Hym Yuda

     The story of my family begins here with this man.  His name is Hyman Shapiro but he was called Hym Yuda.  I always thought that this was just a nickname, like a John is a Jack.  I did not find out until much later that Hym was short for Hyman and that Yuda stood for Jude meaning Jew.  Hym Yuda…Hyman the Jew.

     He was the first person anyone in the family knows about.  Or at least has a picture of.  Like all of us, he was somebody’s son and grandson and great-grandson.  But Hym Yuda was lucky in memory.  He was the first in our family to be born into the age of photography.  So his is the face that lasts, the one you remember.  The one that begins it all.

     I can almost see some of myself in there.  At least I wish I could.  That unwavering gaze, the determined look, the stubborn posture.  I have seen the photo before but this time I began to wonder who he really was and what he thought life was all about.  Getting through it, I mean.  Did he try to be strong or think he had to stare it down?  Was he a good man, a kind man, a stern man?  Did he have a sense of humor or a streak of tragedy?  If he had his doubts, as I surely do, you cannot see it in his eyes.

     He was my mother’s grandfather and I never knew him.  Just stories about him and about all the unknown relatives frozen onto the pages of our album.  Yet seeing him there gazing up at me at that moment brought only one particular story to mind…the day

that Hym Yuda met the angel on the road outside of town.  That, after all, is where the whole secret of our family treasure first started.  Yes, as I think about it, that is where the story of my mazel really began.

     I have heard that it was a warm November day after an early snow, the sun peeking through thick white clouds.  The year was 1871 and Hym Yuda was then a man of about 25.  On the dirt road that led north from Vilna up towards the forest, he saw a figure standing by the roadside, perfectly still, dressed all in black.  Hym Yuda was not educated, but he was no fool either.  He knew right away that this figure in its wool suit and felt hat was no ordinary man.  This was an angel waiting on the road, waiting to test him.

     Maybe you do not believe in angels.  I sure didn’t.  But I learned then, and know now, something more important than the difference between a truth and a lie.  I know that a story is a story and that it keeps the world alive.  And so I can easily imagine my Hym Yuda walking down the road, whistling maybe, glinting into the sun perhaps, and then stopping short before this odd figure of a man…and waiting.  Waiting to find out what possibilities might be in store for him that day.

     In Vilna, where angels appear just like people but without regrets, it was well known that if you outfoxed one of them, the angel had to give you a gift.  This gift was called an oytser, a treasure.  Hym Yuda stood there and waited, hoping that the angel would challenge him.  With a task or a riddle or a wrassle – something, anything – so that he might win a prize for his family if he was quick enough.  All day he waited.  Hym Yuda was a very stubborn man and by the evening it paid off.

     “What do you want, Hym Yuda?” the angel finally asked.

     “Something for my family, for my children and their children,” he said rather bluntly.

     “Why ask me?  Do you think I am some kind of angel?”

     “Exactly so.”

     “And how do you know that I am an angel who might grant such a request?”

     “Who else would be outside on such a warm day just standing in the sun and wearing a felt hat?” Hym Yuda said.

     Then he answered the question himself: “Only an angel…or a putz.  And there’s no harm in asking if you’re just some putz.”

     Solid logic, the angel thought.

     “Then tell me this Mr. Smarty,” the angel said.  “If I am an angel, why am I not wearing a halo?”

     Hym Yuda thought for a moment.  He was not a Talmudic scholar and he was no philosopher.  But he was a practical man and he knew the power of sensible thinking.

     “Only a putz would walk around wearing a halo,” Hym Yuda said.  “An intelligent angel like yourself would never do it.”

      “Why not?” the angel asked.

     “Because a halo can cause problems.”

     “Really?” the angel said.

     “Yes.  As everyone knows, a halo can easily slip down and become a noose.”

     Hym Yuda was not the village rabbi by any means, but he had a bigger advantage here.  He was really a haberdasher and he knew about heads and necks.  That halos slipped to become nooses was a common joke in the rag trade.  Even so, his answer pleased the angel very much.  So much that he decided to give Hym Yuda a little gift for his effort.  Not because the answer was correct.  It was not.  Jewish angels never wore halos.  That was all New Testament stuff.  No, he gave him the gift because Hym Yuda’s answer had made him laugh.  And angels, as you can imagine, do not have all that much to laugh about.

     Later on it became known around the town that Hym Yuda had had a bissel mazel (a little luck) on the road outside Vilna.  It was said that an angel had given him an oytser – a treasure – that could be passed down through the generations of his family.  An heirloom like a diamond perhaps, or a talent for finances.

     Of course, being modern in their thinking, no one really believed any of this. Not in public at least.  There was a saying…any man who relies on an angel for his wealth had better also have an uncle in the fur business.  The people of Vilna were nobody’s fools.  And so the whole story was taken more as a legend than an event, and even more as a joke than a legend.

     Still, no one made fun.  No one mocked.  Because they also knew that more important than doubting angels was the simple fact that you can never be too careful in this trying world.

     As for me, I keep searching.  Figuring that I’ll find the treasure somewhere hidden.  In the family album maybe.  Among the old photos, in the stories.

     Or maybe not.