OCT. 22 ‘25 // AS TOLD TO CHAYA SILBER called him the nudnik-- behind his back, of course. Yankel was no longer young, and had been davening at the same shul for the past fifty-odd years. He shuffled rather than walked, brandishing a cane, which he often banged on the ground whenever things didn’t go his way. And he had a perpetual scowl on his face. Yankel didn’t mean to be difficult. It was just that his glass, no matter the size or color, was always half-empty. His arthritis was constantly bothering him, his children were ungrateful, and the entire world conspired to make him angry. No one ever saw him smile. When Yankel was around, an argument was sure to erupt. He usually frowned throughout the Rav’s lecture, and often interrupted to argue a point. Whether or not he knew what he was talking about, Yankel was always right. And if others didn’t agree with him, he’d raise his voice and repeat himself until they did. Small wonder that the seats around Yankel’s regular Yankel The Nudnik They 194
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTY1MDA0