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the rest and cut it into smaller pieces. The challah chunks, soon shredded into hundreds of pieces, were passed from hand to hand all the way across the shul. Some received only crumbs, and those crumbs were split into even smaller crumbs. These were the traditional sacred morsels, sherayim , leftovers of the tzaddik’s food, each morsel bringing untold blessings: it healed the sick, brought good fortune, and instilled in one the fear of God.
    More food was placed in front of the rebbe, all of it in enormous silver dishes: a whole cooked salmon, chicken noodle soup in a covered silver tureen, a large platter piled high with dozens of chicken legs, and another with brightly glazed carrots. From each dish, the rebbe ate only a few morsels, swaying from side to side as he chewed, after which the attendant passed around the leftovers, which were then passed, hand to hand, through the rest of the crowd.
    An elderly man began to sing a familiar song, a coarse and boisterous melody, its simple notes taught in every Hasidic kindergarten: Grant us the good inclination, to serve You with truth, with awe and with love. The rebbe rested his forehead on his right hand, covering half his face. His cheeks were flaming red over his reddish-gray beard as his body swayed softly to the rhythm.
    The crowd joined in, and slowly their voices grew louder, more robust, the song filling the sanctuary. Moments later, the rebbe removed his hand from his forehead and began to pound his fist on the table. The crowd responded, stomping their feet in time to the rebbe’s pounding. Even the brass chandeliers vibrated to the beat of the song. The simple passage was repeated over and over, until the crowd was like a single massive organism screaming its desperate plea: Grant us, grant us, the good inclination! Grant us, grant us, the good inclination!
    During a pause in the singing, men removed kerchiefs from their pockets and wiped the sweat from their brows. Above us, latticework panels covered the balcony areas, the women’s section, and here and there a slender finger gripped a wooden strip from behind the partition. Through the slats, I could make out the vague outline of faces, the few women who cared to attend, to observe this otherwise male-only event.
    Another dish was placed in front of the rebbe, and then quickly removed for disbursement. The crowd grew tense with anticipation, soft murmurs followed by expectant silence. The rebbe gestured to one of the elderly men at the table. The man began to sing a slow tune set to words I remembered from the penitence prayers of the High Holy Days, a prayer not to God but to his ministering angels:
    Remind Him, make it heard before Him,
    the Torah study and good deeds
    of those who rest beneath the earth.
    The crowd took up the tune, again starting out weakly, their voices growing stronger with each stanza. The song came to an end, and the crowd took it up again from the beginning. Some of the men appeared to be weeping. The boys around me swayed vigorously with their eyes closed. Even the children stood remarkably solemn, all eyes on the rebbe:
    Let Him remember their love, and keep alive their seed,
    so that the remnant of Jacob will not be lost.
    For the sheep of a faithful shepherd has been put to humiliation,
    Israel, one nation, to scorn and mockery.
    The last part was directed to God Himself, as if our restraint had dissolved, the passion of our cry warranting the bypass of heavenly bureaucracy:
    Answer us speedily, God of our salvation,
    Redeem us from all harsh decrees.
    Save, with Your bountiful mercy,
    Your righteous anointed one and Your nation.
    There were more songs, slow tunes and lively ones, some set to words and others only a steady stream of ya di da di dai. I found myself swept up in the energy, joining hands with the boys beside me, lifting my feet with them and stomping on the floorboards, sharing in their exuberance, smelling the sweat of their bodies and tasting the sherayim of their