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April 6, 2012
Chunky matzah saves town
Reb Stein never figures out the mystery, but it all turns out well.
MARK BINDER
Reb Stein, the baker of Chelm, stared at the thing in his oven. It looked like a slightly scorched white square block. He slid his metal paddle under it, and put it on the cooling rack next to some of the other scorched white square blocks. He sighed. It was time to ask the rabbi.
He pulled on his overshoes and coat and stepped out into the raging snowstorm. As he pushed his way through the gale, feeling the cold sting of flakes on his face, he went over in his mind what he was going to say. By the time he arrived at the synagogue, his teeth were chattering and he was muttering to himself. Reb Levitsky, the caretaker, led him to the stove in the rabbi’s study to thaw his fingers and toes.
“Reb Stein,” Rabbi Kibbitz began, but he didn’t get further than that.
“I didn’t do it!” Reb Stein shouted. “It’s not my fault!” Melting ice was dripping from the brim of his hat onto the rabbi’s stove, where it hissed and evaporated. The air was becoming thick.
“So? Nu?” the rabbi asked. “What?”
Reb Stein sighed. “The matzah. It’s rising.”
“What do you mean it’s rising?” Rabbi Kibbitz’s face grew puzzled. “If it’s rising, it’s not matzah. Matzah is supposed to commemorate....”
“I know!” screamed Reb Stein. “But every single matzah I’ve baked this year isn’t flat, it’s a chunk!”
“So, what are you doing wrong?” Rabbi Kibbitz asked, innocently.
Reb Stein spun around and faced the rabbi, a look of madness in his eyes. He opened his mouth, bared his teeth, took in a breath, and then started to sob. “I don’t know! I’ve been baking matzah my whole life. It’s not that difficult. Flour and water. You mix it up, you roll it flat, you hurry and put it into an incredibly hot oven, you watch to make sure it doesn’t rise, and then poof, you’re done.
“But not this year. Every single matzah is coming out in blocks!”
After a long pause, Rabbi Kibbitz spoke. “Show me.”
They bundled themselves up warmly, and pushed the synagogue’s door open. Reb Kimmelman was busy shoveling the path, but they made their way past him and trudged the short distance to the bakery. Rather than taking Rabbi Kibbitz inside, where the ovens kept everything warm, Reb Stein led him around back. He slid a bolt, kicked some snow out of the way, and yanked open a large door. At first, Rabbi Kibbitz could see very little inside. The snow had been very bright, and the few windows in the building were high up and concealed behind stacks and stacks of boxes.
“Here!” Reb Stein picked up one of the boxes and handed it to the rabbi.
“What’s this?”
“It’s matzah.”
Rabbi Kibbitz peered. This thing, if you looked at it directly from the top or the bottom, it looked just like matzah. It was that magical combination of smooth and bumpy and white and dark that promised eight days of crunch and crumbs. Except matzah was supposed to be thin. This was thick, very, very, very thick.
Rabbi Kibbitz searched for something nice to say. “It’s very light.”
“Of course it’s light,” Reb Stein said. “A piece of matzah doesn’t weigh anything. The first one that came out of the oven, I thought maybe it was hollow, so I dropped it on the ground. It didn’t break. A few crumbs come off.... I had to use a saw to get a piece big enough to taste.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“It tastes like matzah,” Reb Stein grumped. “It would be good with butter or chopped liver, except for the fact that it’s so wide you can’t put it in your mouth!”
Reb Stein’s voice kept rising. “I start baking the matzah right after Passover. It keeps for a year. If I have too much, I can sell some of it and make a little extra money. Every week, I make a batch. Every week, it’s the same thing. I’ve tried different flour. I’ve tried different temperatures.
“I’ve tried watching. You know what happened? The matzah was flat, it was flat, it was flat, and then I blinked and poof! It’s a square. This has happened over and over and over and over again! I filled the whole warehouse. Passover is next week! What are we going to do?”
Just then Reb Kimmelman burst into the room.
“Rabbi Kibbitz! The ceiling on the synagogue! It’s buckling under the weight of the snow!”
Right behind him was Mrs. Chaipul. “The roof of my restaurant is beginning to collapse from the snow!” she cried.
Reb Cantor huffed in after her. “My shop,” he panted. “The snow. Too heavy.”
They all stared at the rabbi. “What do we do?”
“Here,” the rabbi said, handing Reb Kimmelman the chunk. He quickly took two more and gave them to Mrs. Chaipul and Reb Cantor. “Take these. Make columns. Use them to prop up the roofs.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Chaipul asked.
“It’s matzah,” Reb Stein said.
“Matzah?” All three visitors spoke as one. “Matzah is supposed to be flat.”
“We know!” shouted Reb Stein and Rabbi Kibbitz. “Now go!”
Soon, a matzah chunk brigade was formed from the bakery warehouse to every home and building in the village of Chelm. The chunks were light and strong and they stacked well. Although the roofs sagged, they did not fall.
For the week before Passover, everyone in Chelm tiptoed around their matzah columns, careful not to disturb the architectural support.
Reb Stein was miserable. The roads were covered with snow. No supplies could possibly get through. Every time he looked at the tower of matzah holding up the roof of his bakery, he moaned, “It’s not my fault!”
Then, on the morning before Passover, the villagers of Chelm awoke to warm sunlight, the sound of snow melting, and piles of neatly stacked, wafer-thin pieces of matzah in their homes, barns and places of business. One after another they came to Reb Stein and thanked him for saving their property, and for so kindly delivering the matzah.
“All that pressure must have compressed it,” Reb Stein said to Rabbi Kibbitz. “But is it kosher for Passover?”
The rabbi looked thoughtful. “Did you see it rise?”
“No. I watched carefully.”
“And it’s flat now?”
“Flattened,” Reb Stein nodded. “All of it.” He took a bite of one piece. “Crunchy, dry and bland, too.”
Rabbi Kibbitz took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s perfect.”
And then, grinning ear to ear, both friends began to laugh, while the crumbs of matzah flew around the room and danced in the air before settling to the floor of the bakery like a thin layer of snow.
Mark Binder is the author of The Mega Matzah, eight Passover tales, and The Brothers Schlemiel, a novel of Chelm. His collection A Hanukkah Present was the finalist for the National Jewish Book Award for family literature. All of these books are available in softcover and electronic editions through amazon.com, and for Android, Nook and iPad.
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