Just the thought of selling the four species had an uplifting effect on me: the house is filled with Torah scholars and silk robes, I stand in the center and give my opinion about the fancy etrog, which the neighborhood rabbi raves about, and Naftali, who is considered the gentleman of Kiryat Sefer • But then everything went wrong.
I decided to sell the four species.
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An easy, momentary decision, the mere thought of which gave me a pleasant shiver and a breath of holiness throughout my body.
The house is filled with the wonderful smells of fancy etrogs, and the fresh aroma of fresh, green lulavs. The scent of the triangular myrtles is intoxicating, and the gold letters on the decorated etrog boxes are reminiscent of deep-rooted Jewish art from my grandfather's house.
The house is filled with Torah scholars and silk robes. I stand in the center and give my opinion about the fancy etrog, which the neighborhood rabbi raves about, and Naftali, who is considered the gentleman of Kiryat Sefer, and my wife, in a white robe, pokes her head out of the steaming pots and asks the children not to disturb the father, who is currently busy with the congregation, and the rabbi, who is listening to my opinion about how to grow the etrog with appreciative seriousness.
In the synagogue, people present their etrogs to me, and a light murmur like the murmur of waves passes through the crowd, which is divided among itself: I bought this etrog from him. Even those who did not buy from me, and did not stop regretting it during the Hallel, come up to me at the end of the prayer and show me their lemon that they bought at the competing sale. Of course, I act with the forgiveness and courtesy required of my position and do not tell him that for the same price he could have gotten an 'etrog spetz' from me, and I turn the fruit and say in a quiet voice: Nice, all in all, it's just fine.
These pleasant pictures, then, are what led me to the opening of the great sale for the four species at my home. Together with my children, I hung the ads around the neighborhood, knowing that word of mouth would spread.
But not everything went well.
•
It began with the early morning hours passing by and no one passing by my door. I sat in the center of the living room with a book on the laws of the four species open in front of me at a random page, and I found myself scolding my children for not stopping ringing the bell and getting on my nerves, or saying in a malicious voice that reached my ears: Here, here is the big sale.
At a certain point, I knocked on my neighbors' houses and, in exchange for a small fee of one shekel for entry, I asked them to come out and enter my house while holding boxes of etrogs and lulavs in their hands.
The impression, I knew, was very important, and the lively movement of neighbors rushing to consult with the rabbi would attract customers.
But after a few minutes, the neighbors refused to participate in the game. They claimed that they were ashamed to go out with my etrogs, even as a show, lest they meet an acquaintance who would ask them to show the etrog or lulav they had chosen. 'I don't want to meet anyone, even for fun, with your etrog,' Kleinman the Habrach, who lived below me, told me without any sensitivity.
I didn't like this response, so what if I took the etrogs on a 'commission'?
•
I realized that I had to change strategy. That day, several young men visited my house, and I switched to the language of the 'above'.
There are 'Asroigim' here, I shouted enthusiastically, and emphasized that there are those with and without Pitem [like Pitem], and everything, I said in a whisper as if revealing a secret, a kind of bra, original, as if the Chazon Ish himself had visited me.
I couldn't hear the people saying the Lulav with the willow or myrtle blossoms like Sephardic householders. It made me want to tear out their hair, tear their clothes, and throw them out of my house like mad dogs.
In my store, there is Luleb [like Lulev], and there is Blatel. Knafel, and Lablov.
So, yes, sometimes I got a little confused by the terms and found myself devoutly lecturing a tall Hasid whose hairs were sticking out of his chin because all my aroves have a surrounding thread including a healthy knafel, and the lolleab is a Mahril variety in the upper third, but who pays attention to such trifles, after all, everything has been double-sorted [koful] by my God-fearing avrechim. I also sorted the koishiklach from last year again this year.
Apparently my new approach worked because in the evening my house was filled with Abrechem, or in other words, my father-in-law who arrived with my three brothers-in-law.
My wise cousin Shuki also suddenly appeared with two magnifying glasses, and with him two misguided avrechim who knew him and refused to leave him as an 'exiled rabbi'.
Shuki brought a lively spirit to the place. He shouted words like 'explanation of halacha', 'method of the Rosh', and 'kuira', and more people entered. By now the living room was already full of people I didn't know and the dream was starting to come true. I felt that my big hour had arrived. I almost forcefully snatched an etrog that was in the hand of one of the avrechims and said thoughtfully: 'This is not called a lack, certainly not this year,' and I emphasized the kemetz in the kh, as in lack.
But then Shuki, who felt like a king in the regiment, suddenly turned to me and silence fell in the small living room.
‘'How is it not missing,' he said in a voice that trembled with nerves, 'isn't this a clear and explicit meaning, how did you not see it?'
‘'Of course,' I replied, 'simply because of the shemitah, there is this thing, of Rabbi Elyashiv's method.'.
Fortunately, Shuki didn't say a word, and I knew it would cost an extra set of Hadassim as a gift for his son. Just make sure he gets 'Kosher for Blessing' and doesn't insist on double-sorted A' A' as he likes.
