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Avraham Fried
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Yakob
In Uzbekistan by the mountains of Dijan between the borders of India and Afghanistan lies a village alone, seen by no train; it can be reached only by aeroplane.
At night it is still, no sound, not a peep, the village and mountain cloaked in sleep.
Somewhere there in a lonely field far away, a small tractor among the paths makes its way.
A strapping youth on the tractor sits; seems he'll never stop driving it.
Yaakov the singer is what he's called; where's he from -- no one's been told.
Smoke streaked face, oil -- blackened hands, any tractor trouble he'll fix in a flash.
No one in the village knows as he does to free the tractor from the dirt and mud.
No one in the place knows that secret of his, just how far from his home he is.
How did a Russian train bring him here --- by miracle?
All day on his tractor to toil?
At night, songs so sweet he would sing, afar his voice would ring.
Shadows would surround him, they'd come to hear, not understanding: Who's this strange Tajik who doesn't stare back at them?
For at night, longing overcame him --- not for wild Tajiks, nor for the mountains.
He missed his parents, his home perhaps already in ruins.
He yearns for the yeshiva, where he took delight studying torah by day and by night. '
So says Rava, so Rav Papa says, perhaps Abaye thought otherwise?' A new question involved, proven, resolved, Maharsha, Rashba, Ritva, time passes and does not realize.
Rambam, Rashbam Rabbeinu Tam, what wondrous delight!
So says Rav Huna, Rav Sava Hamnuna.
Shammei reasoned a new thought...
Hillel came and questioned him until outside dawn broke.
On Shabbos, in the tea house, by the kettle sat Yaakov, friends sitting on the floor.
He cannot forget his longing --- Yaakov, It hasn't lessened a bit --- it's grown more.
The owner, the chief, turns to him: '
Yaakov; let's speak to the point.
I'll give you my young, sprite daughter, Yaakov, to marry and you'll do well.
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Thirty cows, twenty oxen, many clothes for you, Yaakov, there's no one like her in the world!
Yaakov lowers his face, doesn't respond, thinks back ten years to years long gone.
He sees his mother lighting candles, on her lips, a payer: '
Watch over my Yankele, O my creator, let him not lose his faith out there.' Yaakov arises, declares loudly, ' I am a Jew, I won't do it!
To marry a non - Jewess the Torah won't allow it!
The chieftain formed a plan to have a party on the morrow, to bring Yaakov by force to be his son-in-law.
Next afternoon, Yaakov sits and thinks all hope is gone.
Soon they'll come and drug him with opium and wine, until he loses his mind.
Behind the hills slips the sun; Yaakov waits and whispers confession.
A wolf howls and the mountain peaks loom; they look up and whisper, life's not easy; and soon, he hears a burst of music; all of a sudden the bride is being led in.
As if from sleep he awakens, runs toward the room, his bag of money to take.
He walks slowly, as to death, opens the door, looks inside the lighted room, smells the wine, wants to see more. '
So says Rava, so says Rav Papa.' He sees the words as if written on the page, speaking, calling, shouting, '
Reb Yaakov!
Run away!' The band plays, the bride sits there, Yaakov, about her diamonds sparkle; her father, her mother, and all the tribesmen, Yaakov, are coming, you to bring...
On the mountaintop that night, dark and cold.
Yaakov silently climbs, his eyes closed.
On both sides, awaiting his fall --- A deep abyss; but Yaakov is unafraid, his face lit with happiness. '
The Torah's way is but one!
And for me that is the way.
I'd rather be crushed here than from its path go astray.
Not a thing can cast fear in the heart of a Jew.
If he follows the Torah's route, Hashem will always see him through!'
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