Israel Goy
By Menachem Brod
In the city of Krakow there lived a rich Jew by the name of Israel who was famous for his stinginess. The
local beggars had long since given up trying to knock at his door. All attempts by the trustees of the community's various
charity funds to elicit at least a token contribution from him were met with polite but adamant refusals.
Israel's utter heartlessness outraged and mystified the Jews of Krakow. From the days of Abraham, charity
had been the hallmark of the Jew; in 17th-century Europe, where Jews were subject to frequent confiscations of their property
and expulsions from their homes, it was essential to the community's very survival that those of means should aid their impoverish
fellows. How could a Jew be so indifferent to the needs of his brothers and sisters? People started referring to the rich
miser in their midst as "Israel Goy" and the epithet stuck.
Years passed and the rich man grew old and frail. One day, the Krakow Burial Society received a summons to
Israel's home. "I feel that my days are numbered," he told them when they came, "and I would like to discuss with you my burial
arrangements. I have already had shrouds sewn for me and I've hired a man to recite the kaddish for my soul. There is just
one thing remaining: I need to purchase a plot for my grave."
The members of the Burial Society decided that this was their opportunity to collect the debt owed by Israel
to the community. "As you know," they said to him, "there is no set price for a cemetery plot. Each Jew pays according to
their ability, and the money is used for charitable purposes. Since you are a wealthy man, and since -- if you will excuse
our bluntness -- you have not been very forthcoming over the years in sharing the burdens of the community, we think it appropriate
to charge you 1000 guldens."
The rich man calmly replied: "For my deeds I shall be judged in the heavenly court. It is not for you to judge
what I did or did not do in the course of my life. I had planned to pay 100 guldens for my plot -- quite a respectable sum
-- and that is what I shall pay, not a penny more. I'm not asking for any special location or a fancy gravestone. Bury me
where you see fit. I have just one request: on my gravestone, I want it to be inscribed 'Here lies Israel Goy.'"
The members of the society exchanged glances: was the old man out of his mind? They spent a few more minutes
at his bedside hoping to secure at least a modest sum for the community poor, but finally left his house in exasperation.
The entire town was abuzz with this latest show of miserliness by "Israel Goy." How low can a man sink! Even
at death's door, he's hording his wealth, refusing to share his blessings with the needy.
Israel's funeral was a sorry affair. It was difficult to even scrape together the needed quorum of ten to
conduct a proper Jewish burial. He was buried off to a side, on the outskirts of the cemetery. No eulogies were held, for
what could be said of such a man?
The following Thursday evening, the was a knock on the door of the chief rabbi of Krakow, the famed Rabbi
Yomtov Lipman Heller (1579-1654; known as the author of Tosophot Yom Tov). In the doorway stood a man who explained that he
had nothing with which to purchase wine, candles, challah and food for the Shabbat. The rabbi gave him a few coins from his
private charity fund and wished him a "Good Shabbat".
A few minutes later there was another knock on the door, heralding a similar request. A third petitioner followed,
and then a forth and a fifth. Within the hour, no less than twenty families came to ask for the rabbi's aid to meet their
Shabbat expenses. The rabbi was mystified: nothing like this had happened before in all his years in Krakow. Why this sudden
plague of poverty?
Rabbi Heller called an emergency meeting of the trustees of the community's charity founds, but they could
not explain the phenomenon. They, too, had been deluged with hundreds of requests for aid in the last few hours. The communal
coffers had been virtually emptied!
As if on cue, there was another knock on the door. "Tell me," asked the rabbi after handing a few coins to
the latest petitioner, "how did you manage until now? What did you do last week?"
"We bought on credit at the grocer's," replied the pauper. "Whenever we needed food and did not have with
what to pay, the merchant said it was not a problem -- he just wrote it down in his ledger. He didn't even bother us about
payment. But now he says that that arrangement is over."
Investigation revealed that hundreds of families in Krakow had subsisted this way -- up to now. For some reason,
none of the grocers, fishmongers and butchers were willing to extend credit any longer to the town's poor.
The rabbi called the town's food merchants to his study and demanded to know what was going on. At first they
refused to tell him. But Rabbi Heller was adamant. "You're not leaving this room," he insisted, "until you tell me what this
is all about."
Finally, the truth came out. For years, Israel had supported hundreds of the poorest families in Krakow. Every
week the town's merchants would present the bill to him, and he paid in full. His only condition was that not a soul, not
even their closest family members, should know. "If any one of you breathes a word of this to anyone," he threatened, "you
won't see another copper from me ever again."
Rabbi Yomtov Lipman was shattered. Such a special person had lived in their midst, and they, in their haste
to judge him, had insulted him and reviled him.
The rabbi announced that the shloshim (30th day anniversary of the passing) of Israel shall be a public fastday.
All adults will neither eat nor drink from morning to evening, and all will gather at the cemetery to beg forgiveness from
the deceased.
The rabbi himself eulogized Israel. "You," he cried, "fulfilled the mitzvah of tzedakah (charity) in its most
perfect form -- without taking any credit for the deed, and ensuring that no recipient of your generosity should ever stand
ashamed before his benefactor or fee l indebted to him. And we repaid you with derision and scorn..." The rabbi expressed
the wish that when his own time came, he should be laid to rest next to Israel. "We buried you near the fence, like an outcast,
but I shall consider it a great honor and privilege to be buried near you!"
The rabbi also instructed that the rich man's last wish be fulfilled. On the marker raised above the grave
were etched the words "Here lies Israel Goy". However, one word was added to the inscription -- the word 'kadosh' -- 'holy
one'. And so the inscription reads to this day on the gravestone adjoining that of the famed Rabbi Yomtov Lipman Heller in
the old Jewish cemetery of Krakow: "Here lies Israel Goy Kadosh."