Someone asked how on earth he thought a piece of bread would keep away the demons, and at the sound of this word, Yankl spat superstitiously over his shoulder.

“This is no ordinary slice of bread,” he said, raising a finger instructively. “This is bread from which the holy Rebbe of Zubinsk has eaten.”

This pronouncement was met with a chorus of appreciation. If the stories of the demons were numberless and dark, the stories of the Rebbe were just as numerous and just as bright—his wisdom, his wonders: they said he could see straight into you and pluck out the sorrow like a rotting apple.

A voice spoke from the knot of gossips. “And how are the wedding preparations going, Yankl?”

“The whole town is in an uproar,” said the schlepper. “It’s as if they’ve declared a new holiday!”

Two days hence, just before the beginning of Chanukah, the holy Rebbe of Zubinsk was to marry off his final granddaughter, the youngest of five. It was going to be a massive celebration, and for weeks the rumors had been building: so many wagons full of fine food had arrived, and twice as many musicians; the bride’s dress had been made specially for her in Kiev; the groom’s family was bringing a famous wedding jester all the way from Vilna.

And best of all: the invitation was entirely open. Everyone was welcome, without exception.

Needless to say, this was a tempting prospect, no less to those interested in the holy Rebbe than to those interested in the promise of a good party, and it was in the midst of describing the torrent of arriving visitors that Yankl stopped short.

“Oh!” he said. “And you’ll never guess who I saw at the tavern: Avimelekh. Avimelekh! Can you believe it? I wouldn’t have thought—”

But what Yankl wouldn’t have thought went unsaid; at precisely this moment, the rabbi spoke up.

“Yankl,” he said, his soft voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.

All heads turned to where the rabbi stood in the door.

“What?” said Yankl.

The rabbi gave his head a sharp little shake as if to say, Don’t, and then gestured to the place where Yehuda Leib was sitting.

Now the eyes of the crowd turned toward him.

Yehuda Leib’s cheeks began to burn.

They were all looking at him.

Why were they looking at him?

“What?” said Yehuda Leib, and when no answer came, he repeated himself: “What?”

It was in this moment that Moshe Dovid Frumkin, the stern and pious town butcher, came forward and, mercifully, broke the silence.

“Yankl,” he said. “Yankl, did you get my new hat?”

“Ah!” said Yankl. “Yes!” Yankl stepped back inside, produced his hefty pack, and set to untying the large, round box secured to its bulk. This turned out to contain the hat in question: a rich fur crown of a shtreimel, glossy and fine, for special occasions.