Whispers From Behind the Glass

Short Story by S. Feldman

“I hate my world”, she insisted, her graying arms waving obsessively. “Everything about it is depressing. The longer I’m around, the older and crankier it means that the world is getting!” “

I validated her feelings of course. That’s what friends are for, right? Secretly though, I thought how much I loved to be me. The longer I’m around, the closer the world gets to its goal, its purpose, its raison d’etre. I know I sound all idealistic and everything. What can you expect though, growing up practically upon the knees of righteousness…

***

My dials turned slowly, as I choked with unshed tears. “How would I move on?” I wondered. The wall felt bare behind me and the view, once pulsating with fiery holiness, now seemed frightening.

People shuffled in and out. Some with tear streaked cheeks. Others with torn garments of mourning. I felt like smashing myself into a million little pieces. But I willed my hands to turn, albeit begrudgingly. Who am I to go against the will of my Creator?

Sad eyes looked up at me. I stared back at them, attempting to infuse some ticking consistency into their lives that had just been overturned.

I turned around and around gracefully, mimicking the rise and fall of the sun that seemed to shine a little less brightly. Yet, as the days passed; slowly, cautiously, the sun began to return to its original splendor.

Time is funny like that. If you travel along with it, it tends to heal wounds, gradually replacing the painful memories with more pleasant ones.

Yet despite the months that had passed since his father’s passing, I noticed Reb Yossele, still weeping, still anguished. From my perch up here, I peer down at him, wishing him some solace. Wishing I could empower him with some timely words of wisdom. He seemed to hear me, as he came closer, reaching towards me so I could whisper my message.

Suddenly, he grabbed me, his strong arms shoving me deep down into a burlap sack. I held on for dear life, screaming silently. The bag scratched my face and I twisted uncomfortably. “Where is he taking me?” I wondered petrified. “Take me back home!” I yelled. But nobody heard my desperate cries.

The steady thump-thump of the horse-drawn wagon shook me out of my slumber. I peered through a crack in the bag and watched as lush trees and bright yellow daisies flew quickly by. “To Tulchin!” the wagon driver called out, in a voice gruff from heavy smoking. The white clouds suddenly turned a silvery mushroom and then a menacing gray as buckets of torrential rain began to pummel down from the heavens. I don’t do well with rain, so I buried myself deep within the sack, ticking the time away…

***

I felt myself being thrown into someplace warm and cozy. Who knows, perhaps someone wanted to see time fly? I shook the raindrops off my back, a little worse for wear. I better get used to my surroundings, I mused. Burlap to the right, burlap to the left, an old black belt twisted around my waist and a coat beneath my feet. Evaluation complete, I thought wryly. Time to get back to business

“What do you mean, you have no money?!” I heard the shouting through the thin door. “I gave you room and board on a stormy night and only now you tell me you’re penniless?!”

“Well,” Reb Yossele stammered, “I do have some precious valuables in my sack, mementos from my holy father, the Chozeh of Lublin.”

“Doesn’t mean much to me,” the voice replied as I felt a rough hand across my face. It fingered the belt. It stroked the coat. And then it yanked me out of the sack with a flourish. “This is really not worth it,” he said, “but it’s the only thing you have that even approaches in value, so I’ll take the clock.”

“Finally!” I heaved a sigh of relief, “some fresh air!”

***

Years pass. I’m no longer as agile as I used to be. Yet I’m too timeless to retire. Hanging proudly in my new home, smelling slightly of whiskey and of the chicken coop out front, I try my best to whisper my message. To shout out to all those that can hear. That each passing moment is a moment closer. More often than not, I’m ignored. I don’t blame the simple people. Perhaps they are hard of hearing…

Until one morning. The sky was crimson and orange as it prepared to greet the sun. The house was unusually sparkly. I puffed my chest, eager to please. Fresh linens were spread upon the beds in my room. I was curious to see who would be coming.

“Welcome Rebbe!” I heard my owner call gleefully. Glasses clinked and I heard the clanking of the special bowls and dishes as songs were sung and plates were emptied. I was curious to know who the special guest was. Finally, the holy Tzaddik, worn out from his trip, made his way to the fine room and lay down to rest right beneath me.

Why, of course! I knew who he was! It’s been years since I’d last seen him. His beard had turned white and his face had wrinkled, but it was clear as day, it was none other than Reb Yissachar Ber, one of my Rebbe’s favorite disciples.

Here was my chance. Midnight struck.

I tend to neither sleep nor slumber. I tapped the Tzaddik on his shoulder and whispered my message. All at once, he heard me. He heard and he arose, a broad smile on his face. Peering up at me, he confirmed. “Yes!” I cried. “Each moment, each passing instant, is a moment closer to our goal, to the final redemption!” He heard and he danced, kicking his legs forward and spinning in a whirl of joy, the angels from heaven dancing along with him. I rejoiced together with him, ticking delightfully, my face shining with the joy of finally being understood. All night long, he danced. We danced.

No matter the footsteps that came and went by the door. No matter the questioning that followed the next morning. I was finally heard!

The Saba Kadisha, as I figured by now how his chassidim called him, patted me fondly before leaving. “You definitely have some connection to my Rebbe, the Chozeh of Lublin” he guessed.

“How do you know?” I whispered.

“Well,” he said, “all other clocks sing a depressing chime. Every tick signifies another second of life gone, spent, never again to be claimed. It’s sad, depressing, almost mournful.

“But the Chozeh was different. He was a visionary. He was able to see and to feel how every moment that passed was one that was full of hope, ticking closer and closer to the final redemption!”

I sat glowing. Finally someone was able to see through my glass.

“Thank you!” I said quietly. “Just don’t leave my message with me. Tell the world what the Chozeh taught me. That the clock is ticking and marching forward, every second a second closer to Moshiach!”

But he didn’t hear me. He was too busy explaining my message to the amazed innkeeper, who marveled at the antique gift that was ticking away in his guest room.

“It’s only a matter of time” concluded R’ Yissachar Ber.

I shrugged and took my place, unassumingly, back upon the wall. ■