In the vast pale of Russia there was a small dreary shtetl that, like in countless others, revolved around faith, ritual, tradition, and above all their rabbi’s teachings. It was a community of ramshackle houses. Each was located on a modest plot of land with a garden in the back where families toiled to produce food to sustain them through the seasons, especially the punishing winters.
A poor pious woman named Leah lived alone in that shtetl. She had learned that her husband Yitzhak, drafted soldier, had died during a battle in one of the Czar’s futile wars some months ago. Leah’s home was a modest wooden cottage whose peeling blue paint showed patches of its previous green color. As a sign of bereavement, the widow wore a black babushka, one that almost completely covered her gradually graying thinning hair. The headscarf was beginning to fade from repeated washings, but it seemed to harmonize with the shapeless drab dresses she usually wore. Leah’s deep-set brown eyes always seemed sad. The widow survived by doing various odd jobs and through her neighbors’ charity.
One Friday noon a stranger appeared in the shtetl. Leah did not know that this man was the comrade of her husband Yitzhak when they served as conscripts in the Czar’s army. Her husband had mentioned his friend’s name in his letters, but the widow had never met him. Shmuel, now very thin and had grown a jet-black beard. He was dressed in a dark tattered vest over a collarless white shirt buttoned at the neck and on his head was a short-brimmed cloth workman’s hat. His patched trousers were obviously salvaged from his days in the army. Shmuel was very religious. He strongly believed that a gift given anonymously was the highest form of charity and intended perform to a small mitzvah in remembrance of his late comrade Yitzhak.
When Leah returned home after earning a few kopeks that afternoon, she found a fat golden hen in her front yard. Under her door was an unsigned note. It said the chicken was a gift for her Sabbath. Leah rarely had chicken to eat for any day. Having this on the Sabbath would certainly make this a very special shabbos. Excited and delighted, the widow wrapped the clucking chicken in a fold of her oversized skirt and carried it through the shtetl’s rutted streets to Moshe, the village butcher. The jovial Moshe was everyone’s friend, and he strictly followed the kosher laws to the letter. Not only are these laws an opportunity for showing obedience to God, they also strongly contribute to Jewish unity and identity.
Now according to the kashruth law regarding the slaughtering of animals (shehitah) an incision had to be made across the neck of the hoofed animal or fowl by a qualified person (shohet) especially trained for ritual slaughter, with a special sharp knife that has a smooth edge with absolutely no nicks. The slaughtering must be made by moving the knife in a single swift and uninterrupted sweep, without pressure or stabbing. This severs the main arteries, rendering the animal unconscious and permits the blood to drain from the body. The slaughterer is obligated to recite a prayer before the act of shehitah.
However, just as Moshe was slaughtering the bird, he sneezed violently. His ritual knife slipped and failed to sever the bird’s neck with a single, swift cut; not the Torah prescribed quick and humane death for the bird. Therefore, the chicken was now considered “treif”— not kosher. The distraught butcher in his blood-stained apron turned to the frail widow and apologetically said, “Leah, I am sorry about the accident. I would gladly replace your chicken with one from the shop, but because it is erev Shabbat, all my chickens have been sold. I have no way of helping you.”
The poor widow became desperate. Surely the shtetl’s rabbi would know what to do. A dejected Leah sadly took the dead bird to the wood-framed house of Rabbi Hakham. On her way, she passed a black-bearded stranger who gave her a look of concern, but he remained silent. Leah, intent on her mission, ignored him. Reaching the Rabbi’s cottage, she knocked on his door. Shortly thereafter the Rabbi’s assistant, Yitzhak, opened it. As was the custom she reverently kissed her fingers and reached up to touch the wooden mezuzah on the right doorpost of the Rabbi’s home. The stooped grey-whiskered Rabbi came to the door and greeted her warmly. Leah told him about the kindness of a stranger and how she longed to have chicken for her Sabbath dinner. Through no fault of her own her Sabbath appeared ruined.
Rabbi Hakham adjusted the black yarmulke on his balding head. Looking over wire-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose; he quietly asked Leah to place the chicken on the end of his sturdy reading table. Perplexed, the scholarly Rabbi first stared at the dead bird, then turned to the large bookcase that dominated his room. Rabbi Hakham put a hand to his forehead, looked out a window and noted the lengthening shadows of the approaching Sabbath. Suddenly a finger pointed to the study’s ceiling indicating that the Rabbi now remembered an obscure text. He called Yitzhak to fetch a heavy leather-bound book from a high shelf. Once his assistant placed it on his table, the Rabbi began to leaf through the dog-eared volume. Finally, Rabbi Hakham stroked the chin of his beard then beamed as he peered at a passage under his thin finger. Triumphantly he cried out, “There it is! Your chicken is kosher after all, hurry home and prepare it before sundown. Shabbat Shalom! (A peaceful Sabbath!).”
A joyful Leah thanked Rabbi Hakham, swept the chicken from the Rabbi’s table. Clutching it under her arm, she stumbled through the door and hastily kissed the Rabbi’s mezuzah once again.
Meanwhile Yitzhak looked puzzled. He cocked his head to one side, pulled on a curled forelock and raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Rabbi,” he said, “the paragraph that you pointed to said nothing about the Kosher Laws. Shouldn’t you have told Leah that the bird was treif?”
Rabbi Hakham paused, sat back in his creaking wooden chair, and lifted his eyes heavenward. He said, “Better for me to take the sin and her to enjoy her shabbat meal.”
On her way home, the widow again passed the black-bearded stranger who leaned on a rickety cane. Tipping his short-brimmed cloth hat, he smiled timidly at her— but did not utter a word. He then limped the down the road and away from the shtetl.
Louis Arthur Norton, professor emeritus from the University of Connecticut, has published extensively in the scientific literature and seafaring topics including five maritime history non-fiction books plus one children’s book. His articles have been awarded several prizes for both non-fiction and fiction.