The first leg of the Vilna Gaon's planned move to Eretz Yisrael
took him to Amsterdam. From there, he planned to sail by boat to the Holy Land.
But his plan came to naught in the end. When one of his sons later asked the reason
why the Gaon had not continued his journey, this was the answer he received: “I
do not have Heaven’s permission” (from the Gra’s sons’ Introduction to the
Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim).
The long trip had left the Vilna Gaon feeling extremely weak. Coming upon a small
village near Amsterdam, he decided to rest there a while. A rich local Jew invited
him to stay as a guest in his home. The man did not recognize the Gaon, as the latter
incognito. But his holy countenance was a better testimonial than a hundred character
witnesses. The Vilna Gaon accepted the man’s invitation for the next three weeks.
The wealthy Jew’s spacious and elegant home served as a meeting place for the
local Jews. Morning, noon, and night, men gathered there to daven in one
of the rooms. This “shul” contained a large library, which drew talmidei
chachamim like a magnet in an era when no single individual owned an entire
set of Shas, only isolated tractates. The shul library in the rich
man’s home boasted a complete Shas, along with numerous sefarim bearing
the commentaries of the Rishonim. Here, the Gra found everything he
needed. His meals were brought to him at specific times, and he was able to immerse
himself in Torah study day and night in the shul. His host provided him with
the best room in the house, opposite his own bedroom -- but his guest spent little
When he had regained a little of his strength, the Gaon desired to continue his
journey. He announced his intention of paying his host for all his hospitality,
but the man refused to take a penny from him. “Baruch Hashem, Who gives me
the merit of welcoming guests to my home. Shall I take a reward for this? Never!”
“Then I will say farewell,” conceded the Gaon.
“You have not told me your name,” his host said, “but I understand that Your
Honor is a great leader in Israel. I have seen the way you do not desist from learning
Torah day and night. During the three weeks you have been under my roof, you have
learned all of Shas with the Rishonim, all four sections of the Shulchan
Aruch, and other works.
“In that case,” he continued, “please tell me: Have you noticed anything that
is out of order in my home? Anything improper, either halachically or ethically?
Do not conceal a thing from me, and do not be afraid to rebuke me. I love rebuke
and I wish to improve my ways in this world so that I do not stand ashamed in the
World to Come.”
“Everything I’ve seen about your lifestyle is as it should be,” the Gaon replied.
“I only noticed one thing that is contrary to the Gemara.”
Aghast, his host begged him to reveal what that thing was.
“The Gemara (Yevamos 62) states that a man must love his wife as
his own body and honor her more than his own body. Of such a
it says, ‘And you shall know that peace will reign in your tent.’ But here, in your
home, I have seen something new. I have seen a man who loves his wife more than
his own body. Every morning, you bring your wife a bowl, water, and a towel so that
she can wash netilas yadayim, and then you bring her a cup of coffee
to drink. But you yourself do not drink coffee (before davening). That is
what I mean by ‘more than his body. ’”
Hearing this “rebuke,” the host smiled. “I’d like to tell Your Honor the reason
for this strange behavior.”
Here is the tale he told.
l l l
I grew up far from Holland (the man began), in a certain city in Poland. My father
was a well-known talmid chacham who pored over the Torah night and day and
who knew the Talmud to its depths. Our home was a poor one. We ate meager bread
and drank water -- but the Divine Presence rested in our home, bringing light and
contentment to our house and our hearts.
I was only 9 years old when I became engaged to be married. A certain wealthy
man who lived near our town -- a good and pious man -- desired me as husband for
his daughter, who was my own age.
From the time of my engagement, my kallah’s father cared for me as if
I were his own son. I was wearing threadbare clothing and shoes that were falling
off my feet. Seeing this, my future father-in-law told my father, “I do not want
my son-in-law to dress like a beggar.” He bought me nice clothes and fine leather
shoes. To make sure I would grow to become a talmid chacham, he hired a fine
tutor at his own expense, and the tutor taught me Torah for six years, until I was
a youth of 15.
The wedding date had already been set when the wheel of fortune turned, leaving
my future father-in-law destitute.
My father, however, knew nothing of this. He traveled to my future father-in-law’s
house to finalize the dowry arrangements -- and found only a degraded beggar, living
in a hovel. In the yard, a girl dressed in rags was
tossing feed to some ducks. My father had a hard time recognizing the girl his
son was about to wed!
Ashen-faced, my father entered the hovel and collapsed onto a bench. The shock
had robbed him of his strength, and he felt on the point of fainting.
The unfortunate beggar gazed mutely at my father, then burst into bitter tears.
“You have come to receive the dowry for the wedding -- but I do not have anything
but the shirt on my back!”
My father felt deeply sorry for the man, but could find no words. At last, he
asked, “What shall I do?”
The poor man drew a deep breath. “I release you from the bond of marriage. If
you break the shidduch, I will bear no grudge against you.”
The girl was summoned and asked her mind. She assured them that she completely
forgave her chasan and his family for breaking off the match, and bore not
even a shred of ill-will against them. My father took out the tenaim contract
and tore it up. The shidduch was off.
l l l
I was grief-stricken. In one fell swoop, I had fallen from the pinnacle of happiness
to the depths of despair. At first, I could hardly believe my father. I thought
he was joking. But when he showed me the ripped tenaim, my eyes filled with
tears. Only then did I grasp the enormity of my bad luck.
My father scolded me for walking around brokenhearted. That same week, he sent
word to a certain prosperous Jew in our town, letting him know that his son’s shidduch
had been broken. If the man wished to arrange a match between his own daughter and
me, they could talk.
The rich man agreed with alacrity. I had a good reputation. I was a learned boy,
tall and handsome. The match was quickly agreed to. At my engagement party I gave
a derashah that astounded everyone who heard it. For everyone else, the memory
of my first kallah was erased as though it had never existed. But my own
heart was bitter. I could not forget that unfortunate girl for a minute. To tell
the truth, I was prepared to give up all the good
I was being offered, in order to avoid embarrassing a fine Jewish girl. But it was
no use. No one asked my opinion.
Four months passed between my engagement and the wedding. In my emotional state
as my wedding date approached, the memory of my first kallah and her ill
fortune began to fade. I married the rich man’s daughter in a splendid wedding,
amid great joy. Dancing and celebrating, I completely forgot the “first round.”
I was the happiest of men.
But not for long ...
The week-long Sheva Berachos period came and went. On the following morning,
I woke up aching all over. I could not get out of bed. Thinking that I had caught
a cold, I remained in bed all that day, and the next. But not only did I not get
any better, I began to feel even worse.
Seeing this, my father-in-law spared no expense to bring the best doctors to
my bedside. They drew blood, prescribed medicines, mixed potions, and fed me concoctions.
Nothing helped. Each day, the doctors examined me anew, but they could not diagnose
my illness. My entire body was covered with ugly sores; from head to toe I had no
relief. And as if this were not enough, I was suddenly afflicted with painful boils
all over. My family found my treatment -- and their disgust at the sores and the
boils -- too much for them to handle. They had me transferred to the city’s hekdesh,
which served as both hospital and guest house for local paupers and itinerant beggars.
In the hekdesh my condition worsened, until I nearly reached the state
of Nachum Ish Gamzu. My arms and legs did not actually wither away, but they were
filled with painful and unsightly sores and boils that were difficult to bear. My
eyes were puffy and swollen and a foul odor was on my breath. My wife’s family began
to whisper. At last, my father-in-law came to me and demanded that I give his daughter
a divorce, and I agreed.
I had been punished, measure for measure. Like Nachum Ish Gamzu, I blamed myself
for my condition (Taanis 21). I understood that Heaven was punishing me with
l l l
I remained in the hekdesh for several months before there began to be
some improvement in my condition. I could now get out of bed for short intervals,
and the sores and boils on my arms and legs grew smaller. My appearance became a
little less revolting.
I did not waste my time. Lying in my bed, I busied myself learning Gemara
and Shulchan Aruch. One of the other guests at the hekdesh -- a bright
and witty young fellow -- noticed what I was doing. He said, “Why do you lie around
in bed? You’ll starve!”
“I’m a broken vessel. I won’t succeed at anything,” I answered.
With a sharp glance, the other man said, “I have a good idea for you. I will
rent a good wagon and line the seat with comfortable cushions. Let us travel together
from village to village and from town to town. We’ll go door to door, and I’ll introduce
you as a learned man whose fate has turned bitter -- and I’ll ask for charity for
you. Your appearance will arouse compassion wherever we go. I’m sure that the Jews
-- merciful men and the children of merciful men -- will take pity on you and give
you twice as much as they’d give any other poor man.”
I agreed to this plan.
The young man put his scheme into prompt action. He rented a wagon and a strong
horse, deposited me on the cushioned seat, and off we went. We wandered among the
towns and villages, and all came to pass just as he had predicted. In every place,
he brought me to the local shul and described the extent of my learning,
my bad luck, and difficult illness. Jews all over, compassionate people and lovers
of Torah and its scholars, saw that I was no common pauper, but one who knew how
to learn a sugya. At once, they came to me with questions on the Gemara,
bringing me difficult sections of a Tosafos or a Maharsha from various
tractates. I would explain and elucidate to the best of my ability.
I became a valuable commodity -- a kind of pearl covered in dust, but a pearl
“Do not look at the bottle, but at what lies within,” people would tell me. At
first, I cringed. After a while, though, I grew accustomed to
my new identity. I was a cripple, one of life’s deformed.
I was not alone. Many sick people went around collecting charity, but it seemed
to me that none of them was as ill and deformed as I was. One day, we came to a
Polish town. In the yard of the town’s hekdesh we saw a wagon. At the reins
sat a man whose pinched and lined face testified to the difficult life he had led.
Inside the wagon, in a nest of pillows and faded blankets, lay his daughter. She
was sallow-faced, and appeared even more ill than I. We began to talk, the father
and I, and eventually reached an agreement: From now on, we would travel together
to collect money as partners.
I told my companion that I needed neither him nor his horse and wagon any longer.
We agreed to part ways. He had long been growing tired of traveling and had already
amassed a decent sum of money from our efforts.
For several weeks my new companion and I traveled together. We became friendly.
One day, he suggested that I marry his daughter. I revealed to him that I had been
divorced, but that did not deter him. We signed tenaim, ate some lekach
that a kind homeowner had given us, and shared a l’chaim from a small bottle
of whiskey. A wedding was planned.
About a month later, we stopped at a town. In the courtyard of the hekdesh
a wedding canopy was erected. In the presence of ten local Jews, the man’s daughter
and I were married -- in a paupers’ ceremony, with a bride and groom who certainly
suited one another -- both sickly and weak, dressed in rags and tatters. A handful
of Jews participated in our wedding feast, which consisted of seeded bread and some
onions that the guests had brought along in their pockets.
l l l
After the chuppah, my kallah and I were alone together for the
first time. The yichud room was a cramped chamber at one side of the hekdesh,
whose tenant had agreed to let us have it for a short time. Despite the poverty-stricken
circumstances, I was filled with great happiness.
Not so my bride. No sooner had the door been closed behind us, than
she sat down and gave way to a storm of weeping.
“Why are you crying?” I asked in astonishment. “There is a time for rejoicing
and a time for weeping, as the wise one said. And this is the time to rejoice!”
“How can I not cry?” she countered. “I remember how I once used to be. My father
was a rich man, and when I was a girl of 9, I became engaged to a boy my own age,
an outstanding scholar of fine lineage who learned diligently day and night. My
father clothed him and took care of his every need. Then, just before our wedding
day, my father lost his fortune, and the tenaim were torn up. My chasan
left me, and I remained alone and humiliated. And then, as if that were not enough,
I fell so ill that I could not get out of bed. For several years I have wandered
with my father, collecting charity handouts to prevent us from starving.
“How can I not cry, when today I have married a sickly chasan, as unfortunate
as I am, poor and destitute. I do not know who he is or what his family lineage
I stared at her in amazement. The story was a very familiar one to me.
“Is your father called So-and-so?” I asked.
“Did you live in such-and-such a village, and was your house behind the large
“Yes. But how do you know that?”
“Look at me!” I shouted emotionally. “I am your former chasan!”
Now it was her turn to stare incredulously. She asked me a number of questions,
to test if I was indeed the man I purported to be. Then, all at once, she recognized
Both of us began to cry then. For a long time we sat and wept together in that
yichud room. We sensed with powerful clarity the guiding hand of Providence
that brings people together and unites sundered hearts. When we left the room to
go to the meal, we let the others in on the story. We wanted them all to see how
Hashem Yisbarach, in His eminent compassion and lovingkindness, establishes
homes in Israel. Even if a couple is parted against their will, He will seize them
by the hair and bring them back to one another.
then a wonderful thing happened. Immediately after the wedding, both of us began
to recover, my wife and I. We returned to health, as though we had never been sick
a day in our lives. We settled here in this small village near Amsterdam, and Hashem
blessed us with wealth and honor, and wonderful sons and daughters.
l l l
“And now, I ask Your Honor,” the host said as he finished his moving tale, “after
I caused my wife so much pain and distress for so many years, am I not obligated
to appease her with all sorts of gestures, over and above the strict letter of the
law? Do you understand why I accord my wife all this honor?”
The Vilna Gaon, hearing this amazing story, changed his mind and decided to remain
two more days at the house. Before he left, he blessed his host and the whole family
with great blessings.
On his return to Vilna, stymied by Heaven from fulfilling his dream of moving
to Eretz Yisrael, he related the whole tale to his student, R’ Chaim of Volozhin,
who then transmitted it to his foremost student, R’ Meir HaKohen Karelitz,
who told it in turn to his own students. One of them set the story down in a volume
of “Chiddushei HaRashba al Sheva Shitos,” and it was copied from there by
researcher and biographer Yeshayahu Winograd.