36
Candles
Chassidic Tales
for
Chanukah
Libi Astaire
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Libi Astaire
Cover Image: Copyright iStockphoto.com/Daniel Fiverson
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Preface
Eight Thoughts for Chanukah
First Night, One Candle:
A Face in the Crowd
Second Night, Two Candles:
Menorah Manners
Why the Nations Praise Hashem
Third Night, Three Candles:
Eighteen Coins
Rules of the Game
A “Small” Miracle
Fourth Night, Four Candles:
La Dolce (Berditchev)Vita
Hearts on Fire
Heads Up!
The Address for Broken Hearts
Fifth Night, Five Candles:
Whose Menorah Is It, Anyway?
Kindness Fit for a King
Kindness To Go
The Kindness Club
The World Is Built on Kindness
Sixth Night, Six Candles:
Chanukah in Hiding
A Promise for Life
Who Will Buy?
Why Me?
A Dream of Redemption
The Blind Man Who Could See
Seventh Night, Seven Candles:
Hold That Light!
Staying Warm in Brisk Weather
The Happiest Jew in the World
A Taste of Wealth
A Light in Lublin
How to Get Everything for Nothing
Longing for the Light
Eighth Night, Eight Candles:
Forest Fire
A Tale of Two Bagels
The Check Is in the Mail
Why Didn’t You?
Cry for Help
Trust Me
While the Candle Still Burns
Thanks for the Memories
Biographical Notes
About the Author
A Note About This Text:
The Jewish people have many names for God, which come from many languages. In the stories that follow these names appear:
Hashem – a Hebrew word meaning “The Name”
Aibishter – a Yiddish word meaning “Most High”
Ribbono Shel Olam – a Hebrew phrase meaning “Master of the Universe”
The words “Rabbi” and “Rebbe” are used to designate a spiritual leader. “Reb” is a courtesy title used for ordinary Jews.
Preface
In Kislev, the ninth month of the Jewish year, the days are at their shortest. Yet it is just at this time that Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, occurs. What’s more, the first night of Chanukah is on the 25th of Kislev, when the waning moon begins to disappear from view. This means that during the week of Chanukah not only is the night long, but it’s also very, very dark.
It is precisely against this background of intense darkness that one of Chanukah’s most powerful lessons shines forth so brightly: Never despair! Miracles do still happen. Light can be found when — and where — we least expect it.
Perhaps this message explains the holiday’s appeal, regardless of our religious affiliation. We all go through ups and downs in life, and it’s all too easy to feel stuck when we’re at the bottom. But gazing at the Chanukah lights has a “miraculous” effect on just about everyone — and this ability of the Chanukah candles to refresh the spirit is no coincidence. “The candle of God is the soul of man,” Proverbs 20:27 tells us. When we gaze at the Chanukah lights we come in touch with the soul, which is our deepest, truest self; we come face to face with the inextinguishable power within each and every one of us to illuminate even the darkest corners of our lives and overcome all obstacles.
True, on the first night of Chanukah, when just one flame is lit, the light is small and weak, like the soul when it is buffeted by a sea of troubles. But on each night of Chanukah the lights increase. As we see them grow stronger, how can we not become stronger, too? As we see the darkness retreat, how can we not become filled with new hope, fresh courage, and renewed determination?
36 Candles charts both this struggle and its progress by presenting eight thoughts for Chanukah that are followed by thirty-six illustrative stories — one story for each candle that is lit during the holiday’s eight nights.
Many of the stories come from the vast treasury of lore belonging to the mystical religious movement called Chassidus, which was founded in the eighteenth century by Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, the Baal Shem Tov. Others take their inspiration from the Mussar (ethical) movement founded by Rabbi Israel Salanter a century later. Some stories take place in the Eastern European shtetls (small towns) of hundreds of years ago, while others take place in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Some happened in the death camps of the Holocaust, while others occurred in the courtyards of Jerusalem. What they all have in common is an inner light, a revelation of the eternal power of the soul, which still casts its glow today.
Happy Chanukah,
Libi Astaire
Jerusalem
Chanukah 5771 (2010)
Eight Thoughts for Chanukah
First Night, One Candle: The Greatest Miracle of All!
Chanukah is associated with several miracles, yet it’s easy to overlook the greatest miracle of all: The fact that there are still Jews in the world, and that we are still bringing the light of Chanukah into our homes.
What’s so amazing about that? To understand the miracle of continued Jewish existence we first have to understand what the Chanukah story is all about.
When Alexander the Great conquered the known world of his time, he conquered the tiny Kingdom of Judea along with the other nations. Under Alexander’s rule the Jews were allowed to follow their own customs and laws, but after he died his kingdom was split into three parts. Judea fell under the power of the Syrian-Greeks.
The Syrian-Greeks resented the Jews, who rejected Greek culture, with its emphasis on superficial external beauty, and stubbornly clung to their own tradition. In an attempt to persuade the Jews to adopt Greek practices, the Greeks carpeted Judea with altars to their gods, stadiums for their games, and pleasure halls for their feasts. When the Greeks saw that these peaceful means of persuasion weren’t working, King Antiochus sent his army to persuade the Jews through violence.
During the war that ensued, thousands of Jews were slaughtered. Many others fled to the hills, where they lived in caves to escape detection. Meanwhile, the Greeks desecrated the Temple in Jerusalem by building an altar in the Temple’s courtyard and sacrificing a pig, whose blood was brought into the Holy of Holies. The Menorah, the seven-branched candelabra that stood inside the Sanctuary, and the flasks of pure olive oil needed to light it were also defiled.
Then the tide turned. Matisyahu and his five sons — the Maccabees — gathered a small army from among those who had fled to the hills and caves. In this battle of “the few against the many” and “the weak against the mighty,” the Jews vanquished their enemy and drove the Greeks out of Judea. When the Jewish army came to Jerusalem to cleanse and rededicate the Temple, they found only one flask of oil that hadn’t been defiled by the Greeks — and so a question arose. Should they light the Menorah, even though the flask of oil would last for only one day? Or should they wait until new oil could be prepared, a process that would take eight days?
As we know, they decided to light the Menorah with the undefiled flask of oil. The Talmud tells us, in Shabbos 21b: “A miracle occurred and they were able to light with it for eight days. The next year they established and made these days into a holiday, for saying songs of praise and thanks.”
Chanukah therefore became a national holiday. But some two hundred years later Judea once again fell under the grip of a foreign power, the Roman Empire. During the era of Roman rule, the Temple was destroyed, the Menorah disappeared, and the Jewish people went into a 2,000-year-long exile that has lasted until this very day.
So what exactly is it that we are celebrating? It’s surely not a military victory, for the fruits of that victory were destroyed long ago. And it’s not just the miracle of the one flask of oil burning for eight days. Since the Temple existed in a higher spiritual realm, miracles were a common occurrence there. In fact, the Talmudic tractate Ethics of the Fathers (5:8) lists ten miracles associated with the Temple and the Temple service that happened all the time.
What then is the unique miracle of Chanukah that we are commemorating?
According to Rabbi Judah Loew, the Maharal of Prague, the goal of Antiochus was to destroy the Jewish nation by taking away our holiness. Antiochus knew that if the Jews stopped performing mitzvos (commandments) and learning Torah, we would cease to exist as a people. We would succumb to the seductive physical pleasures offered by Greek culture, like the other nations of the world, and become Greeks.
But we didn’t. At the risk of being mocked and persecuted, we stubbornly remained Jews.
Because we refused to forsake the Torah, the Temple and the mitzvah (commandment) of lighting the Menorah were briefly restored to us. And even though the Temple has not yet been permanently restored to us, it is this example — this miracle — that continues to inspire the Jewish people during our long exile. After more than 2,000 years and countless efforts to destroy, convert or assimilate us, we are still stubbornly clinging to our Jewish heritage.
The greatest miracle of Chanukah, therefore, is really you and me — those of us who, through the merit of our ancestors, are still kindling the Chanukah lights today. Because through the performance of this mitzvah, we are declaring that the light of the Torah still shines and that holiness still exists in the world.
A Chanukah Thought: On the first night of Chanukah we recite three blessings, including the Shehechiyanu blessing where we thank God for “bringing us to this season.” This first night, while the one candle still burns, is a perfect time to reflect on the personal miracles that have brought us to this season. Everyone has a relative, teacher, or friend who inspired them to learn more about Judaism and be proud of our heritage. There’s no better time than Chanukah to recall the light that those special people brought into our lives.
Second Night, Two Candles: Partners and Praises
According to Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, a grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, Chanukah is a great time to either find your marriage partner or, if you’re already married, improve the peace and harmony in your home. What’s the connection between a peaceful married life and the Festival of Lights?
During the eight days of Chanukah we say Hallel, a song of praise comprised of Psalms 113 —118. We also say a special prayer of thanksgiving called Al Hanisim (For the Miracles).
Rabbi Nachman notes, in Likutey Moharan II:2, that the act of thanking and praising Hashem and the act of studying Jewish law are similar because they both indicate an awareness of Hashem’s active presence in our lives. The more we learn, the more we understand that the mitzvos are designed to help us refine our character and become better people. The more we thank and praise Hashem, the more we can appreciate the many kindnesses that He performs for us individually and as a nation.
But we don’t have to reserve our words of thanks and praise only for Hashem. If we can accustom ourselves to seek opportunities to express appreciation to our spouse — as opposed to constantly searching for a reason to criticize — our homes will be blessed with the most precious gift in the world: the blessing of peace.
So it’s now understandable why Rabbi Nachman says, “By praising and thanking Hashem, and by studying Jewish law, individuals merit finding their true mates.”
A Chanukah Thought: Let the two lights that are burning inspire you to take Rabbi Nachman’s teaching to heart. Make an effort to bring words of praise and thanks into your home.
Third Night, Three Candles: The Mitzvah Triangle
In Proverbs 6:23 a mitzvah is compared to a lamp. Why does King Solomon, the author of the Book of Proverbs, make this comparison?
In order for a lamp to do its job, it needs three components: a vessel, fuel, and a wick. So, too, is the performance of a mitzvah composed of three elements: thought, speech, and action.
This lesson comes through most clearly when we light the Chanukah menorah. In order to perform this mitzvah we first need to have a vessel to contain it. If we haven’t prepared this vessel beforehand — if we haven’t thought about what type of vessel to use — we won’t be able to do the mitzvah.
Next we need either candles or olive oil, which remind us that just as fuel has the potential to turn into light, so too can speaking the words of a blessing turn an ordinary act such as lighting a candle into an act of holiness. Finally, we need a wick — something tangible from this world — in order to complete the action of kindling the mitzvah light.
If any of these three elements is missing, our performance of the mitzvah is incomplete. Fortunately, lighting the Chanukah menorah is one mitzvah that most of us do quite successfully. And our success can inspire us to bring this harmony of thought, speech, and action into other aspects of our lives.
A Chanukah Thought: Everyone looks forward to a holiday and the opportunities it provides for family and friends to get together. Sometimes, though, an unkind word or a thoughtless action can spoil the evening for everyone.
On this third night try to prevent this from happening by taking time — as you gaze at the three Chanukah lights — to visualize your thoughts, speech and actions working together in a harmonious manner. See the joyous atmosphere that you can create in your home and workplace, and know that you can make it a reality.
Fourth Night, Four Candles: Once More, With Feeling
By the fourth night of Chanukah, most of us have got the lighting ceremony down pat. We know where the matches are, remember the words of the blessings by heart, and we’ve even decided on the medley of Chanukah songs we want to sing. But if it’s true that practice makes perfect, it’s equally true that over-familiarity can sometimes make the heart grow cold.
Chanukah lasts for eight days and there is a danger that the performance of its mitzvos will become routine. If by the fourth night you’re feeling that the thrill is gone, it’s time to do a Chanukah enthusiasm check.
Judaism asks a lot of us, and one of those things it requests is a commitment to ma’alin b’kedushah — ascending in holiness. We should always strive to reach ever higher levels of spirituality.
This spiritual quest is concretized in the way we light the Chanukah lights. On the first night we light just one light. Every night thereafter we increase the number of lights by one, until by the eighth night there are eight lights blazing.
On the fourth night we are at the halfway mark, and it is here that our inner reality may part company with what’s happening in the outer world. Our enthusiasm may begin to cool down just when the Chanukah menorah is beginning to heat up. So what should we do if this happens? Put on an outer show and pretend we’re still all fired up to do the mitzvah, or admit that the excitement is over and just go through the motions?
Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler discusses this very issue in his monumental work Michtav Me’Eliyahu (the English translation is called Strive for Truth!). During Talmudic times there was a famous argument about the proper way to kindle the Chanukah lights. According to the House of Shammai, on the first night of the holiday we should light eight lights and decrease the number of lights by one each night. This way of lighting is an accurate reflection of the service of the average Jew: On the first night of a holiday we are full of enthusiasm, but each subsequent night our enthusiasm decreases. Although Shammai certainly didn’t condone such behavior, he argued that if people are truthful, this honesty will make it easier for them to work on themselves and increase their level of spiritual service.
The House of Hillel, on the other hand, argued that we should follow the example of the tzaddikim (righteous people) — who increase their joy with each passing day of the holiday — and add a new light to the Chanukah menorah every night. To avoid fooling ourselves into believing that we have already reached a spiritual level that is still beyond us, we must take care to be inwardly aware of the spiritual work that needs to be done.
Jewish tradition goes according to Hillel, and Rabbi Dessler concludes his discussion by commenting that we should try to avoid the negative and concentrate on the positive. If we are committed to achieving inner growth, taking positive outward action can help us achieve our spiritual goals.
A Chanukah Thought: Although Chanukah comes just once a year, it can be difficult to put our business or personal affairs on hold and make time to light the menorah on each of the eight nights. So if you find that your enthusiasm is cooling, recognize that you are in good company — and do something positive about it. Sing a Chanukah song with gusto, wear a new outfit, put on some music and dance, or do whatever you need to do to put yourself in a joyous frame of mind. This mitzvah is too precious to slight.
Fifth Night, Five Candles: Share-a-Mitzvah
On Chanukah we have the tradition of beautifying the mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights. Although according to Jewish law we are required to light just one candle per night per household, when it comes to Chanukah practically all Jews are kosher l’mehadrin (stringently kosher). Each night we add a light, until by the last night eight lights are burning.
Yet there is one instance when less is really more. If a person has neighbors who are too poor to buy candles or oil for their household, our Sages advise that it is a bigger mitzvah to share your extra candles with your neighbors so that they can also perform the mitzvah.
A Chanukah Thought: Chanukah provides many opportunities for performing acts of kindness. For instance, there are many people in the Jewish community who are alone — singles, divorcees and widows, the elderly, people in hospitals, etc. — and who would be thrilled to be invited to a family’s Chanukah celebration. And while it is fitting to beautify the mitzvah by owning a beautiful menorah, sponsoring a Chanukah party at a children’s hospital ward or a Jewish orphanage is another way to beautify the mitzvah.
Sixth Night, Six Candles: Just Do It!
In his book Growing Each Day, Rabbi Abraham Twerski points out that there have been many miracles in Jewish history, yet few of them have received the prominence that the miracle of the Menorah has received. The reason, he suggests, is because whereas other miracles were initiated by Hashem, this miracle was initiated by the Jews, themselves. When the Jews decided to light the Menorah with the oil that they had — and not worry about how they were going to light the Menorah on the morrow — their action elicited a Divine response. The Menorah stayed lit for seven more days, which gave them enough time to prepare a fresh supply of oil.
This lesson of taking the initiative and doing what we can — while leaving the outcome to Hashem — is reflected in one of the laws of Chanukah. If a Chanukah light is extinguished before the prescribed time for burning has elapsed — thirty minutes — a person isn’t obligated to rekindle the light (although it is proper to do so, without a blessing). The reason we don’t have to rekindle the light is because our responsibility is only to decide to do the mitzvah and then act on this decision. We aren’t responsible for the successful outcome of the mitzvah because success and failure are in Hashem’s hands alone.
A Chanukah Thought: In Torah thought, six days represent the work of our physical world while the seventh day represents completion. On the sixth night of Chanukah the menorah is aglow with light, but we are aware that it’s not yet complete. Our ability to successfully kindle all the lights of the Chanukah menorah is a product of both our own efforts and Hashem’s plan for us, for no one can know what the next day will bring.
This holds true for all of life. There is never a guarantee that we will be assured of a successful conclusion every time we act. However, we should never let the fear of failure in the future prevent us from performing a constructive action today. Instead we should keep our focus on what we can do — and leave the rest to Hashem.
Seventh Night, Seven Candles: Complete Happiness!
The Sfas Emes, one of the greatest thinkers of the Chassidic movement, suggests that Chanukah — unlike other Jewish holidays — represents complete happiness. The reason is that it is the only holiday that we can fulfill completely.
Passover, Shavuos, and Sukkos, according to the Torah, all require that we offer sacrifices at the Temple in Jerusalem. Because we are currently unable to offer these sacrifices, our enjoyment of these holidays is incomplete.
But to fulfill the requirements of Chanukah according to Torah law, all we need to do is kindle the Chanukah lights properly and thank and praise Hashem — mitzvos that are within the reach of every Jew who wishes to perform them.
A Chanukah Thought: If you have been lighting your menorah every night, it’s time to realize that you have achieved something that few people ever find in life: complete happiness. How does it feel?
Eighth Night, Eighth Candles: Gevalt! Never Give Up Hope!
The miracle of Chanukah occurred at one of the darkest moments of Jewish history. Yet “in the blink of an eye” the great darkness was turned into a great light, a light that still illuminates our hearts today. This should remind us that even when all seems bleak we should never despair. We can always request help from Above — from the world of “eight.”
In Jewish thought “eight” is always an allusion to eternity, that which is above time. When the power of “eight” reaches down into this world, a tiny band of warriors can defeat the best equipped army in the world and one flask of oil can burn for eight days.
But what do we do when the eight lights begin to sputter and fade, and the darkness seems to return? How do we hang on to the inspiration of Chanukah after the menorah is put away?
The answer is to not let go. If we want to, we can bring the lessons of Chanukah into our lives every day of the year.
A Chanukah Thought: Resolve to remember that there is never a reason to give up hope. Even after Chanukah has ended, its light can be found at all times and in all places, if we make the effort to find it.
First Night, One Candle: The Greatest Miracle of All!
1. A Face in the Crowd
“Komme!”
The Jew, who was sick and exhausted, could feel his knees start to give way. He had no illusions about what this “invitation” meant. Perhaps in another time, another world, the word “Komme” meant “Come, let’s talk,” or “Come to dinner on Tuesday night.” In the Bergen Belsen concentration camp, “Komme” meant only one thing: death.
But to disobey the white-gloved hand that beckoned him forward was impossible. There was no way to escape. If death stood before him in the guise of the Nazi commandant, death was also behind him, in the form of the electrified barbed wire fence that surrounded the camp. And so he did as he was bidden. He stepped out of the line. He came forward.
“Komme! Komme!” said the commandant, pointing his white finger at two more emaciated, ragged Jews.
The trio were marched outside, where SS troops were waiting. At the signal, the soldiers raised their clubs. Within minutes the three Jews were dead. Then the nightmare began anew. Three more Jews were ordered to “Komme.” Three more Jews were clubbed to death.
This bloody ritual was repeated until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then the Jews who had survived this latest selection were ordered to return to their barracks. The soldiers also returned to their quarters, in a joyous mood.
Komme! Chanukah in Bergen Belsen had begun.
There were no freshly-made potato latkes (pancakes) waiting for the Jews in their barracks on that first night of Chanukah, nor were there any children, their faces aglow with excitement, a dreidel (spinning top)grasped firmly in their hands, standing at the doorway to greet them. But there was a menorah of sorts. At risk of death, a few of the inmates, determined to kindle the Chanukah lights, had secretly assembled the necessary materials. One of the prisoners had volunteered his wooden clog for use as the menorah. Another had scrounged a bit of black shoe polish, to be used as the “oil.” A piece of string severed from a camp uniform was the wick.
The honor of lighting the menorah was given to the barracks’ most distinguished resident, Rabbi Yisrael Spira, the Bluzhover Rebbe. But there was no joy as the Rebbe stepped forward. The memory of the afternoon’s killings was too fresh; the sorrow was too immense.
Before kindling the light for the first night, Rabbi Yisrael chanted two blessings:
Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the Universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and has commanded us to kindle the Chanukah light.
Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the Universe, Who has performed miracles for our ancestors, in those days, at this season.
There was still one more blessing to say, since it was the first night of the holiday. But instead of quickly proceeding to the third blessing, Rabbi Yisrael stopped. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that soldiers might burst into the barracks at any moment — and if the SS troops discovered the Jews in the midst of kindling the Chanukah lights, it would mean certain death for all of them — the Rebbe slowly turned and looked at the throng of Jews who had crowded around the menorah. His penetrating gaze moved from one face to another, as if he were searching for the answer to some troubling question. It was only after he had gazed into every face that he turned back to the still unlit light and called out in a strong and clear voice:
Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the Universe, Who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.
Rabbi Yisrael kindled the wick. The light began to burn.
Afterward, one of the Jews came to him with a question: “Rebbe, I can understand why we need to light the Chanukah lights during these dark times. I can even understand why we should thank God for all the miracles He did for us in the past. But why, when hundreds of dead Jewish bodies are laying just a few feet away from our barracks and thousands more are being massacred every day, should we recite that third blessing? Why should we thank God for keeping us alive at a time like this?”
“I had the same question,” the Bluzhover Rebbe replied. “That’s why I stopped before reciting the final blessing. I wanted to ask the advice of my fellow Rabbis to see if it was, indeed, permissible to recite such a blessing during these terrible times. But when I saw the faces of all the Jews eagerly crowding around me — when I saw their eyes alive with fire and love for this mitzvah — I knew that not only was it permissible, it was obligatory!
“Despite all that we have endured, the faith and the fervor of the Jewish people still lives. So how can I not thank God for keeping me alive to see this time?”
Second Night, Two Candles: Partners and Praise
2. Menorah Manners
Rabbi Yisrael Meir HaKohen Kagan, who was known as the Chofetz Chaim, was the leader of Eastern European Jewry during the late 1800s and the early years of the twentieth century. But while he was a beloved teacher of thousands of Jews during his later years, he, too, was once a young man. And when he was a young man, he had his own beloved teacher: Rabbi Nachum Kaplan, who was affectionately known as Rabbi Nachum’ke.
One year the Chofetz Chaim decided to go to Horodna during Chanukah to observe how his teacher lit his menorah. Why was that necessary? The answer was that the young Torah scholar knew that there were two ways to light.
One way, which was the way that many people probably performed the mitzvah, was to be so busy with work that they totally lost track of time. When they did glance out the window and saw, to their shock, that the sun was setting and the wintry sky was growing dark, they raced home, looked frantically all over their house for the oil, the wicks, and the matches, yelled at the children when they couldn’t find them, spilled the oil all over the new tablecloth when they did — an act that made their wives yell at them — and then, when the entire household was crying and screaming their heads off, they were “ready” to recite the blessings and kindle the lights.
The other way was to carefully prepare beforehand, so that when the time came to perform the mitzvah it could be performed in an atmosphere of calm, joy, and holiness.
The Chofetz Chaim was sure that his teacher was a master of this second way, which was the way he wanted to learn. He therefore arrived in Horodna early in the afternoon so that he could observe everything.
Rabbi Nachum’ke did not disappoint him. While the afternoon sky was still filled with light, Rabbi Nachum’ke carefully filled each of the menorah’s small glass containers with the purest olive oil, making sure that there was enough oil in each one to burn for the prescribed time. He then checked all the wicks, which were made from fine cotton wool, to ensure that they would burn well. The matches were placed beside the menorah, so that they would be nearby when it was time to light. Then, when everything was ready, Rabbi Nachum’ke motioned to his student to take a seat on one side of the hearth, while he took a seat on the other.
“We will use this time to meditate upon the inner meaning of the mitzvah,” he said to the Chofetz Chaim, and so the two sat in silence, their contemplation interrupted only by the sound of the clock ticking the minutes that were passing by.
When the time for kindling the lights arrived, the Chofetz Chaim glanced over at his teacher. He was surprised to see that Rabbi Nachum’ke did not make a motion to move.
Perhaps my teacher has ascended to such a lofty level that it will take him a few moments to come back to this lowly world, he said to himself. However, the minutes continued to slip by and still Rabbi Nachum’ke remained seated.
A sharp ring burst through the silence, rousing Rabbi Nachum’ke from his thoughts. He hurried to the front door to answer the call of the bell. A man stood on the doorstep. Rabbi Nachum’ke spoke with him for a few minutes. Then the visitor went on his way, and Rabbi Nachum’ke returned to the room. He unhurriedly went over to the hearth and stoked the fire, for the opening of the front door had allowed a cold blast of air to enter the house. When he was satisfied that the room had regained its warmth, he returned to his seat, without so much as giving the unlit menorah a glance.
The Chofetz Chaim didn’t know what to make of his teacher’s odd behavior. Everyone — even a small Jewish child — knew that there was a proper time to light the menorah, and that this time had long since passed. What is my teacher waiting for? wondered the Chofetz Chaim. Why doesn’t he light?
When the clock struck the hour, Rabbi Nachum’ke arose from his chair a second time — and went into the kitchen. Through the open doorway the Chofetz Chaim could observe his teacher’s movements. Rabbi Nachum’ke checked the big pot of soup that was simmering on top of the stove. He washed a few dishes and dried them. Then he brought the dishes and some cutlery into the main room and began to set the table. But even though the sky was black and the hour was late, he still did not light the menorah.
Suddenly, the front door flew open, and Rabbi Nachum’ke’s wife rushed into the room. After placing her snow—covered shawl on a peg, she went over to the menorah. Rabbi Nachum’ke motioned to the Chofetz Chaim and the two men joined her. After taking a few moments to compose his thoughts, Rabbi Nachum’ke calmly recited the blessings and kindled the lights.
As the two men gazed at the flickering lights, only one of them — Rabbi Nachum’ke — was at peace. The Chofetz Chaim was still too agitated by his teacher’s tardiness. He therefore summoned up his courage and asked for an explanation.
Rabbi Nachum’ke answered his student’s question with a question of his own. “If a man has money to buy only one candle for the Shabbos (Sabbath) that occurs during the eight days of Chanukah, should he use the money to fulfill the mitzvah of lighting the Shabbos candles or should he fulfill the mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights?”
“Our Sages tell us that a person is obligated to spend the money on a candle for Shabbos,” the Chofetz Chaim replied.
“That is correct. And do you know why the mitzvah of lighting the Shabbos candles takes precedence over lighting the menorah?”
The Chofetz Chaim thought he knew the answer, but he remained silent because he wanted to hear the explanation from his teacher’s lips.
“We light Shabbos candles for two reasons,” Rabbi Nachum’ke explained. “The first reason is to fulfill the mitzvah that commands us to kindle a light on Shabbos. The second reason, according to our Sages, is to bring shalom bayis (domestic harmony) into the home. Because a Shabbos candle brings peace into the home — and because harmony between spouses is so important — it takes precedence over the Chanukah lights.
“And so now I am sure you understand why I waited to light the menorah. For even though there is an ideal time to kindle the Chanukah lights, according to Jewish law, there is also a proper time to light them — and that is the time that will bring domestic harmony into the home. It was better to wait so that my wife would not be disappointed, or even angry, because I had kindled the lights without her.”
3. Why the Nations Praise Hashem
The Polish nobleman had everything — including a burning hatred of the Jews. Or, rather, he had a burning hatred of one Jew. Why? Who can explain such things? All he knew was that the sight of this one Jew — and he saw the Jew every morning — made him crazy with anger.
The Jew, who was a chassid (follower) of the Chozeh (Seer) of Lublin, had no idea of the intense emotions that he inspired. If the truth were to be told, he wasn’t aware of most things that had to with this mundane world. His life revolved around the village’s little shul (synagogue), where he sat all day, as well as most of the night, immersed in prayer and study.
But even a chassid of the Chozeh of Lublin has to sleep and eat and this Jew, when he left the shul at night, had to pass by the property of the nobleman in order to reach his home. He would retrace his steps back to the shul when the early morning sky was still dark, so that he could pray the Morning Service at dawn.
Although the Jew glided down the public pathway that went through the nobleman’s property in almost total silence, somehow the nobleman always knew the exact moment when the eerie figure, wrapped in his flowing white prayer shawl, was passing by his bedroom window. The nobleman would wake up with a start, fly to the window, and gnash his teeth while he stared.
If just once that Jew would stray from the public pathway and set foot on my property, I could set my dogs on him, muttered the nobleman. And that would be the end of him.
But the Jew never strayed. And the nobleman, despite his passionate dislike for the apparition draped in his prayer shawl, had a modicum of conscience. A public pathway was just that — public. Even a Jew had the right to walk upon it, to his intense chagrin.
And so the days passed. The nobleman — who hadn’t been accustomed to rising at the crack of dawn before his obsession with the Jew began — became more and more irritable, due to the lack of sleep. Since he couldn’t confront the object of his hatred directly, he took out his anger on his servants instead. The crack of his whip was heard, and felt, more and more frequently. The servants began to murmur among themselves. Something had to be done.
After much deliberation, the overseer of the estate came up with a plan, which he presented to his master.
“Your Excellency,” he began, first bowing low to show his subservience, and then rising quickly to avoid any possible encounter with his master’s excellent whip, “it pains me to see you in such anguish. May I suggest a plan that is likely to solve the problem that has troubled you of late?”
The nobleman motioned for the overseer to continue.
“The winter is over. It is time to make a few repairs to the estate. A drainage pipe that runs from the front lawn to the field on the other side of the public pathway should be inspected for leakages. To do the inspection, we will need to dig up a section of the footpath. It will be an inconvenience for the villagers, but if we dig the ditch late at night — when only one or two people use the pathway — I am sure that no one will complain. Do I have your permission to proceed?”
The nobleman smiled. He understood the overseer’s true intent. It would be difficult to see the open ditch in the dark, even if a person had sharp eyes. As for a Jew who kept his head in the clouds, well, it wouldn’t be their fault if he fell into the ditch and broke his neck.
“You have my permission to begin the work tonight!”
The servants did their work eagerly and faithfully, hopeful that their night’s work would bring an end to their master’s ill humor. It took several hours of nonstop digging until the overseer was satisfied, but at last he signaled that they could return to their quarters, where a barrel of vodka was waiting for them. The overseer did not join them. Instead, he went to report to his master.
“Well?” asked the nobleman.
“The ditch stretches across the entire width of the path,” replied the overseer.
“And it is deep?”
“It is very deep.”
The nobleman dismissed the overseer and retired to his bedroom. But he was too excited to sleep. Instead, he took up his place by the window, where he watched and waited. He eagerly shifted his gaze between the night sky — where he searched for the first signs of the approaching dawn — and the pathway, which was still wrapped in darkness. When the first glimmer of light appeared in the sky, he joyously strained his eyes to catch a first glimpse of the white—clad figure that had haunted his waking and sleeping hours for so many months.
But he waited in vain. The Jew did not appear.
The sky began to grow lighter and lighter. The path emerged from its cloak of darkness. The ditch was visible for all to see. And still the Jew was nowhere in sight.
The furious nobleman snapped his whip at the offending window, and then he raced down the stairs and out the front door. When he reached the ditch he began to kick and stomp upon the freshly dug earth that lay on the side. It was then — when his fury was nearing its peak — that he saw a flutter of white hurrying toward him.
“You! You! You!” he screamed at the Jew. “Stop! Stop, I say! Do you hear me?!”
The Jew did hear, and he was terrified by the sight of the enraged nobleman, who still grasped his whip in his upraised hand.
“Why are you so late this morning?” demanded the nobleman.
The Jew hadn’t a clue as to why the nobleman should care that he was late for shul. But he didn’t dare ignore the question. He therefore explained, “Last night I had a visitor, an old friend that I hadn’t seen for many years. We sat talking together until it was very late, and because I am not using to keeping such late hours I overslept. That is why I am late this morning.”
The nobleman slowly lowered his whip. Then a grim smile appeared upon his lips. “Go,” he said softly.
The Jew didn’t need to be asked twice. He jumped over the open ditch and hurried down the path, not stopping until he reached the shul.
The story didn’t end there. To everyone’s amazement, after that morning the nobleman was a changed man. From that day on, he always made a great effort to treat the Jews living on his property with kindness and respect.
Everyone talked about this unexpected transformation, but no one had an explanation, until the chassid went to Lublin to visit his Rebbe.
“The answer can be found in the Book of Psalms,” said the Chozeh. “In Psalm 117 it says, ‘Praise Hashem, all you nations … For His kindness to us has become very great.’ Now, why should non-Jews praise Hashem for the kindness He does to us?
“The answer is that the nations of the world are very aware of all the devious plots they make against us — and they know how many times Hashem saves us from their snares. In fact, they know even better than Jews just how great Hashem’s kindness to us really is. That is why they should praise Hashem — and that is why this nobleman had a change of heart. He understood very well that it was Hashem who sent you that visitor, so that you wouldn’t come to harm.”
Third Night, Three Candles: The Mitzvah Triangle
4. Eighteen Coins
Many a chassid dreamed of hosting the illustrious Rabbi Mordechai of Chernobyl for tea, but few could afford it because tea with the Rebbe was no ordinary affair.
For one thing, the Rebbe would arrive at the host’s home with dozens of his followers — all of whom were quite hungry from their journey — and they expected to be treated to a sumptuous repast, accompanied by an ample supply of brandy for the traditional toasts of l’chayim (to life). But it wasn’t just the body that was refreshed at these gatherings. While the chassidim enjoyed the gastronomical delicacies, Rabbi Mordechai would speak words of Torah that delighted and nourished their souls.
The other thing about those teas was that at the end of the visit the host was required to present the Rebbe with eighteen gold coins, which was no small sum in those days. The Rebbe, in turn, would shower the host with blessings for prosperity and good health. Since it was a well-known fact that the Rebbe’s blessings were always fulfilled, the hosts felt that despite the expense they had gained more than they had given.
But blessings weren’t the only reason that the chassidim dreamed of having the Rebbe to tea. It was also known that Rabbi Mordechai had taken upon himself the responsibility of supporting the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim of his generation — those righteous individuals who guaranteed the continued existence of the world through their many, albeit secret, acts of kindness. The “thirty-six” were supported by the eighteen gold coins that the Rebbe collected from the hosts of these tea parties, and so who wouldn’t want to have a share in such an important mitzvah?
Actually, there was someone — a Jew by the name of Itche — who was willing to let the mitzvah pass him by. Although his father had been a faithful follower of the Chernobyl Rebbe, Itche had other things on his mind. His father had left him a small fortune, which Itche had turned into a big fortune, and taking care of his many business concerns and his luxurious home occupied most of his time.
However, his reluctance to host the tea party wasn’t due only to the fact that Itche was too busy to make the arrangements or that, God forbid, he didn’t have respect for the Rebbe. Itche still observed all the mitzvos and even considered himself a chassid of Rabbi Mordechai. It was just that every time Itche thought of the price that had to be paid to host the Rebbe, he became ill.
Itche, unfortunately, was a terrible miser. Although he was willing to open up his wallet to pay for a rare painting or marble fountain for his rose garden, that very same wallet was always firmly snapped shut whenever he was asked to give to others. So even though the thought sometimes occurred to him that it would be nice to invite the Rebbe for tea, he would always quickly come back to his senses.
Eighteen gold coins for a tea party! he would chide himself. Why, that’s a small fortune. And that’s only the beginning of the expense involved. If it were just a matter of hosting the Rebbe, perhaps I would do it. But he always brings along all those chassidim.
I’d have to buy dozens of cakes and who knows how much brandy. And those chassidim have no respect for the finer things in life. They’ll be so anxious to get close to the Rebbe when he begins to speak that they’ll tramp all over my expensive carpets with their muddy boots and knock the crystal vases off the tables and do all sorts of damage to my beautiful home. No, tea with the Rebbe is out of the question. I simply cannot afford to do it.