The Holy Beggar of Tsfas

Tsfas has professional beggars, but none are drunkards, thank G-d, or homeless, G-d forbid. They just beg for a living. It's their job, they work hard at it, and keep regular hours.

Some work for organizations, like the fat guy who limps and carries a pushka charity can, or the spry, skinny guy on our cobblestoned street. He sings Yiddish and Hebrew folksongs and even dances around waltz-like, gentle and grateful, giving a blessing and a sweet smile to every generous soul. Some are self-employed, putting out their hand or an unlabelled plastic jar.

Until recently I’d turn my back on such sorts, suspicious of their need.

I asked my Rebbe, "How do I know if they really need the money? I'll bet some of them are better off than I." He told me, "If they ask, they need it, even if only in their own minds, and you should give." So I give whenever I see them, usually every day, just a half-shekel, worth 12 cents. It's the best bargain in the world I figure, a blessing for a few cents.

But the holiest of our seedier citizens isn't a beggar. When I first saw him loitering in old, torn clothes with big holes in the heels of his socks protruding above the top of his shoes, I thought he might be homeless, down and out. Then I started seeing him sitting at the cafe tables, hanging out with friends. Were they feeding him, I wondered?

Then the annual Tsfas Klezmer Music Festival happened. Tens of thousands of people flock to Tsfas to enjoy musicians playing in the streets, in the squares, in the parks, in every nook and cranny of town. I saw him at Klezmer, but not as a spectator.

Attracted by the music, I fought through the crowd to see what they were watching. It was him. Michael was dancing all by himself, entertaining a hundred spectators captivated by his grace and improvisation. His thin body celebrated the ecstasy of the music. His deeply lined, old face glowed from an inner light, his eyes dancing from joy.

He danced like Anthony Quinn in "Zorba the Greek," hands raised above his head to punctuate his movements. A black garbed Chasid jumped up to dance with him. The two, young and old, religious and secular, respected and ignored, yarmulka and stocking cap, danced together. Michael put so much of himself into his dancing that I felt like I was looking into his soul.

I didn't see him for a while. Then one day, I saw the familiar, tired yellow knit cap. Adjacent to my house is a horva, ruin. Destroyed in the last earthquake that devastated the town, the abandoned buildings are inhabited by stray cats and worse. I was coming into my courtyard through the back gate, and suddenly the old, metal horva gate slammed shut! A hand reached out, face and body hiding out of sight, to fasten the heavy chain and padlock. But his hat was visible. It was Michael's hat.

I was afraid to tell anyone. They might have the police evict him. There was no electricity, no water, no heat, no windows. How could he sleep there in the cold Tsfas nights? I figured that he showered daily at the Shul down the street, where men used the mikva, ritual bath, every morning. That would explain how he always looked so clean. Was he dangerous? Was it because of him that people locked their doors? I’d heard talk of a "few rotten apples" in town. Could he be one of them? Was I safe?

But I had seen him dance. Others might view him with suspicion, but I had seen him give himself to the people, holding nothing back. I decided to leave things as they were. He was old enough to receive social security. If he wanted to live in a ruin, I wasn't going to meddle. I kept his secret.

Winter turned to Spring and quickly into Summer. I gradually figured out that almost everyone in town knew that Michael lived in the horva next to me. They say that he works. So instead of being a bum, he's an eccentric.

Then I heard this story about him. Michael saw a friend one day crying, his head down on the table, buried in his arms. Michael tried to console him and asked what was wrong. The friend said that he was in trouble. Divorced, he hadn’t paid child support in years, and the authorities caught up with him. He needed $20,000 immediately, or he would go to jail.

Michael reached into his shabby pants pocket, took out a crumpled Lotto ticket, and showed it to his friend. Michael said, "Don't cry. You won't go to jail. This winning Lotto ticket is worth $20,000. All week, I wondered, 'Why did I win it?' I knew I didn't need the money, so I figured there must be some reason why I won. This must be why. So take the ticket and your troubles are over."

I never found out whether the story was true, but it really doesn't matter. What is important is that people here tell these kind of stories. This is Tsfas. Even our bums and our beggars are holy. Perhaps the holiest of all.