A Hasid is nothing without his Rebbe, just as a sail is nothing without the wind, dough nothing without the oven. It is said that a Rebbe’s holy being contains a fragment of the soul of each and every one of his devoted Hasidim, and for this reason, a Hasid is never quite complete unless he is beside his Rebbe.

And so they came, from far and from farther, however they were able—trains, carts, donkeys, and many, many, many pairs of sore and aching feet—to be near the saintly Rebbe. It was a very auspicious occasion, the wedding, and it was said that the Rebbe himself would be officiating, stretching up his holy hand from beneath the wedding canopy in order to draw down the heavenly cord that would bind the bride and groom together in marriage.

It was an occasion not to be missed.

And so on and on they came, more and more of the Hasidim, until Zubinsk was nearly overrun with threadbare black coats and long, ragged beards. Impromptu prayer sessions formed in streets and alleyways. Mystic whispers and melodies of meditation bloomed out from between the bricks and cobbles. The inn, the boardinghouses, even the private rooms put up for hire were full to bursting, often with three, four, five young men sharing the scant space intended for just one. And this was to say nothing of those Hasidim who came to town without the means to find themselves lodgings; the square was full of them long after sundown, and as the darkness thickened, one by one they made their several ways toward the best shelters they could find: empty market stalls, stables, sheepfolds. The study house had become a sort of makeshift campground, with Hasidim lounging, praying, singing, falling asleep on every available surface.

Even as the night wore on, now and again a straggling pilgrim would arrive at the study house, and a new round of excitement would break out: bottles passed, toasts of l’chaim proposed, hands clapping, voices singing with the joy of the Eternal.

By the time the snow began to wander down from the sky, it was long after nightfall. The steady stream of arrivals had dwindled. More and more of the bearded heads in the study house began to nod, and before long, aggrieved shushing was more likely to be heard than singing or prayer—after all, sleep is sleep.

This drove the last of the ecstatic revelers, four young Hasidim named Fishl, Mendl, Velvl, and Reuveyn, out of doors. It was there that they stood—laughing, smiling, stamping in the cold—when midnight fell.

There was a clatter of bells from the Russian church on the hill; the knot of Hasidim paused to hear.

It had been a long day of reveling and excitement. Each of the young men was overwhelmed with gladness and anticipation, and the bottle of vodka and pipe of tobacco orbiting their circle did nothing to still any of their heads.