By now, I was virtually a "one of the family" in all the synagogues, Houses of Study, and Hasid-houses of the great city of Brisk. In more than one of them, I had already spent an "all-nighter". Here I had prayed, there I had gone to hear a preacher or a cantor. In many of the Hasidic-houses, I had eaten at the Rabbi’s table and listened to him expound on the Torah, scrabbling for the rabbi's leftovers just the same as all the other Hasidim. But there was one House of Study that I had seen only from a distance. This was the Zohar House of Study, which was located on the Zamdiker Street, where my own father, when he was a boy, had lived and studied, until the day he got married with my mother. I felt myself drawn there, but each time I tried to go inside, I was overcome by a kind of fear, not really knowing the reason why...and so I kept putting off my vist until later, later...

Purim was already behind us. The air already smelled of Passover. Another week, I thought, and I would be sitting behind Victor the Wagon-Driver, heading home for the holidays. This thought gave me a feeling of warmth...but in the meantime, I had promised myself, that before returning home, I had to first make my "pilgrimage" to my father's "holy place", about which I had already heard so many stories. I felt that by bringing him greetings from his own House of Study, I would certainly be giving him a great honor; in addition, I had a strong desire to be there and to study even a few pages of gemorrah under the same roof where my father had once studied...

So I plucked up my courage and set off on my way. With my heart pounding, I pulled open the heavy door, and found myself standing on the threshold, terrified to go a step further. It was alreadly long after evening prayers. Inside it was dark and still. A solitary candle burned at the podium. An anniversary-candle here and there only made the darkness seem more pervasive. By the east wall sat a pair of gray-bearded elders with spectacles perched on their bony, hooked noses; and by the light of a small oil-lamp, each of them was reading a book. They were silent, almost motionless...only their eyes seemed to move, back and forth across the pages. Now and then a lip trembled...it was clearthat they were engrossed in their studies. Just as motionless were their shadows on the grey, dark walls. You couldn't help but wonder if these old men weren't actually the dead, who had gotten up from their graves in the middle of the night, and come here to study...

I looked about in despair. My glance wandered from one corner to another...I was looking for the place, the corner where my father had once sat and studied. Which bench did he sleep on? Over there stood der oven, which he had fired up in the winter-time; and by its heat, he had roasted potatoes to still his hunger. And there next to the stove, stood the long wooden bench. On those long winter nights, he must have sat there and studied, and sung his lonely, sad gemorrah-melody. And on on the very same bench, he must have slept with a bag of straw under his head, and dreamed the dreams of a hungry, lonely, orphan boy. There was the Hannukah-menorah, with the brass lamps, which he would polish two or three times a year. And there was the great copper barrel, which he used to fill with water several times a day.

From a distance, I studied the faces of the old men as they sat immersed in their books. They must still remember my father as he was back then, not as the father of children, but rather as a child himself, just like me. From those old men he used to hear so many wonderful stories, which he would sometimes tell us when he was in a good mood: stories about the Polish uprising; about the long, Russian-Turkish war in the days of Count Plehvne; stories about Napoleon’s great victories, of defeats by Moscow and Berezina, and more.

Should I approach these old-timers? Should I tell them who I am? Would they possibly remember my father? Might they tell me something about him?

I stood there for quite a while, a prisoner of my own feelings. When I finally calmed myself, I walked softly over to the large bookcase; I pulled out an old, heavy Gemorrah, sat down beside the cold oven, at the end of the long table, and brought over an anniversary-candle. With trembling hands, I began to turn the pages of the old, yellow, spotted gemorrah. On every page I looked for some kind of sign, a trace of my father’s early years.

I began reading from the start of "B'lekhash"; silently at first, as though I did not want to destroy with the sound of my voice the sense of awe, which had carried me back to the days of my father’s lost youth. But as I read on, and remembered that I was sitting possibly in the very same place, and reading from possibly the very same Gemorrah, where my father had once sat and studied....I felt stronger. I read with drive, with eagerness, as though I wanted to reawaken the beaten-down gemorrah-melodies from my father, that were still trapped within the walls of that very building.

A joyful song, mixed with love, poured out from the depths of my soul, resonating over the emptiness of the half-darkened hall.

"Shnayim ukhzin be-talit"...(two are arguing over a prayer-shawl)..."zeh omer ani matsati"...(this one says I found it first)...iz der din: "yekhlukoh"...the law says, they have to share it....to share it....

And it seemed to me, that the whole House of Study - the walls, the tables, the benches, and everything else was singing along with me.

Suddenly it wasn't me who was singing that ancient, fiery Gemmorah-melody, but my father himself; through my voice, he was singing out the pain of his mis-spent youth. And both songs joined together:

"Shnayim ukhzin be-talit"...(two are arguing over a prayer-shawl)..."zeh omer ani matsati"...(this one says I found it first)...iz der din: "yekhlukoh"...the law says, they have to share it....to share it....

It was so sweet to sit and study, that I forgot where I was. I turned page after page. I didn't feel the passage of time...everywhere around me I felt my father's spirit, which surrounded me like a faint aroma...which moved me and carried me somewhere far away, far outside of myself....

Suddenly, I heard the hoarse voice of the old beadle, who was standing bent over me, staff in one hand and a large key in the other: he growled:

"Young man, it’s time to close the holy place...."

I closed my father's Gemorrah and left the Zohard House of Study. In my heart, it felt good....so good...