The Old man in the English village

By Menachem Posner

Yitzchak, a Chassidic Jew from London’s Stamford Hill neighborhood, frequently took business trips to the countryside in northern England. No matter how far he traveled, though, he was careful to always return home in time for Shabbat—except for one Friday...

On that Friday morning in the late 1950s, engine trouble forced Yitzchak off the road as he was returning home for Shabbat.

In the service station waiting for his car to be repaired, he glanced at his watch frequently, wishing that the watch’s hands would move just a little bit slower and the mechanic’s hands would move just a little bit faster.

After several hours, Yitzchak’s car was up and running, but it was clear that he would not have time to return to London for Shabbat.

With little time to spare, Yitzchak drove to the nearest village, checked into a local hotel and made inquiries about the closest synagogue. To his delight, there was an old synagogue in town.

The building had been constructed in grand style, but now it had a neglected appearance. As the sun sunk in the west, a handful of worshippers trickled into the building.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, Yitzchak was approached by an elderly gentleman named Yankel Frankinowitz. Sporting a full beard and speaking fluent Yiddish.

“Would you be so kind as to be my Shabbat guest?” asked the older man. Upon hearing Yitzchak’s positive reply, the man broke into a broad grin.

They walked in silence until they reached the old man’s home—a crumbling old house with a faint light emanating through the grimy windows of one of the rooms.

As Mr. Frankinowitz ascended the stairs to his home, he started wheezing and coughing incessantly. But the old man dismissed his younger guest’s concern. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said in Yiddish, “It’s just a bit of asthma. It happens to me all the time.”

As they entered the dining room, Yitzchak was surprised to see that the table was set for two. “How did he know that I would be coming?” he wondered.

As if he read Yitzchak’s thoughts, Mr. Frankinowitz said: “I’m always ready for a guest to join me for Shabbat, and I set an extra setting just in case.”

The food was under-seasoned and overcooked, but the atmosphere at that Shabbat meal was outstanding. At one point, Yitzchak noticed his host’s well-worn but still-beautiful Chumash [Five Books of Moses] from which he was reading and translating the weekly Torah portion.

“Ah yes,” said the old man with delight. “It belonged to my grandfather, as did the Siddur [prayer book] that I use in synagogue. It has endured decades of heavy use, but it’s still as good as new, if not better!”

Yitzhak stayed over that night in response to Mr. Frankinowitz’s desire to offer hachnasat orchim [hospitality]. His host coughed a great deal in the night.

The following morning was even colder, and Yitzchak begged his host to stay home rather than walk the long way to and from synagogue. But the old man would hear none of it.

Between their long walks to synagogue that Shabbat, and even longer meals, the two men developed a fast but deep connection, and the elderly Mr. Frankinowitz shared his story.

“I was born in Russia and still remember those terrible times—the pogroms, the hunger and the fear.

“When I was seven, we left for England and settled here. My parents passed away not long after, and my grandparents took me in. They were the pillars of the community, and with their dedication, a synagogue was built here.

“My grandparents were always hosting travelers in their home. They never took a penny for their services, happy to provide fellow Jews with kosher food and a warm bed.

“The younger generation grew up and moved away, attracted by the opportunities that the bigger cities like Manchester and London offered them.

“The Jewish community dwindled, and my wife and I wanted to move to a town where there would be other Jews like us, who valued Torah and mitzvah observance, but my grandfather was adamant. We were needed here.

“Before he passed away, my grandfather again asked me to remain here. ‘There will come a time,’ he told me, ‘that a Jewish traveler will come through town needing a place to eat. Then you will know why you are so needed here. Who would be there to serve them if not you?’

“And so I remained here for a Jewish traveler who might be in need of a kosher home,” the man concluded simply.

Yitzchak then understood that he was the guest for whom his host had waited for decades.

As the old man broke into another coughing fit, Yitzchak’s eyes glazed over with pitying tears.

After regaining his breath, the old man continued. “Please don’t feel bad for me. Your visit has given me so much pleasure; it has given meaning to all the years of waiting, proving my grandfather’s words to be true. The circle is now complete.”

With Shabbat concluding, they shook hands warmly before Yitzchak drove off into the night. Yitzchak promised that he’d return, claiming that he had more business in the area. The truth was that he wanted to come back with a gift for the old man who had been so kind.

When he came back to the sleepy hamlet later that week, Yitzchak climbed the steps to Mr. Frankinowitz’s old home and knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times—silence. Fearing the worst, he sped off to the synagogue, where he was informed that Mr. Frankinowitz had passed away on Sunday morning.

“He came to services as usual, started coughing, and then he was gone,” said the caretaker.

“Wait a minute,” continued the caretaker. “Are you the guest who was here on Shabbat? Mr. Frankinowitz left you something. I found it on his table when I went to his house to put his belongings in order.”

It was a neatly wrapped package with a note. Written in Yiddish, it expressed Mr. Frankinowitz’s gratitude at being able to finally fulfill the mitzvah of hosting guests, and it stated that the enclosed Chumash and Siddur were a token of his appreciation and an expression of his hope that Yitzchak would raise his children in the spirit of Torah and mitzvah observance.”

Upon learning that the old man left no relatives, Yitzchak took it upon himself to say kaddish for him.

And from then on, Yitzchak’s family adopted the peculiar custom of always setting an extra seat at the Shabbat table, ready to be used by anyone in need of a warm meal.

They say that part of what has kept Yiddishkeit (Judaism) going for all these generations is that it gives every social deviant some kind of release. Think about it: Passover is for adults with OCD and kids who love asking why, Tisha B’av is for people who want to bring beach chairs to Shul, Yom Kippur is for people obsessed with dieting, Rosh Hashanah is for people with a major sweet tooth to the extent that even their fruits need honey, Shavuos is for insomniacs, and Purim is for people who like to make noise.

In fact, hearing Haman’s name is the reason most little kids show up on Purim. We get to make lots of noise every time we hear Haman’s name because we want to blot him out. After all, Haman was the one who plotted the wholesale murder of our people, which is bad news even though it has the word “wholesale” in it.

Kids love making noise in Shul. They come to Shul with their costume and their groggers and their Megillah (Book of Esther) made out of coloring pages in a Pringles can, all excited for legalized Shul shrieking. Unfortunately, they then have to sit around for the first two chapters (Haman shows up late to his own story)