“That’s nothing,” said Fishl. “My cousin and his wife were struggling to conceive, and so he came to see the Rebbe. Before my cousin could even say a word, the Rebbe took one look at him, wrote out a verse from the Psalms, folded up the piece of paper, and told him to put it beneath his wife’s pillow. And what do you think? In nine months’ time: triplets. Triplets.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mendl. “The Rebbe is capable of all this and more. When he sits for meditation, he traverses the distance between Zubinsk and the Palace of Heaven in less than an hour’s time. But do not be deceived: far and away his greatest gift is the revelation of people to themselves. It is impossible to spend even five minutes in conversation with the holy Rebbe without learning something about yourself, and that something can be so fundamental that it changes everything in your life. It certainly did for me.”

Little by little, like snow accumulating on a cold stone, the Dark One began to think:

He did feel heavy. He did feel tired.

What could the Rebbe show him?

“You ought to see him!” said Fishl.

“Yes, you ought to,” said Mendl with a sigh. Of the four Hasidim there assembled, he was the only one who lived close enough to make regular visits. “But it’s been a long time since the Rebbe gave private audiences.”

“Is the Rebbe ill, God forbid?” asked Reuveyn.

“No, no, no,” said Mendl. “God forbid. But surely you heard of the passing of his wife, Fruma Rivka, three years ago?”

“I remember it well,” said the Dark One.

“We all expected that the Rebbe would resume his normal activities after a year of grieving, and then again maybe after two, but now it seems more and more unlikely. He never speaks in public except to pray. He rarely eats. When morning prayers have ended, he sits for hours in meditation on the very same chair until the time comes around for afternoon prayers. He grows thinner and thinner, paler and paler.”

For a moment, the cold gloom of the night seemed insuperably heavy.

“But the faithful among us are sure,” said Mendl. “The Rebbe’s fifth and final granddaughter is to be married in the morning. Surely, surely, the holy joy of the occasion will help us to lift the Rebbe back up again, and even higher than before. It is our job to encourage, to foster, to grow that joy to as great a height as possible.”

“Yes,” said Fishl, and “Yes!” said Reuveyn.

“Come!” said Mendl. “What’s this dirge you’re singing, Velvl? Let’s have a dance, a real dance!” And handing his clay pipe to Reuveyn, he began to clap and sing.

Swiftly, gladly, the others joined in, whipping one another around, kicking their legs and throwing their arms in the air, singing and dancing with everything they had—which was mostly vodka.