Rabbi Yalon Yitzchaki, one of the veteran and foremost students of Rabbi Berland, in an especially strengthening article in honor of Purim >>> the story of the hidden water-drawer >>> and the powerful lesson about accepting humiliation with love, as The Rav Berland teaches us

What a person works on his whole life

Since we are approaching Purim, and since our craving for publicity never knows satisfaction—as R’ Levi Yitzchak zt"l said, “A person works on what they will write on his tombstone”… I am bringing you a story whose beginning is on Purim and whose end is on Purim. The Chasam Sofer zy"a began it, and the author of Torat Chesed, R’ Shneur Zalman of Lublin zy"a, concluded it. The powerful headline of this wondrous story, known by the phrase “When wine enters, a secret comes out,” is: “Walk modestly with your God.”

Rabbi Baruch Mordechai

And here is the story before you (from Jerusalem Shel Ma’alah): For a full month, the ZuckerMandel glass factory in the small town of Yirgin near Pressburg was shut tight. A son had been born to the factory owner, the philanthropist R’ Nisan ZuckerMandel, who in his youth had been among the students of the holy Chasam Sofer. Many years of childlessness had passed over him, and now, in the overflow of joy, he set aside all his business affairs for an entire month. On Purim of the year 5583 (1823), the bris took place, with the Chasam Sofer serving as mohel. An exalted joy shone on the face of the Chasam Sofer during the bris, and at first his students attributed it to the fact that it was Purim itself. But after the circumcision, when their teacher offered the tender infant his finger dipped in wine and said—uncharacteristically—“When wine enters, a secret comes out,” everyone understood that there was something deeper here. Yet they did not dare ask. The baby was named in keeping with the day: Baruch Mordechai.

Years passed. Baruch Mordechai grew and became a youth—strong as an oak, a young man like the cedars. His teachers testified that he was exceptionally G-d-fearing and diligent in his learning. But to everyone’s heartbreak, he saw no blessing in his efforts: his exams were among the worst, and what he learned was quickly forgotten. When he was fifteen, on the Fast of Gedaliah in 5598 (1838), he received a special blessing from the Chasam Sofer. It happened when rain and hail were pounding down, and the city streets had turned into a mikveh of water. The Chasam Sofer was walking on his way, his feet sinking into mud. Baruch Mordechai, passing by, did not hesitate for a moment—he lifted his teacher onto his shoulders and carried him to the yeshivah building. “With what shall I bless you?” his teacher asked. “That I be saved from pride,” the boy answered—and he received the blessing of the great one of Israel. More years passed, and among the children of Pressburg he became known by the nickname “the pious ignoramus”—an ignoramus because he could not learn, and pious because he prayed with intention and with tears, a third of them.

In the year 5601 (1841), after a fire consumed his father’s factory and they were left stripped and destitute, Baruch Mordechai entered the presence of his teacher, the Ktav Sofer (the son of the Chasam Sofer, who had already passed away). He poured out his pain before him, and received an enticing counsel: to ascend to the Holy Land and live in Jerusalem. “There,” the Rav encouraged him, “close to the Gate of Heaven, your fortune will surely improve—and you will also find your match.” And so, with financial help from his uncle, he went up to Eretz HaKodesh, equipped with a recommendation from the spiritual supervisor, R’ Shraga Feldeheim. He lodged in the home of the holy gaon Rabbi Yeshaya Bardaki, who on the one hand saw his unique fear of Heaven and his heartfelt prayers, but on the other hand also saw his lack of knowledge in learning. He took pity on him and appointed him as the shamash of his beis midrash, and later even arranged a match for him with an orphan girl. For the wedding, all the residents of Jerusalem and its dignitaries came, in honor of Rabbi Yeshaya.

In the year 5627 (1867), Rabbi Yeshaya passed from this world, and Baruch Mordechai was forced to find a new livelihood. With his wife’s encouragement, he began working as a water-drawer. There were twelve water-drawers in Jerusalem, but many chose Baruch Mordechai specifically, especially in light of his great integrity. For forty years he held this position, doing his work with tremendous joy. The only one who refused to use his services was the Mahari”l Diskin zt"l. This was in the early days after the Mahari”l arrived in Jerusalem. Baruch Mordechai, in his holy custom of offering himself to rabbis and Torah scholars as their water-drawer so that he could merit “serving Torah sages,” went up to the Mahari”l’s home—but encountered refusal: “This Baruch Mordechai will not bring water to my house,” said the Rav of Brisk. Baruch Mordechai asked his forgiveness, ran home, took a Tehillim, and began murmuring: “Who knows what this tzaddik saw in me? I am entirely filthy with sins,” he said to his wife.

Years pass, and Purim 5653 (1893) arrives. A large crowd gathers in the home of the author of Torat Chesed, the righteous gaon Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lublin, to rejoice together in the joy of the day. Among the crowd is also Baruch Mordechai. He squeezes in among everyone and approaches the Rav of Lublin for a blessing of l’chaim. And to everyone’s astonishment, this quiet man opens his mouth and speaks directly to the Rav: “Rebbe, today makes seventy years since the day I entered the covenant of Avraham Avinu!” The crowd bursts into laughter, but the Rav does not laugh at all. He receives Baruch Mordechai’s words with great seriousness. “If so,” he says to him, “you deserve a larger cup.” Baruch Mordechai drinks from the cup—finishes it all. The wine begins to affect him, and he starts dancing and leaping. “Instead of going wild,” the Rav says to him, “it would be better if you say before the crowd some good words in halachah and aggadah.” “On what topic does the Rebbe want me to speak?” Baruch Mordechai asks. “On the topic of the day,” the Rav answers. “Matters of Purim… ha… ha… ha… why, there’s an entire tractate about that,” Baruch Mordechai says. “And what does the Gemara say there?” the Rav asks. And here Baruch Mordechai begins to deliver entire pages of Gemara, with Rashi and Tosafos, explained with fine taste and clear understanding. He stands on the table; the entire crowd presses in, struck with amazement. No one moves from his place—everyone is in shock. And the Rav does not let up: from Megillah he moves to Shabbos, and from there to Bava Basra and Bava Metzia, and Baruch Mordechai answers him with tremendous mastery in all the chambers of Torah—uprooting mountains and smoothing paths. Afterward, when he is completely drunk to the point of losing his senses, he falls to the ground. They rush him to the women’s section, where he sleeps for several hours, until Minchah.

Not much time passes, and all Jerusalem is in an uproar: Baruch Mordechai the water-drawer is a mighty gaon! And for all his days—seventy years—he had misled everyone! Baruch Mordechai’s anguish knew no bounds. His secret had been revealed, and the residents of Jerusalem no longer allowed him to serve as a water-drawer. Instead, students began streaming to his home.

Then everyone understood retroactively the holy words of the Chasam Sofer: “When ‘wine’ (=70) enters, a ‘secret’ (=70) comes out.” The wine entered and revealed the seventy-year secret. And now everyone also understood why the Mahari”l Diskin did not want to use the services of this hidden Torah scholar. And when Rabbi Baruch Mordechai passed away, the great mekubalim of Jerusalem walked after his bier, for he had been one of the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim of the generation.

If only we could be students of The Rav

And now, my dear friends—precious yeshivah students—look and listen: how awe-inspiring this story is! Imagine the daily, subtle nuances that this tzaddik, ZuckerMandel, had to endure for seventy years. And what about us? People ask me, and I don’t know how to answer? Of course I answer! R’ Avraham b”r Nachman (the chazzan) zt"l said that when they give him honor it feels like “they are stabbing me with knives.” And we—nebach—humiliations are like knives, and honor is like delicacies. So perhaps Rabbi Berland does not need people upside-down like us, standing on our heads, in order to speak with us… From now on, if someone asks you whether you are a chassid of Rabbi Berland shlit"a, tell him: “If only I would merit it,” because where am I and where is Rabbi Berland? Like a convert who comes to convert and says, “I know—and I am not worthy.” A joyous Purim!