Asharon Baltazar

Silent looks were thrown around, frantically trying to pinpoint the one responsible.

They rested and grazed, and after a day or two, the rancher prodded them along to the fair where, plump and agile, they sold nicely.

For almost 20 years the innkeeper had avoided paying his annual dues to the baron from whom he leased the property.

An assortment of tefillin—some old and worn, others glossy and new—lay neatly arranged.

Reb Avraham was known to be a kind but a simple and almost illiterate Jew, barely able to follow the prayers or read Tehillim.

“Why are you worrying?” chuckled the rabbi. “Heaven directs everything, and there isn’t a person alive who knows what needs to happen or when.”

If successful, he would save his brothers and sisters from certain ruin. If unsuccessful, they shuddered to imagine…

The Rebbe continued speaking, even as the clock ticked closer to midnight.

Whether it was a silver goblet, an ornate spice box, or the Shabbat candlesticks, all they could do was acknowledge the disappearance

At the age of 93, Reb Shlomo Rafaels was one of Sventiany’s oldest residents.