jewish male.

I was half asleep around midnight when my Perl came back to our house, preceded by hoof beats and horse-snorts. She saw I was awakened. As she prepared for bed, she announced from behind the curtain:

"Beryl Beshtrufte and his family are coming for Shabbos. He's coming to look over the Widow Pfeffercorn."

I squeaked, "The children, too?"

"The children, too," my wife echoed.

"All five?"

"All five."

I sighed deeply, for I saw six hungry mouths eating up the month's profits from the store. Ah, well, it's for a good cause and Beryl is my relative. Next month will be better.

As my wife heaved into her bed, she said, "I met the Rebbitzin of Holoscheitz. As they say, she's a fine lady and no doubt a smart one. But she knows nothing about matchmaking."

I could tell from her tone of voice and how she settled against her pillow that she was ready for an "I said/she said", so I resigned myself into my blanket.

"I said, 'How do you do, Rebbitzin. I'm a cousin to Beryl Tuffleman. I'm trying to arrange a match for him, poor man.'

"She said, 'That's nice. We are very worried about him, alone with five children, although Dvora is a wonderful help.'

"I said, 'But a sister is a sister, not a mother.'

"She said, 'That's very true.'

"I said, 'I found a very nice widow for him, with only two children.'

"She said, 'Oh?'

"I said, 'It's a perfect match. Here's a woman who will be grateful to him for taking her and her little ones into his household. She'll make him a king in his home."

"For a moment the Rebbitzin just sat there and said nothing. And then, do you know what she said? Do you?"

I shook my head wildly "No."

"She said, 'Beryl will not be interested in the Widow Pfeffercorn.' Just that, not a word more. Can you imagine?! Can you?"

Again I shook my head wildly "No."

"Well! I just didn't know what to say." [I didn't quite believe that!] "So I said, 'I hope you are wrong. She is, as I said before, a perfect match.' And the Rebbitzin, she just smiled.

"So I said, 'Goodbye. We'll meet again at the wedding!'"

Perl gave one satisfied snort, and turned over to go to sleep. "As I said before, she doesn't know anything about matchmaking."

All week my Perl shopped and slapped, baked and cooked. On Friday, I received my orders about Shabbos:

"You are to point out the Widow Pfeffercorn after shul to Beryl Beshtrufte. I want him to see how she carries herself – the modesty, and how she dresses – how plainly. She will not be a spendthrift. Remark how she comes to shul, not like other women" – [my wife included, I thought – silently, of course]. "Her boy will sit next to you and even if you have to sit on him, he is not to act like he always does.

"She will come alone for tea ten minutes before you and Beryl go back to shul in the afternoon. Ten minutes, that's all. And then you get up with Beryl and leave. I don't want them to become too familiar. We must leave some mystery for after the wedding."

About a half-hour before the beginning of Shabbos on Friday evening, Beryl Beshtrufte, face pinched, eyes burning, brow lined, lips set as always, and his five children turned the usual household storm into a typhoon. My Perl had a glorious time shouting orders, tweaking the ears of our little ones if they didn't move fast enough, smiling the set smile of the put-upon aunt to Beryl's children. And my cousin the Beshtrufte just stood in the corner, hands wringing, eyes sadly observing, thin mustache and beard quivering.

Basically, however, the Shabbos went fairly smoothly. Beryl's kids and ours got dirty together, and Beryl actually complimented my wife's cooking – out of courtesy, since he ate half of what a sparrow does on bad days.

In shul, I had to give Moishele Pfeffercorn a secret pinch in his thigh that he would remember for ten years, after which he was an angel. Beryl Beshtrufte barely looked at him. He hid himself in his tallis away from the stares of people whom he had known years before as a young fellow.

After prayers, I made sure that he observed the Widow as she strolled homeward. Later in the afternoon, she simpered in exactly on schedule. Perl introduced them to each other, and Beryl and I slurped our tea together and ran back to shul. After the Havdalah brought us once more into the weekday world, as Dvorale, Beryl's eldest, directed her sisters and brothers in packing up, Perl pulled my cousin into a corner and beckoned to me to come, too.

"Nu, Beryl?"

Beryl looked at his shoes, then the corner of the room above Perl's shoulder, finally inspired by a spot on the wall between my wife and me, he said, "It's not for me, but thank you."

"What?" yelped my Perl. "A fine, modest, quiet woman. She'll work her fingers to the bone for you. She'll make you a king in your household. She'll be perfect for the children."

But Beryl Beshtrufte dejectedly shrugged his shoulders, and repeated, "Yes, but, it's not for me, thank you."

And they clattered out of the house and onto the wagon that would take them back to Holoscheitz.

My wife was in shock. I could tell because she didn't say a word all evening. This frightened the children so much that not one raised his or her voice, nor whacked a brother or sister, and I actually saw little Mottke get little Schmiel a toy that had rolled under a table.

And so to bed. In the middle of the night, my wife suddenly cried out, "Of course! I know why! She's a widow! That beshtrufte is afraid of comparison with her dead husband. A half-dead rat would make him feel like an all-dead mouse. All right! We'll look elsewhere."

Oy, thought I, not another loss of a month's profits!

Actually, it took six weeks. That's because there was no one in Drovye that my Perl sound suitable. She found someone in Czerno, not closer. A divorcee, a Mrs. Chasen. Two teen-age daughters, good caretakers of Beryl's brood. An excellent match! Couldn't be better on both sides!

So, another trip to Holoscheitz. This time Perl came home in the dead of night peeved. I made a mistake: I asked her what's wrong.

"What's wrong? What's wrong, you ask me! How do you know anything's wrong? Did you suddenly become a prophet in the last five hours?"

This woke the little one and she had to take care of him. I knew that if I even moved, she would shout me out of the house. So I lay there and waited and prayed.

"And it's not your cousin, Beryl Beshtrufte. He's ready to come next Shabbos again. It's that Rebbitzin!"

I knew I was in for another "I said/she said".

"I paid my respects again. I said, 'It seems that Beryl didn't want a widow. Probably he's afraid of comparison with the dead husband.'

"She said, 'Possibly.'

"I said, 'But I don't give up so easily. I found a different type for him.'

"She said, 'Oh? What type is that?'

"I said, counting off on my fingers, 'Mrs. Chasen is a divorcee, not a widow; she has two teenage daughters, no sniveling, disobedient little children.' I described Mrs. Chasen's elegance, education, experience – piety!

"The Rebbitzin sat there and thought about it, and then – do you know what she said? Do you?"

I shook my head emphatically.

"She said, 'He won't accept her.'"

"That's what she said. Looking so certain, as if the whole world can be wrong, but she not!"

But I heard the soft note of doubt in my wife's words. The Rebbitzin of Holoscheitz's correct prediction that the Widow Pfeffercorn shidduch will not come off had shaken my Perl.

Two Shabbosim later, another month's profits disappeared. The whole shidduch-shpiel was replayed: the arrival of the wagon-full of beshtruftes a half-hour before the onset of Shabbos, panic in the kitchen, kids sleeping every-which-way on the floor.

Again, only Beryl's nose could be seen from the hollow of his tallis. The afternoon tea-party. In walks Mrs. Chasen followed by her daughters like a mother duck leading the file of ducklings. After the introductions, Mrs. Chasen lay upon Beryl such a heavy look of pity and concern and deepest understanding (and her girls, too) that it was almost choking. Clearly the lady was instructed, primed, maybe even rehearsed by my Perl. Beryl and I escaped to the shul.

We returned to light the candle bidding goodbye to the Shabbos. Perl could not wait to pull Beryl to a corner. She barked at him:

"Nu?"

Beryl Beshtrufte fidgeted, looked to see if his children were making ready to go home, shifted back, and said to his shoes.

"Thank you, but it's not for me."

Perl paled. I even got frightened, I thought she would faint. Then she flushed. Then she roared:

"You're crazy! Crazy! A divorcee, with two baby-sitters, yet! A fine, pious woman! She understands your situation. She pities you! You couldn't have it any better!"

But all that Beryl Beshtrufte did was to shrug his shoulders, screw up his eyes, and fix them on his favorite crack in the wall.

"Yes, but it's not for me."

And off he went with his brood.

As for us, we went to bed. Again, a midnight screech!

"Of course! I should have realized! That beshtrufte is afraid of a divorced woman. What if she was the cause of the break-up? He's afraid he'd be getting into a bed of trouble!" Satisfied, she lay back. But only for a moment. Up she sat. "A widow he didn't want. A divorcee he didn't want. Where will I get someone he does want?"

I decided to take my life into my hands. I murmured a little prayer for success on what I was about to do and for peace on my household, and said:

"Perl, twice the Rebbitzin Garfinkel was right. Maybe you should talk to her before, this time." I held myself ready to dive under the quilt. But praise the Lord, Who, as we say, moves in mysterious ways, Perl said nothing. Absolutely nothing, and just lay down. Who said that the age of miracles was past?

Perl was quiet for a few days. Then she announced that she was making yet a third round trip to Holoscheitz. Was she actually taking my advice? She hadn't mentioned the name of any likely candidate as she had the other times. When she got back, there was a look of far-off calculation in her eyes.

Well, to bring the story closer to the end, I can tell you she did find somebody. An orphan, a girl already in her thirties, who had no one to speak for her, no possibility of even a handkerchief for a dowry, which is why she remained unwed until this advanced age.

She spent a Shabbos with us. I know that if I spent a Shabbos under the sharp inspection of Perl's hawk-like eyes, I'd be shivering. This girl shivered, but I'm not sure it was from fear. She looked sick – small, a green tinge along the jaw-line, sharp cheek-bones, and disappointed eyes. On Friday night, after she joined my eldest girl in bed and dropped off to sleep, I whispered to Perl:

"She looks like a rag after the Passover cleaning."

"Shush!" replied my wife.

"How could you wish her on Beryl," I persisted. "He's beshtruft enough."

Hissed my loving wife, "Close your mouth! Another word, and I'll crown you with my grandmother's chulent pot – the heavy one!"

So I shut up, of course.

Perl didn't run off to Holoscheitz this time. She sent a message with Aaron Levy, the Holoscheitz peddler, who was passing through our town. I didn't have to ask what the message was. It may have been addressed to cousin Beryl, but it said to me, "Again no profits this month."

The old story. Beryl and crowd came and ate and he saw Fruma, this girl I told you about. Comes Havdaleh, and this time Beryl didn't wait for Perl to ask.

He smiled, I think for the first time in his life. "With God's help, I'll think about it. Thank you."

It was I who nearly fainted this time, but my wife heaved a sigh of relief and actually embraced Beryl, nearly choking him.

The wedding took place in Holoscheitz on a Saturday night, and this time we invaded Beryl's household. Dvorale outdid herself. Fruma naturally was nowhere near Beryl's house. She spent the day in the house of Rabbi and Rebbitzin Garfinkel. It was a joyous wedding and you could see that Beryl's children were happy that a mama was coming to live with them.

The zemerim seemed to be as happy as the crowd – it was not possible for fingers to move so fast on violin strings or on the clarinet but they did. One of the Holoscheitzers said to me that he had never seen the Rabbi throw himself into the dancing as tonight: usually he danced with cool dignity, as befits a Rabbi, but not tonight. I danced so much that my feet were swelling inside my shoes and I hobbled off to the side.

And what do I see? I see my Perl and Rebbitzin do a shuffling dance together off to the side, where my wife embraced the Rebbitzin and kissed both of her cheeks. I knew that this was a unique night in my Perl's life when she caught my eye and smiled. Then she danced off to whirl around with the bride, who looked like she was ready to drop with fatigue.

Left all alone, the Rebbitzin fanned herself with a scarf. There was a smile on her face and her eyes glittered. Dvorale came over to lead her away to finish the current dance together, and then the Rebbitzin returned.

I slid over along the wall. "Pardon me, Rebbitzin Garfinkel," I said, "but we met a long time ago under much sadder circumstances."

She smiled. "Yes, you're Beryl's cousin from Drovye. Was it your wife who worked so hard to find a shidduch for Beryl?"

"Right!" I said.

"It is, thank God, a pleasure to see the fruits of her labors."

I tried to look sly and wise. "Ah, Rebbitzin, but I suspect that you had something to do with her success."

She just gestured with her hand.

"Tell me, what advice did you give to my Perl that she went out after two failures and found the right one like it was prepared in heaven?"

She surveyed the crowd for a moment, considered, then answered, "I must tell you the truth: neither you nor your wife seemed to understand Beryl."

I was surprised to hear this. "Really? We're his relatives."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Tuffleman, you don't understand your cousin. He – how shall I say it? – he needs to suffer. I really don't know why, but that's the situation. Maybe it's his way of proving that he means more to someone than being merely a candle-maker. But, we in Holoscheitz, who lived with him through his first marriage, observed that he was happiest when he was most put-upon, trying to make his candles, running to the shops, to the river, to the shul, in all kinds of weather. Perhaps in this way he felt that other lives depended upon him and he felt a satisfaction that he could never express. But he would have felt – very small, if a wife had made him a king in his own household. I think he would see it as a sort of charity. Illogical? Contradictory? Well, the Lord created all sorts to make up His world."

She moved away to answer the Rabbi's beckoning and I was left in a cloud of awe.

Soon, the call of "BER-R-R-YLL" once again resounded in Holoscheitz. Maybe not as strong as the first time, but strong enough to send Beryl scurrying through the streets, overheated in summer, freezing in winter, raindrops dripping from his nose in stormy weather. The lines in his face got deeper. I'll take the Rebbitzin's word for it that he was happier. Of course, he never said so.

Copyright © Dan Vogel