One day, a number of summers ago, a rebbi in a prominent Brooklyn yeshivah by the name of Rabbi Plutchok found himself learning in a Beis Medrash at a camp in the Catskill Mountains, when he noticed a man sitting nearby learning intently from an English translation of the Gemara. Rabbi Plutchok befriended the man and was taken by surprise when the man confided in him that he had an advanced stage of liver cancer. Rabbi Plutchok tried to comfort him, saying, “It’s amazing that you have this terrible illness, yet you come here every day and are so upbeat about your learning.”
One day, near the end of the summer, Rabbi Plutchok walked in and found the man sitting there looking depressed.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“No, Rabbi,” said the fellow. “My illness is progressing, and I was thinking, ‘What difference does it make if I learn? Who cares?’ You are an accomplished Torah scholar. Your Talmudic studies make a difference. As for me, I don’t understand everything it says, even with the English translation. When I ask questions of the rabbis, I understand some of what they say, but not all. I’m not on your level, Rabbi. What’s the difference if I learn? Who cares?”
Rabbi Plutchok felt terrible for the man, but, incredibly, just the night before he had heard an amazing story and decided to share it.
It was about a great symphony conductor, an Italian maestro by the name of Arturo Toscanini (1867–1957), who was one of the most acclaimed musicians of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. He was renowned for his brilliant intensity, his restless perfectionism, his phenomenal ear for orchestral detail and sonority, and his photographic memory.
The story went as follows. Toscanini was sitting one day with one of his biographers. Together, they were listening to a recording of a certain overture. The piece was a complicated one—many movements, complex arrangements, and sophisticated orchestration. The two men listened silently, concentrating on every note and every emotion. When the recording was finished, the maestro turned to the author and remarked, “Did you notice anything unusual about what we heard?”
He had not. The rendition had been stirring, perhaps even exceptional, but the writer could not imagine what the genius was referring to.
“I have no idea,” he confessed. “But I am curious. What was so unusual about this piece of music?”
Toscanini explained. “My familiarity with this overture is great. Believe me, I know what it is supposed to sound like. There should, in fact, be exactly fourteen violins in that orchestra. But in this particular recording of the overture, I only heard thirteen violins. One violin is missing. Of this, I am certain.”
The biographer knew better than to chuckle in front of the great conductor, but he was mystified. How was it possible for Toscanini to discern that one violinist was missing? And how could he dare to be certain of that? It made no sense.
The next day, the man began to do some research. To his amazement, Toscanini was precisely correct. One of the violinists had indeed been absent when that recording was made. The biographer was amazed. He returned to Toscanini and said, “I thought you were just making it up the other night. But please tell me, how could you know that one violinist was missing?”
“There is a great difference between you and me,” answered Toscanini. “You are part of the audience, and to the audience everything sounds wonderful. But I am the conductor, and the conductor has to know every note of music that is to be played. When I realized that certain notes were not being played, I knew without a doubt that one of the violinists was missing.”
Rabbi Plutchok turned to the man and said, “Maybe to regular people it doesn’t make a difference if you learn, but to the Conductor of the World Symphony—who knows every note of music to be played, every word of Torah to be learned, and every line of tefilah that is supposed to be prayed—to Him it undoubtedly makes a difference!”
The man stood there as if in shock. Then he embraced Rabbi Plutchok heartily and could not thank him enough.
The following winter, Rabbi Plutchok happened to meet the son of this man and asked how his father was doing. The son told him that his father had passed away. However, he added, “Ever since my father returned from the bungalow colony, every time he opened his Gemara he would say, ‘I am performing for the Conductor of the World Symphony!’”
Adapted from “Every Note Counts” by Rabbi Yaakov Salomon and AscentOfSafed.com, Rabbi Y. Tilles
Rabbi Dovid Hoffman is the author of the popular “Torah Tavlin” book series, filled with stories, wit and hundreds of divrei Torah, including the brand new “Torah Tavlin Yamim Noraim” in stores everywhere. You’ll love this popular series. Also look for his book, “Heroes of Spirit,” containing one hundred fascinating stories on the Holocaust. They are fantastic gifts, available in all Judaica bookstores and online at http://israelbookshoppublications.com. To receive Rabbi Hoffman’s weekly “Torah Tavlin” sheet on the parsha, e-mail This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.