The premonition

“Remember: the most important thing about your prayers is the faith that they will not go unanswered.”
Rabbi Nachman

*

Aishel Avraham Nursing Home, Brooklyn, New York.

A premonition of trouble roused the old man from his bed at 5:45 a.m.!

He got dressed on his own, sat in his wheelchair, rolled into the elevator, pressed the right button, rode to the synagogue, put on his tallit*, put on his tefillin**, and prayed fervently, prayed...
- “Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad!” (Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is One!)

My acquaintance with Rabbi Frankel began on the “wrong foot.” In a foul mood, he was moving around in a wheelchair, pushing off with his left foot and puffing on a cigarette, and shouting in Hebrew at whoever was behind him:

- Get out of the way!
I was the one behind him. He ran over my left foot.

It wasn’t the pain from the wheelchair that angered me, but the smoldering cigarette between his teeth.
“Did you get out of bed on the wrong side?” I blurted out in Hebrew.
The cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on his knee. I brushed away the cigarette butt, which had already burned his skin, leaving yet another hole in his pants.

You need to take off your pants and treat the burn, but he grabbed my wrist tightly and painfully.

“How do you know I got up on the wrong side of the bed today?” he asked in surprise and burst out laughing.

“What a silly, strange old man,” I thought.

To my surprise, he didn’t resist when I told him he needed to treat the burn on his knee.
We went up to the fifth floor together. In very broken English, I asked a nurse for help.
“I’ll be your interpreter, and you’ll be my companion. You can just call me Rabi. My son will pay you at the end of the month.”

He didn’t wait for my consent. He ordered...

“Be at my place tomorrow at 6:30 a.m.!”

I couldn’t stand the cigarette smoke, but how could I refuse an old man begging for help? So I became his companion.
The next day at 6:30 a.m., I was in his room, just as he had ordered.

As soon as he opened his eyes, he would immediately recite “mode ani”—a prayer—and I would hand him a special mug of water and a basin. He would wash each hand in turn, three times; the “natilat yadayim” ritual went smoothly.
But getting out of bed, getting dressed, washing his face, getting into his wheelchair, and waiting for the elevator so he could be at the synagogue by seven for morning prayer (Shacharit) was quite difficult for him.

The rabbi was ninety years old. He moved very little, afraid of falling; he smoked a lot and complained of weakness, insomnia, a lack of newspapers, stiffness in his joints, tough meat, overcooked vegetables, the doctor—whom he called “Dokhtor-Shmokhtor”—and the pills the doctor had prescribed for him.
He suggested that the doctor take it himself, even though the pain in his hunched, osteoporosis-ravaged back and joints was sometimes unbearable.


I managed to resolve some of the issues. He started receiving newspapers regularly, and the tough meat became softer after his visit to the dentist. He began walking more, since he was taking the painkillers that “Dr. So-and-so” had prescribed. He started smoking much less and not in my presence. I couldn’t do anything about the overcooked vegetables at the nursing home: they were, are, and always will be either overcooked or undercooked. But I managed to get them to serve him a fresh salad for lunch.

He accused me of being brazen. He called me a “chutzpah” (bold, brazen) in Hebrew. He said I’d become completely insolent by throwing the holey pants from his expensive suits into the trash and sending the jackets to the dry cleaner, leaving him with nothing to wear. When his daughter found out that I’d managed to throw away the pants with cigarette burns and order new ones that could be washed instead of sent to the dry cleaner—and that now the jackets would be free of ketchup, milk, and soup stains—her joy knew no bounds. She couldn’t believe I’d managed to do it.
Yes, he was a very stubborn old man.

But inside that old man lived a young, restless, and wise soul. He could only get out of bed with his left foot first because his right leg was shorter. That’s why he roared with laughter at my question: “Did you get out of bed with your left foot first?” He joked a lot, though he never smiled at all; even though he spoke with hidden meanings, I understood him at a glance—that’s how people spoke in Odessa, where I spent my childhood and youth.

When I learned that rabbi was born in Israel, in Safed—an ancient, mystical city for which I still feel a deep, lingering nostalgia—I began to regard him as a member of my family. After all, who else but he, born in that ancient, mystical city, could understand my nostalgia? I told him how, one day—after living in Israel for nearly fourteen years—I happened to stop by this city, which mesmerized me, and I melted into the pure intoxicating air.
How I sat in a trance on the steps of an ancient stone house with turquoise shutters, and, upon returning home, persuaded my husband to go with me to this city to breathe… After the stinking, damp, chemical-laden air of Haifa, Safed seemed like paradise to me, a place I went to recharge my “batteries.”

I told them that my husband and I had arrived in Israel in November 1973, and how I immediately fell in love with my new homeland, which had not yet recovered from the Yom Kippur War, and what had forced us to tear our sons—who were born in Israel—away from their homeland in order to “settle down” in America. “Yordim” is the derogatory term used for those who have left Israel. I was afraid that, once we arrived in America, my children would suffer and drift away from Jewish culture.

The rabbi comforted me:
“I, too, am a yored; I left Israel many years ago. I used to run a hotel there, sold it, and here in America, I became a rabbi. God’s ways are inscrutable. Sometimes you have to ‘go down’ in order to ‘go up.’ It’s never too late to do teshuva***!”
His words touched my soul. The invisible hand of God led me, who didn’t know English
English, at the nursing home where I became a caregiver (in Russia and Israel, I worked as a nurse).

The Aishel Avraham nursing home was built in Williamsburg (a neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York) for Jews who survived the Holocaust or lost loved ones during those years and who needed care. The Hasidic communities, of which there are many in Williamsburg, became their family. Visiting the sick (Bikur Cholim) is a mitzvah—a divine duty—and crowds of volunteers—young and old, women and men—come even in a snowstorm to feed and cheer up the elderly!

Tears welled up in my eyes. My youngest son was mesmerized by Williamsburg (just as I once was by Safed) when he found himself on the streets, where cheerful, boisterous Hasidic boys with long sidelocks were running about, men were dressed only in black suits, and modestly dressed women were pushing baby strollers...
He wanted to study at a yeshiva and observe Jewish laws. He went to yeshiva.
I began lighting Shabbat candles; of course, we made our kitchen kosher and began observing Shabbat—these were our first steps on the “staircase leading upward.” I introduced the rabbi to my husband and sons. My husband would stop by his place in the mornings before work to have coffee; he worked two blocks from the nursing home—at a bakery where they baked matzo.

The rabbi himself made the coffee at the nursing home. He would boil milk, add coffee, cocoa, lots of sugar, and lots of love to it, pour this magical drink into a magical container with a spout, and place it near the synagogue. There was enough coffee for everyone who came to the synagogue to pray or to help those who were praying. The rabbi was happy to see my husband; they joked, philosophized, and talked about politics. I used this as a lure whenever I couldn’t convince the old man to get out of bed for morning prayers (Shacharit); I’d say, “Maybe Zvi, my husband, is downstairs near the synagogue, drinking coffee? Who knows?”

Once, the rabbi spent the whole day in bed. He was looking at a portrait of his late wife, and you could tell how much he missed her. Suddenly, he said:

“I must have done something good in my life, which is why the Almighty sent you to me!”
In Hebrew, it sounded very touching, and I realized it was a compliment. In gratitude, I repeated his very words:
“I must have done something good in my life… and that’s why the Almighty sent you to me!”
He smiled at my plagiarism.

I didn’t yet know that my words had reached the Almighty’s ears and that He would warn the rabbi of the impending disaster.

On that fateful morning, my husband and I were driving to work as usual through the sleepy streets of Brooklyn when suddenly a truck crashed into our little car. The driver and passengers were terrified and fled. They were never found. The police patrol looked at us as if we were aliens. We got out of the completely wrecked car without a single scratch... B

It was six o’clock in the morning.

At exactly six o’clock, the rabbi was sitting near the synagogue, praying for our salvation. By the time I got to work, it was well past eight. I felt guilty because I was late. I was in shock after the accident. The rabbi was sitting by the front door with a tallit draped over his head, smoking and crying tears of joy.
“You’re alive! Baruch Hashem. (Praise God!) He heard me!”


It’s been  35 years since then. I retired in 2015 after working at this nursing home for 16 years as a registered nurse (having graduated from college in 1998).
During that time, the nursing home changed its name three times )))
My oldest son lives with me, and my youngest has already given me eleven grandchildren!

I recently had a dream—my husband Zvi (of blessed memory) and Rabbi Frenkel (of blessed memory) were joking, philosophizing, talking about politics, and drinking that magical elixir, coffee...

P.S. If you ever visit Israel, be sure to visit Safed!
You can admire Safed on YouTube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfQeKgwU49U


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Предчувствие...» было обнародовано на сервере Проза.ру 16 ноября 2015 года.

Адрес размещения произведения:размещения произведения:

http://proza.ru/2015/11/16/1173
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Сегодня сентябрь 15 2026.год
Мой рассказ опубликован в американской русскоязычный газете "Еврейский мир"
https://issuu.com/thejewishworldrussian/docs/ym1791

https://issuu.com/thejewishworldrussian/docs/ym1791