A shower of coins came pouring in. It seemed not money—but the flesh and blood of the people—each coin a part of a living heart.
The pawnbroker’s wife, shamed by the surging generosity of the crowd, grudgingly peeled a dollar from the roll of bills in her stocking and started to put it into the collection.
A dozen hands lifted in protest.
“No—no! Your money and our money can’t mix together!”
“Our money is us—our bodies! Yours is the profits from the pawnshop! Hold your trefah dollar for the charities!”
Only when the Shammes, the caretaker of the synagogue, rattling his keys, shook Reb Ravinsky gently and reminded him that it was past closing time did he remember that somewhere waiting for him—perhaps still in the street—were his wife and child.
The happening of the day had only deepened the intensity with which he clung to God and His Torah. His lips still moved in habitual prayer as with the guidance of neighbours he sought the new flat which had been rented for a month with the collection money.
Bread, butter, milk and eggs greeted his gaze as he opened the door.
“Nu, my wife? Is there a God over us?” His face kindled with guileless faith. “The God that feeds the little fishes in the sea and the birds in the air, has He not fed us? You see, the Highest One takes care of our earthly needs. Our only business here is to pray for holiness to see His light!”