The mattress was firm, as many were in those days. It was not the most comfortable bed he had ever felt, but it was certainly better than the wooden planks of his study table; he had woken up with splinters in his forehead after late nights of struggling through difficult texts more times than he would have liked to remember.
The rabbi awoke but did not open his eyes immediately. He could feel the sheets hugging his skin and the soft feather pillow cradling his head. He could hear the not-quite-soft-enough whispers of his students who had come to be with him during his final hours and, though he appreciated their devotion and their efforts to care for him, he was not ready yet to force himself to face their despondent and pitying facial expressions.
He took the last few moments before the others realized he had regained consciousness to reflect. The rabbi considered the numerous students he had taught during his life, both in the house of study and as a respected member of the community. He remembered business disputes, family conflicts and arguments over ritual law, some of which he thought had become more heated than they had any right to be. He thought of the relieved faces of the parties involved when a resolution had been reached, even if the result was not in their favor. He pictured the bright faces of his students as they sat at their desks, eager to grapple with and explain God’s commandments.
Then he thought of his son at three years old, clambering up onto the bench in the synagogue to join the men in their prayer sessions. He imagined the boy’s bright face, cheeks rosy from the struggle to reach the table, practically sweating from his vigorous swaying as he mimicked the adults communicating with God.
He remembered hearing his wife in the next room, telling their son that he needed to leave his father alone to study and his son’s heartbreaking cries in response. He remembered slapping the boy’s hand away from the delicate book of Rabbinic teachings that was the rabbi’s last remaining heirloom from his father and the reproaching look on the boy’s face as he recoiled. The boy had grown into a fine scholar and rabbi in his own right, but the rabbi wondered if he had made a mistake by devoting himself to his studies so intensely, rather than finding more time to connect with his child.
His heart sank.
The rabbi had worked to model his life after the prominent figures of his people’s history. He had strived to maintain the unwavering faith of Abraham, the quiet resolution of Isaac and the determination of Jacob. But, most of all, he had tried to exhibit the leadership qualities of Moses, who had overcome a speech impediment and an initial lack of resolve to lead an often obstinate and unappreciative nation of people out of slavery and through the desert to find their salvation in a land of milk and honey.
Tears began to well in the rabbi’s eyes as he lay in the bed and he began whispering a silent prayer that his students would not notice. His prayer went unheard, however, as a young man sitting nearby suddenly jumped to his feet.
“He’s awake!” the student exclaimed, slightly too loudly. “Rabbi, how are– Rabbi, what’s wrong?”
The rabbi was now sobbing fully, the tears staining his white robe of ritual purity and the pillow under his head. He coughed and sputtered as he tried in vain to gather his composure, to maintain his image in front of his students. The young man who had broadcast his wakened state helped him to sit up and cleaned his face with a handkerchief.
“Rabbi, what’s the matter? We know, of course, that you’re not well, but what has made you so upset?”
The rabbi fought to control his breathing, only barely succeeding with assistance from the young man holding him up.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he managed. “Everything was a mistake.”
“Rabbi, how can that be?” the student asked, perplexed. “You’re a wonderful teacher, a pious Jew, a leader in our community. You might as well be Moses, given how you’ve led our village.”
“You don’t understand,” Rabbi Zusya said, coughing again. “When I reach the next world, I will stand for judgment before God and He will ask me about my life. But He will not ask me, ‘Why were you not like Moses?’ He will ask me instead, ‘Why were you not like Zusya?'”
