“It’s not an easy life we have, is it?” Tzvi said as they began to travel. “Work, work, work… And then what?”

17th century Eastern Europe, the town of Sharayeh

It was a freezing cold morning in the town of Shareyeh in Eastern Europe. The sky was still dark outside as Yankel the merchant arose from his bed and began preparations for his weekly travels. He ignored the aching in his weary bones, the protests of his tired limbs as he quickly dressed, and tried to ignore the cold winds and small stream of snowflakes blowing in from the cracked windows. This was life — the work was hard, the weather harsher, and if one did not exert tremendous energies to make money, there would be no food to bring home to his family.

Yankel packed up his pots and pans and the random assortment of items he sold and tied them into a large sack. Satisfied that he was packed for the road, he quickly donned his tallis and tefillin and began praying. Outside his window he could see some people trudging through the snow toward the shul as the sun rose over the bleak horizon. A pang of guilt and shame flared in Yankel’s heart. It sure would be nice to daven with a minyan… and even to learn a bit in the beis medrash afterward. Wouldn’t that be something!

Yankel pushed these thoughts away and hastily wrapped up his tallis and tefillin. The luxury of learning properly and davening properly belonged to the elite of Europe, those who were on higher levels than himself. After all, what was he? A simple merchant, unlearned, and forced to spend the bulk of his years under the burden of a massive burlap sack of merchandise, walking through the worst neighborhoods among the coarsest of gentiles. Perhaps in another lifetime Yankel would be a talmid chacham. One could always dream….

Yankel grabbed his sack and pushed his way out of the house, carving a space through the snow piled high against the house. He trudged to the edge of town where a wagon full of merchants was waiting for him.

“Where have you been, Yankel?” his friend Tzvi demanded. “Nu? We’re late for the trade show!”

“I’m sorry, Tzvi. I’m not getting any younger, you know….”

“Nu, neither are we. What can we do? We keep plowing on.”

Yankel took out a coin from his coat pocket and dropped it into the hand of the gentile wagon driver.

“Your bag is too big for the front, throw it in the back!” the wagon driver commanded, his breath crystallizing in the icy air. “And hurry up!”