Chanukah Shopping

It was Chanukah and I [Mrs. Nechama Berenshtein] was at the mall. I was in a hurry, though not to do last minute shopping. I had brought a group of young women students with me from Crown Heights, Brooklyn, to a shopping mall in New Jersey so that we could give out Chanukah menora kits. As Lubavitcher Chasidim we were shopping for opportunities to encourage our fellow Jews to kindle the candles for the Festival of Lights.

The drive out to New Jersey had taken longer than I had anticipated and we needed to head back just 45 minutes after we arrived. I had to return to Brooklyn to give a lecture. I was preoccupied with pacing the entrance of the mall to make sure that the girls would regroup on time.

As I looked up from my watch for the umpteenth time, I noticed a circle of seats in the center of the food court of the mall. There were a number of women of all ages sitting on the seats, chatting, laughing, eating their food or drinks. "This is going to be very easy," I told myself, as I sized up the situation, noting that many of the girls and women looked Jewish.

There was one young man sitting by himself in the circle of seats, but he was obviously not Jewish. It wasn't even his purple and green hair or the earrings that pierced his ears and other body parts. He just had a decidedly non-Jewish look. Keeping in mind that the Lubavitcher Rebbe always encouraged women to approach women (and men to approach men), I was relieved that I would not seem ill-mannered if I didn't attempt to hand the young man a Chanukah kit.

I went amongst the women and girls, asking them if they were Jewish and if they would like Chanukah menora kits. The Jewish women responded positively and eagerly took the kits. Some of them even asked if I had Shabbat candle lighting brochures with me, as well.

I spoke with the last of the women and turned to leave. I looked at my watch again and noted that I was at the end of the allotted 45 minutes. I quickly began walking toward the mall entrance to meet my students.

I hadn't walked more than a few steps when I heard someone say, "Nechama, go back."

Now, to be honest, I'm not the kind of person who hears voices. But then it came again, "Nechama, go back."

"Leave me alone," I protested. But it wouldn't.

"Nechama, go back and ask him if he's Jewish."

"What can it hurt?" I asked myself. So I turned around and started walking toward the young man, who was in the midst of munching on some kind of McDonalds concoction and drinking a huge soda. An order of fries, liberally sprinkled with ketchup, was perched on his knee.

"Excuse me, are you Jewish?" I asked him.

The next thing I knew, I was covered in soda, ketchup and mustard. The young man had been so shocked by my question that he had dropped everything. After apologizing profusely, he asked, "Please tell me, why did you ask me if I'm Jewish?"

To this day, I don't know how or why these words popped into my mind, but I said quite confidently, "You look Jewish!"

And then I heard a sob erupt from what could only have been the depths of his heart. The young man began to cry, but stopped and said, "Say that again, please."

"You look Jewish," I said once more. A new torrent of tears was unleashed. But once again, he stopped himself and asked, "Please, say that again." And I did…a third time.

After calming himself down, the young man told me the following:

"My mother was Jewish but my father was not. Though my mother didn't really care about religion -- they celebrated all of the non-Jewish holidays at home -- she was adamant that I go to a Jewish school.

"Everyday in school, the other children used to mock me. It wasn't because we didn't celebrate the Jewish holidays at home; they didn't know that. It was because I was a carbon copy of my father. I look exactly like him. The kids in school used to say, 'Why are you here? You don't look Jewish. Why are you wearing tzitzit and a kipah, you don't look Jewish.' And it's true. I don't look Jewish at all. Day after day the children mocked me. I would return home each day in tears. My father begged my mother to let me leave the school. 'Look how miserable he is,' he would say to my mother. After a few years of mockery and torture, my mother agreed with my father and let me leave the Jewish day school and go to public school.

"To this day, I remember the mockery," the young man said, wincing in pain. "Today, I was sitting here and I was watching you go over to all of the women and girls, asking them if they are Jewish. 'G-d,' I said, 'I'm not guilty that I'm not doing anything Jewish. Look, this girl will go over to everyone else, but she won't come over to me, to ask me if I am Jewish. I don't look like a Jew!' As you neared the end of the circle, I looked up to G-d and said, 'I will even prove that I am righteous. If this girl will come over and ask me if I am Jewish, then I will give You another chance.' When you left, I said, 'Aha. You see, G-d!'

"And then, you turned around and walked back toward me. Well, now I guess I have to give G-d another chance."

I gave the young man a Chanukah menorah kit, and the phone number of his local Chabad-Lubavitch Center and we parted.

I do not know if he ever contacted the Chabad Center. But I do know that the tiny flame in each one of us, even if it is untended or G-d forbid, it is mocked, burns eternally within every Jew.

From Ascent

CHANUKAH IN BERGEN-BELSEN

In one of the last groups to arrive in Bergen-Belsen towards the tail end of World War II was a 
Jew of charismatic appearance who became known to all the other inmates as Reb Shmelke. His full name was Shmuel-Shmelke Shnitzler, a chassid and Torah scholar from somewhere in Hungary. He was very tall and distinguished looking, with strikingly warm and penetrating eyes. Most amazingly, he maintained a mood of genuine cheerfulness, a rare disposition to find in the hellish environment of the camp.

He underwent the harsh terrors and the suffering, the hunger and the abuse, that was the daily portion for the Jew's in the camp, just as all the other prisoners. But, somehow, his demeanor and behavior seemed to indicate that he wasn't affected the same way as everyone else, almost as if he weren't really there.

How was he able to live in such a manner under such conditions? Nobody knew. But it was clear, nevertheless, that he was he drawing immeasurable fortitude and inspiration from some unlimited source.

He even was able to be a fountain of encouragement for his fellow prisoners. He would say to his companions at every opportunity, "A Jew and despair are contradictory in essence; they cannot co-exist." Whenever possible he would organize a minyan for prayer, especially on Shabbat. At nights he would enliven all those around him with stories of the great Chassidic rebbes, momentarily transporting them to other worlds and places, enabling them to temporarily forget their sufferings of body and soul.

To the amazement of all, Reb Shmelke even found favor in the eyes of a few of the cruelest S.S. guards in the camp. Through these connections he was able to aid a number of the inmates.

He was assigned the job of removing from the barracks the dead bodies of the many who died from starvation. He would try to treat them with as much respect as possible, considering this to be the ultimate of holy work that he could do under the circumstances.

In addition to the prevailing conditions of horror in the camp under which the Jews barely managed to survive, Reb Shmelke was nagged by another compelling problem, one that was increasing in urgency with each day that went past: how could he possibly obtain oil with which to kindle the lights of Chanukah. The holiday was only a few short days away.

He consulted everyone with whom he came into contact that he thought might be able to help, but no one had any oil or even anything that could be substituted for it. All said that to obtain anything flammable in the concentration camp was unimaginable as well as impossible.

Still, Reb Shmelke did not give in to despair. The mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights was much too important to him. He also realized how much encouragement and hope it would offer the Jews in the camp-to shine light into the deepest of darknesses, to celebrate the victory of few over the many, the pure over the impure….

On the day before Chanukah, Reb Shmelke had to hurry to one of the barracks near the end of the camp, where someone had died just that day. Not far from the fence at the edge of the camp, he stumbled when his foot sunk into a patch of red earth that turned out to be covering a small hole. It was clear that someone had dug this hole on purpose.

He gazed at the shallow depression, and after a moment perceived the sun reflecting off something in it. He looked closer and saw there was a solid object buried there, now slightly revealed. He knelt down and scooped out some dirt with his hands. It was a small jar, half-filled with congealed liquid! Could it be? Could it possibly be!

He removed its cover as quickly as he could and dipped his finger in gingerly. It was oil! He thoughts immediately flashed to the original Chanukah miracle of the finding of the single flask of oil. How could this be happening? Was he dreaming?

Then he noticed that the jar had been concealing other objects beneath it. He dug some more with his hands and uncovered a small package wrapped in a swatch of cloth. In it were eight small cups and eight thin strands of cotton!

Now convinced that someone had intentionally buried this Chanukah stash, Reb Shmelke quickly replaced everything back into the hole and filled it in with the dirt he had removed, carefully smoothing the surface. It would be too dangerous to keep the materials in his possession until Chanukah began the next day in the evening. Besides, perhaps it belonged to someone.

After he completed he job he had been sent upon, Reb Shmelke circulated among as many of the inmates he could during the rest of the day and the, casually asking with an air of innocence if anyone had concealed a quantity of oil in a hiding place. Everyone stared at him as if he were out of his senses.

The next night, all the Jews of Reb Shmelke's barrack crowded around him as he stood poised to light the first candle of Chanukah. He struck the match, and then recited the blessings with great emotion before touching the tiny flame to the thin strands of wick projecting out of the little cups. It was a scene from a storybook in stark contrast to the dour, harsh environment of the concentration camp, a ray of hope that repeated itself for a total of eight nights.

The elderly Reb Shmelke managed to survive the next few months until finally the conquering Allied forces liberated the camp. His faith and hope had proven victorious. After the official conclusion of the war, he returned to his town in Hungary, to try to reassemble the pieces of his broken life.

Several years later, he was able to make the journey to the United States of America. One important stop for him there was to visit the Satmar Rebbe, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, who lived in Brooklyn. The Rebbe, it turned out, already knew of Reb Shmelke and his deeds, and welcomed him with great warmth.

After they conversed for a while the Rebbe suddenly switched subjects and said to him, "I hear that you had the great honor of lighting Chanukah candles in Bergen-Belsen."

"How does the Rebbe know that?" sputtered Reb Shmelke in wonderment.

"I heard, I heard," replied the Rebbe, smiling mysteriously.

A few moments later the Rebbe bent over to his astonished visitor and whispered in his ear, "I am the one who hid the oil, the cups and the wicks in that hole next to the fence. I did it when I was imprisoned in the camp the year before you, before my miraculous escape.

"At the moment I did it," the Rebbe added, "I believed with all my heart that at the right time it would be found by the right person who would know exactly what to do with it."

[Translated and adapted by Yrachmiel Tilles from Sichat HaShavua #468. ]

Biographical note:
Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum [1888-26 Av 1979], miraculously escaped from Bergen-Belsen in 1944, after which he went to the Holy Land. In 1947 he moved to the USA, where he established himself as the Satmer Rebbe, in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, doing extensive work in establishing Torah education networks. Famed as the leader of Hungarian Jewry and the largest Chassidic group in the world, and as the spiritual leader of the opposition to a secular-based Jewish government in Israel, he was also one of the greatest Torah scholars of his generation.

Chanukah Miracle In Snowy Communist Russia

By Rabbi Moshe Gurkow

When I was still a boy of 6 years old in my home in Communist Russia, I went with my Uncle, Rabbi Michoel Teitelbaum, who later founded the Lubavitch Educational Institute Oholei Torah in Brooklyn, to light the first candle of the Chanukah menorah in an outdoor setting in an effort to publicize the miracle. All of a sudden from out of nowhere a policeman appeared, wielding a huge knife, with which he attempted to kill us!

My uncle and I ran for our lives. We came to a gigantic snow pile and plunged into its snow, but the policeman with his deadly knife was still at our backs. He thrust it deep into the snow; the knife's sharp blade literally reached the throat of Uncle Michoel when he suddenly bit the policeman's thumb, causing him to drop the knife to the ground. In the midst of the commotion my uncle and I fled the scene. We returned back to the place where we started out only to find that lone, first Chanukah candle still burning joyously.

THE NEWEST MACABBEE

Hundreds of Chasidim stood in awe and love, watching their Rebbe, R. Avraham of Slonim, as he stood in front of the Chanuka menora. The Rebbe stared at the wicks, meditating and contemplating, for an unknown reason not yet ready to kindle the Chanuka lights.

Minutes, which seemed like hours, passed and then the Rebbe began chanting the blessings. He infused each word with kabbalistic intentions, and each chasid drew inspiration from the holiness of the moment according to his own level.
Suddenly, an impassioned cry tore through the hearts of all those gathered there and awakened each person from his reverie.

"Help me! Save me!"

Everyone looked in the direction of the voice.
The Rebbe, his face aflame with the holiness of the moment, also turned his head toward the back of the synagogue. There stood a women with her hands outstretched, crying bitterly.
It became clear that this woman was not one of the wives of the chasidim gathered there. In fact, she had no connection to the Rebbe or the Chasidic lifestyle. "Who is she?" people were murmuring.

It turned out that the distraught woman was the wife of a wealthy and well-respected businessman who never in his life had entered the Slonimer synagogue. He and his friends were among those who laughed at the Chasidic lifestyle and customs.
For many years this couple had not been blessed with children. When their son was finally born they were already much older. Their happiness knew no bounds. He was always given the best of everything, though they did their best not to spoil him.

On the eve of Chanuka the young boy fell ill. Different doctors came to his bedside and cared for him with devotion, but they could not help him. To everyone's horror his fever rose from day to day. This night, his situation worsened. The boy had lost consciousness and the doctors who were standing around his bed turned their palms up in hopelessness.

The father of the child was pacing around the house in agony and bitterness. But his mother could not stand seeing her son's suffering any longer and suddenly darted out the door. She began walking quickly. Toward what or where or whom she knew not. But her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and before she knew it she found herself in front of the Slonimer synagogue, just as the Rebbe was preparing to kindle the Chanuka lights.

"Rebbe, help me," cried the woman in a voice that echoed throughout the entire synagogue.
"Tell her not to worry," the Rebbe said quietly to someone. "She should go and return home. She should ask her husband to add to her son's name the name 'Matitiyahu'. And in the merit of that great tzadik-the father of the Macabbees--who gave up his life for the Jewish people and the Holy One, the sick child's life will be lengthened.

"Also tell her that when the child is fully recovered, his father should bring a 'pidyon nefesh,' a 'soul redemption' of 18 coins (the numerical value of chai, which means life), which will be given for charity in the Holy Land."
The following day, at about the time when the Chanuka candles were being lit, a new face was seen in the Slonimer synagogue. It was the father of Matitiyahu, who happily brought to the Rebbe 18 rubles, the pidyon nefesh for his son who was now fully recovered.

[Adapted by Yrachmiel Tilles from the rendition in "L'Chaim" #247.]

Biographical note:
Rabbi Avraham Wienberg, the Slonimer Rebbe [1804-11 Cheshvan 1883], was active in the spread of the Chasidic movement in Lithuania, the stronghold of the opposition to the Chasidism. He was also a main organizer of support for the religious communities in the Holy Land. His books include Chesed L"Avraham, a deep mystical work, and Be'er Avraham on the Mechilta.

From ascent

CHANUKAH IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION

It was December 1777, when the American forces under General George Washington were awaiting the famous battle at Valley Forge. The future president was deeply concerned about the welfare of his troops. The bitter cold and the poor provisions with which his soldiers of the revolutionary army had been provided did not bode well for the outcome of the critical battle that awaited them.

Wrapped in his officer's cape and clapping his three- cornered hat down hard on his head against the chilling wind, Washington went out to see at firsthand how his men were faring. As he went from tent to tent, he saw the men dressed in rags and huddling around small fires, trying to get together a meal of something hot. As he went on, he suddenly encountered a single soldier, bent over a small metal apparatus in which he had lit a few very small, tallow candles.

Intrigued, Washington asked him what he was doing. Startled, the man jumped to his feet and saluted. Just at that moment, he had little expected to find his commander so near. But again Washington repeated his request: to understand why he had lit those little candles here, in the middle of nowhere.

The soldier, who of course was Jewish, began to unfold the age-old tale: of foreign Greeks who, upon conquering the holy land of Israel, had entered the Temple and had placed their idols in the most sacred place of worship. And he told how the valiant Maccabees, no longer able to bear the evil degrees forbidding the performance of Jewish ritual and the learning of Torah, rose up against their lords even though they greatly outnumbered them and were better armed - "Just like here, only more so, he interspersed." Nevertheless, through the grace of Heaven, they succeeded in removing them from their land.

And last of all the soldier explained how they purified the sanctuary and, finding only one container of oil which remained undefiled, they used it to light the Menorah. Yet miraculously that one container of oil, which should have been enough for only one day, instead lasted for eight -- until new oil could be made. And this, he told the general, is why he was lighting those little lights.

General Washington stood enthralled. He looked at the little flames, and at the face of the Jew. Then, he laid a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "You are a Jew," he exclaimed," "from the nation of prophets! I treat what you just said as a message from the Al-mighty Himself! With your little lights and your inspiring story, you have struck new courage in my troubled heart." The General shook the young soldier's hand, saluted, then turned to continue on his rounds.

What happened the next day is history: Washington's forces scored a victory over the British, and this proved to be the beginning of their total success. Eventually it led to the independence of the United States of America from England.

But what is less known is the following. That Jewish soldier survived the war and returned to his home in Boston. [another version: New York City, on Broome Street -ed.]
One evening, some two years later, he was sitting with his family around the dinner table when there was a knock at the door. He was astonished to see two very official-looking men standing there, but after a moment he recovered his poise and invited them in.

After introductions, one of the men stepped forward and took out a small box covered in velvet, from his inside coat pocket. With a cheerful smile, he handed it to the Jewish host, saying, "Here, take this. It is for you."

The veteran soldier looked from one face to the other for some sign of what was going on. Slowly he opened the box. It was plushly lined, setting off a brilliant gold medallion. On it was engraved picture of a Menorah with the words inscribed: "With admiration, from George Washington."
Ono of the visitors then handed him a letter from the first president himself. "This will explain everything," he said.

"My dear friend," was the salutation. "You don't know what you accomplished that night at Valley Forge. I couldn't sleep that night because I was sure that we had no chance of winning. We lacked ammunition. We were outnumbered ten to one. We didn't even have food or bedding for the soldiers. When I saw those boys lying asleep in the freezing cold under those thin blankets it took away my resolve.

"I made up my mind then and there… to surrender.
"But your lights and your words changed all that. If it wasn't for you and your Menorah, I don't know if we would be standing here today as free men. So we decided to present this medallion to you as a testimonial to that night, which was a turning point in our struggle for freedom."

Adapted by Yerachmiel Tilles from several Jewish and non-Jewish sources on the World Wide Web. 

 ascen

The Chanukah Light That Flew Away

It was the first night of Chanuka. Rabbi Baruch of Mezibuz, the son of the Baal Shem Tov, stood with a group of his Chasidim. With great concentration, he said the blessing over kindling the Chanuka lights and lit the first candle.

The Chanuka candle was burning steadily when Rabbi Baruch and his Chasidim sat down around the menora to sing Chanuka melodies. Suddenly, the flame began to shake and leap. It seemed to dance around in irritation. And then, the flame just disappeared. The candle didn't go out; no smoke arose. It was as if the flame flew away to another place.

The Rebbe's assistant stood up to relight the Chanuka candles. But the Rebbe stopped him. "The Chanuka flame will return to us," he told his surprised Chasidim. "It has gone on an important mission," said the Rebbe quietly, mysteriously.

Rabbi Baruch instructed his Chasidim to continue singing and discussion Torah thoughts. Close to midnight, a cry startled everyone. The Chasid who was sitting next to the menora called out, "Rebbe, the flame has returned!"

Within moments, the group heard the faint sounds of a wagon. One of the Rebbe's chasidim entered the house. His clothes were torn, his hair disheveled, it was obviously painful for him to walk. But in direct contrast to his appearance, his eyes shone with happiness.

"Just a few days ago, I left my house to come to our holy Rebbe for the Chanuka festival," began the chasid. "This is not the first time I have come to the Rebbe, and I know the way well from my many journeys. But this time, my traveling was very slow. I became worried that I would not arrive in time so I decided to travel day and night and eventually I would reach Mezibuz.

"This was a foolish thing to do. But I realized that too late. Last night, a gang of bandits stopped me. They were overjoyed to find me. They were certain that if I was traveling at night I must be a very successful merchant who had important business to attend to which could not wait. They insisted that I give them all of my money.

"They would not believe me when I told them I only had the few coins which were in my bag. They cross-examined me and tortured me so that I would reveal where the rest of my money was. I, of course, had nothing to tell them.

"After many hours of torture they sent me to a dark cellar. When their leader came to me, I tried to explain to him the great joy that one experiences when with the Rebbe and how important it had been to me to be with the Rebbe for Chanuka. It would seem that my words entered his heart or, perhaps, after he saw that all the tortures were futile, he began to believe me. Whatever the case, he told me:

" 'I see that you are a person who believes in G-d and longs for his rabbi. Go on your way. But be advised that the path through this forest is very dangerous. It is filled with wild beasts. Even we do not travel through it alone.

" 'If you succeed in making it through the forest, take your handkerchief and throw it in the ditch on the side of the road just after the signpost for the city. I will send a messenger tomorrow to see if it is there. In this way I will know that you have reached your destination. And, if you have, I promise you that I will leave my band of robbers and change my ways.'

"I became frightened anew. But what choice did I have? When I thought of lighting the Chanuka candles with the Rebbe, though, I was strengthened. I retrieved my horse and wagon and resumed my journey through the pitch-black forest.

"Not long after I began traveling, I saw ahead of me a pack of wild wolves. My horse refused to go any further. Suddenly, a tiny flame appeared in front of my horse and began leaping about. The flame went forward and the horse advanced. The rest of the way, the animals on all sides ran from before us as if the flame drove them away.

"This flame was with me until I arrived here. I threw my handkerchief in the ditch, and who knows? Maybe in the merit of this Chanuka candle, the band of criminals will return to a better path.

The Chasid finished his story. And so the group of Chasidim understood to where their Rebbe's Chanuka flame had mysteriously disappeared.

Rebbe Mordechai of Chernobyl Gives Chanukah Gelt To The Miser

The good news spread throughout town. Rebbe Mordechai of Chernobyl would be visiting soon to celebrate the first days of Chanuka! In addition to the usual excitement that a Chasid feels when he has the chance to see his Rebbe, there were others things to be excited about, as well.

The Rebbe would honor one of his Chasidim with hosting him for the evening tea. At this "tea party," which all of the chasidim would attend, the Rebbe would speak words of Torah that would delight the souls of his Chasidim.

For another, the Rebbe would bless the host at the end of the evening with material and spiritual bounty. Lastly, everyone knew that the 18 gold rubles that the Rebbe "charged" for the honor of hosting him would be distributed to charity. Thus, the host would give charity through the Rebbe's own holy hand.

Itche the Miser went with all of the other Chasidim to greet the Rebbe when he arrived in town. Itche's father had been a prominent businessman. Like his father, Itche was also a Chasid. Unlike his father, Itche's main focus in life was his business, his luxurious home and all of its exquisite furnishings. Also unlike his father, Itche found it hard to part with even a copper for a charitable cause.

So, one can only imagine how Itche felt when the Rebbe arrived, looked straight at him, and suggested, "Itche, would you like to host me for tea?"

Of course, Itche said, "It would be my honor Rebbe." Inwardly, though, Itche panicked. Tea with the Rebbe and all of his Chasidim! Why, they would destroy his home! Then an idea came to him; he would stand at his front door and allow only the Rebbe in. A marvelous plan! Itche was relieved. It would cost him 18 gold rubles but at least his expensive carpets and antiques would remain intact.

Itche was sure his idea would work until the Rebbe said, "Itche, could you please personally transport me from my lodgings to your home?"

Now Itche's mind worked feverishly. If he picked up the Rebbe in his carriage and they drove quickly to Itche's home, they would arrive long before the Chasidim who were traveling on foot and he would still have time to bolt the front door so that no one else could enter. Ahhh, Itche sighed in relief once more.

Finally it was the first night of Chanuka. Itche lit the Chanuka menora with his family. He sat by the Chanuka lights for a little while. He took one last look at his beautiful home and then went to pick up the Rebbe. When Itche arrived, the Rebbe lit the Menora and recited the blessings after which the Chasidim all answered "Amen." Then they began to sing niggunim, wordless soul melodies, as the Rebbe meditated on the light of the small flame. An air of tranquility permeated the room, except in Itche's corner.

Finally, the Rebbe motioned to Itche that they would go now. Itche pressed his coachman to drive as quickly as possible, certain that with G-d's help he could put a fair distance between his carriage and the Chasidim.

But, halfway through the journey, the Rebbe ordered the carriage to stop. He turned to Itche and said, "I didn't realize your house was so far. Such a long journey was not included in my original price. If you want me to come any further you must pay me another 18 gold rubles." With the Chasidim nearly catching up, Itche had no choice but to agree. Eighteen gold rubles was still less than it would cost to replace his precious carpets and furniture!

Within a few moments, they arrived at Itche's home. The Rebbe stared intently at the 15 steps that led up to Itche's front door. "I had no idea that you had so many steps, dear Itche. That was not included in my original price. If you want me to go inside your home, you must pay me 18 gold rubles for each step!"

Itche nearly fainted. Before he had a chance to respond, the Chasidim - who had caught up - accompanied the Rebbe up the stairs and inside.

The scene that unfolded before Itche's eyes was just what he had imagined. He was not able to concentrate on even one holy word that the Rebbe taught about Chanuka. The evening finally came to an end and Itche breathed a sigh of relief. As the Rebbe was about to leave, Itche suddenly remembered to ask the Rebbe to bless his family. Surely this would make up for everything.

Quickly Itche gathered together his children and grandchildren and requested, "Rebbe, please bless my family."

"Bless your family?" the Rebbe looked at Itche in surprise. "I have no blessing for them," he said, and sadly turned away.

Itche felt as if the earth had opened beneath his feet. "Rebbe," Itche cried out, in a voice filled with desperation. The Rebbe looked at Itche long and hard. "In order for me to bless your family, you will have to sign over your entire fortune to me," the Rebbe said seriously.

How could he sign over everything to the Rebbe? He would be penniless! Itche felt like he was drowning. Moments of eternity passed. But then, he looked into the Rebbe's eyes and saw within them compassion. With his last ounce of strength he said, "If that is what I must do, then I will do it." And then he fainted.

In a haze, Itche heard the Rebbe saying, "Mazel tov, Itche, mazel tov!" The Rebbe began to bless Itche and his entire family. "May you and your family know only joy and health and prosperity from now on." For many moments, blessings flowed from the Rebbe's lips, each one greater than the previous one.

"Know, Itche, that you have just fought a great battle with your evil inclination. Until a few moments ago, you did not own your wealth, your evil inclination owned it! When you agreed to give me all of your possessions, I was able to wrest your wealth from your evil inclination. I now return it to you as Chanuka gelt (money). Use it well, dear Itche. Henceforth, use it well."

Itche thanked the Rebbe and began to take hundreds of gold rubles notes from his wallet. But the Rebbe declined. "I only accept 18 gold rubles for tea."

Henceforth, Itche was a changed man and his home was entirely different. Itche generously shared his "Chanuka gelt" throughout the entire year.

A Broken Bottle Of Oil

Avraham Pinchas lived 100 years ago in Baghdad. The wealthy Jewish merchant usually had a table full of guests, but this Shabbat he only had one, a poor man he had invited home from the synagogue. The guest was awed by the plush richness around him: the thick Persian rugs, gold inlayed dishes and beautifully decorated walls. Only one thing perplexed him: in the middle of the table stood an old, empty, broken bottle that looked as if it had once contained olive oil.

When Mr. Pinchas noticed his guest's interest in the odd artifact, he told him the following story.

"My father was a respected businessman, but he was always busy and left me in my grandfather's care. Every morning my grandfather would wake me, make sure I washed my hands, said the morning blessings and didn't forget my lunch. Then just before I left for school, he would give me a kiss on my forehead, raise his hands and say, 'Va'ani ana ani ba' ['And I, where will I go?' (Gen. 37:30)]. Later, I learned that this is what Reuven cried out when he discovered that Joseph was no longer in the pit and it was impossible to save him. But I had no idea why my grandfather always said that.

"Then, when I was 14 years old, tragedy struck: my grandfather passed away. I began to accompany my father to work. My father tried to make sure that I prayed and studied Torah but he was always very busy. I was so fascinated by his business that I didn't pay much attention to my studies.

"Two years later, my father died suddenly. Besides the fact that I was now alone, I had to decide what to do with the business. I was given the choice of selling it, or trying my luck as a manager. Against the advice of lawyers, I chose the latter.

"Well, I took to it like a fish to water. It wasn't long before I was quite successful. But I began to feel out of place as an observant Jew. I felt that keeping Shabbat and eating kosher prevented me from expanding my business. Slowly but surely I became less observant, and I discovered that the more commandments I dropped, the more successful I became.

"Several years passed. One day I was walking in the street when I noticed a Jewish boy, maybe 13 years old, sitting on the sidewalk crying. I asked him what was wrong. 'Oh thank you, sir,' he said 'but this is something only Jews would understand.'

"His words stabbed me in the heart. 'I am also Jewish...' I stammered.

"'Oh, I'm sorry,' he answered, 'I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that I'm very sad about my home situation. We are very poor...' The boy looked up at me and wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. 'My father died a while ago and my mother works hard to support my six brothers and sisters. Well, this morning my mother told us that tonight is Chanuka. We prayed for a miracle, that we might find some money with which to buy oil. We were so happy when my sister found a coin behind a drawer! I ran right to the store and bought a small bottle of oil. I was walking home, holding the bottle and dreaming about Chanuka. I was even imagining that Moshiach might come now, and my mother will start to smile again. Unfortunately, I wasn't looking where I was going, and I tripped. I watched in horror as the bottle flew from my hands and landed on a stone. It broke, and all the oil spilled out. 'Va'ani ana ani ba!' With these words, the boy began to wail.

"At that, I suddenly realized what my grandfather had meant. He must have known that this would happen. That broken bottle is me! And the spilled oil is my Jewish soul - I've lost my Jewish soul!

"As if in a trance, I withdrew some money from my pocket and handed it to the boy. 'Go back to the store,' I told him. 'Buy what you want, and have a happy Chanuka! Go!'

"When the boy was gone, I carefully picked up the bottle and carried it home, still in shock. I sent the servants away and when I was alone, I just stood there, looking at it and weeping. Then the thought struck me, 'A Jew can't lose his Jewish soul.' Maybe I had ignored it for a while, but I'm sure it's still there. I took my grandfather's menora out of the cabinet, dusted it off, found some oil and a wick and lit the first Chanuka candle.

"Its light made me feel alive again. I even decided that the next morning I would begin putting on tefilin. The following night I lit two candles and decided that from now on I would eat only kosher. The third night, I decided to begin learning Torah. The night after that I made the decision to keep Shabbat. By the end of Chanuka I had become a new man. A renewed man. The Chanuka lights had saved me.

"So that is the reason I keep that broken bottle: to remind me how the miracle of the oil saved my life."

Reprinted from the Ohr Tmimim Newsletter, www.ohrtmimim.org

Historical Overview Of Chanukah

The period which led up to the Maccabean revolt began with the conquests of Alexander the Great. The young Alexander had succeeded in conquering the Persian Empire and then all of the civilized world of his time. In the wake of his armies, the Greek culture was spread among the conquered peoples.

The situation in the Land of Israel was not at all secure even before the advent of Alexander. Many close to Alexander were attempting to persuade him to curtail the freedoms the Jews possessed, particularly in regard to the Temple service. Then a miracle occurred which prompted Alexander to grant even greater dispensations to his Jewish subjects.

The Talmud records the encounter of Shimon HaTzadik, the High Priest, with Alexander as the young Emperor entered Israel. The High Priest, leading a delegation of distinguished elders, went out to meet the Emperor. To the utter amazement of everyone present, upon seeing the High Priest, Alexander dismounted and bowed to the ground. He explained that the apparition of this holy man appeared to him before each battle and led his troops to victory. It is further recorded that Alexander asked Rabbi Shimon why he had brought such a large body of great men to greet him. Rabbi Shimon replied, "Can it be that idolaters will convince you to destroy the Holy Temple where we pray that you and your empire not be destroyed?"

Alexander was enraged and asked who would dare to conspire to destroy the Holy Temple. Shimon pointed to the Emperor's Cuthean advisors (the Cutheans being sworn enemies of the Jews). That remark ended the long harassment of the Jews by these enemies.

This happy state of affairs ended abruptly with Alexander's sudden death at the age of 33 in the year 313 b.c.e. His vast empire was divided amongst his generals, with Israel falling from one tyrant to another and the Jews living under repressive conditions, with few periods of respite. Attempts to spread the prevalent Greek culture continued, as it was advantageous to rule a homogeneous empire. Thus began the battle to eradicate the Jewish religion. Tragically, the most dangerous foes came from within. The powerful Hellenized Jews, who strove to be more Greek than the Greeks, brought disaster to their own brethren.

The Sages of the time instituted various laws designed to preserve the integrity of the Jewish people. But the problem was not to be solved easily. Treachery arose from the segment of the Jewish people who curried favor with the foreign conquerors, and they successfully purchased the rights to collect taxes and even purchased the High Priesthood itself.

In the year 3586 (175 b.c.e.) Antiochus IV became the ruler of a portion of Alexander's kingdom which included Israel. Although his coinage read "Antiochus Theos Epiphanes" [G-d Made Manifest], the people referred to him as "Epimanes," the Mad One, which more aptly described his erratic behavior.

In the name of unifying his realm, Antiochus issued an edict forbidding the practice of all national religions. To the Jews the edict was specific: the Temple sacrificial services must be halted and sacrifices to the pagan deities were to be initiated. Observance of the Sabbath, circumcision, mikva and even the use of G-d's name were all prohibited on pain of death. Anyone in possession of a Torah would be put to death. Any woman who circumcised her child was executed, together with her entire family and the mohel who performed the brit.

Antiochus became increasingly more determined to break the Jewish people. Elazar, an elderly, respected Sage was given a choice: bow down to an image of the king and to partake of a pig, or die. When he refused, he was given the option of pretending to eat pig, although he would be permitted to substitute kosher meat. Again, the sage refused, saying "Many of the young people would suppose that Elazar, at the age of 90, had gone over to the religion of the heathen... To the young people I will leave an example of strength to die willingly with courage for the perfect and holy Torah." Elazar was executed.

The persecutions continued taking a toll in martyrs. It was at this time that Mattithias, the son of the High Priest Yohanan, moved to the small village of Modi'in. Before long the king's enforcers entered the village and demanded that the people offer a sacrifice to the pagan deities. Mattithias was singled out and promised the special designation "friend of the king" if he would obey. He proudly refused. At that point, a Jew who was a well-known Hellenist came forward who desired to ingratiate himself with the authorities by sacrificing a pig. Mattithias grabbed a sword and killed the man and Antiochus' emissaries.

Uttering the words, "Whoever is for G-d, follow me!" Mattithias led his sons and other Jews to the Judean hills where they lived in caves and plotted the destruction of their enemies. Eventually, they massed a force of 6,000 who struck at the enemy in nocturnal raids, inflicting grievous losses and demolishing their pagan altars. The revolt had begun. Mattityahu did not live to see the successful completion of the struggle, but before he died his five sons gathered at his bedside and he entreated them to continue the fight against the Syrians.

There were years of struggle before the enemy was routed from the Holy Temple, and decades before Jewish sovereignty was established in the land.

Reb Asher Sosonkin's Chanukah In Siberia

Life in the Siberian work camps was generally difficult for the Jewish prisoners, but during the holidays it was even more so, because it was nearly impossible to perform the mitzvot of each holiday under those terrible conditions.

Reb Asher Sosonkin was exiled to Siberia for the "crime" of spreading Torah throughout Russia. Even under the harsh conditions of the work camp, he did his best to continue to observe the Torah and mitzvot. In the camp with Reb Asher was a Jew by the name of Nachman Rosemann. He had been brought up in an observant home, but when he grew up he became an ardent communist, rising in the ranks of the Russian army. After serving in the army, he was arrested for illegal business dealings, and was sentenced to twenty-five years of hard labor in Siberia.

It was there in the work camp that Nachman felt a renewed interest in Judaism, and this led him to befriend the devout Reb Asher. Nachman was determined to learn all he could from Reb Nachman, and to do the mitzvot as carefully possible.

Chanuka was approaching, and Reb Asher asked Nachman to get a tin can to use as a menora, in order to fulfill the mitzva of kindling the Chanuka lights. Reb Asher emphasized that it should be small, so that their activities wouldn't be noticed by any of the labor camp officials.

"On Chanuka we celebrate a tremendous miracle, the triumph of the small Jewish army over the enormous Greek army. It is the victory of the spiritual over the physical. To simply make a menora out of an old can wouldn't properly honor this holiday. I'm going to order a beautiful menora!" Nachman proclaimed.

Reb Asher was amazed at his determination. Nachman found a prisoner who happened to be a tinsmith and paid him several rubles to make a beautiful menora. He did this knowing that if the authorities found out, he would be punished severely. And on the day before Chanuka, Nachman approached Reb Asher with a big smile. In one hand he held a menora, and in the other hand he held a bottle filled with oil.

On the first night of Chanuka, Reb Asher and Nachman placed the menora by the doorpost of their barrack and prepared a cotton wick. The other prisoners watched curiously as the two men commenced this "dangerous" act. Reb Asher recited the three blessings over the lighting of the menora, and lit the wick with tears of joy and gratitude.

They continued to light the menora in this way until the fifth night of Chanuka. Just as Reb Asher and Nachman had lit the menora, an armed guard appeared at the entrance of the barracks, announcing roll call. The prisoners were stunned. Roll call had never been announced at that hour before! The other prisoners told Reb Asher and Nachman that someone must have reported them, which would explain the unusual roll call. They advised the two men to hide their menora in the snow, before the officer arrived. They refused to bury the menora.

When the officer entered the barrack, everyone stood still, anticipating the worst. After the officer finished counting the prisoners, he noticed the menora.

He stared at it for a moment, and then he asked Reb Asher, "Five?" "Five," replied Reb Asher, confused. The officer nodded his head, and without another word, turned and left the barracks. The prisoners were shocked. They were all wondering the same things: Who was the officer? Why did he come to them at such an unusual hour and ask about the candles?

Reb Asher was sure that the "officer" was none other than the Prophet Elijah.

The Price Reb Baruch The Blacksmith Paid To Light the Rebbe's Menorah

Most of the people of the shtetl of Roshvenitz were very poor, but, being Chasidim, poverty could not detract from their joy of life, as it was derived from their Rebbe, the great Rabbi Avraham Yaakov of Sadigora.

In those days, traveling to the Rebbe was not an easy undertaking. It cost far more than most of them could afford, and so they established a special fund to pay the traveling expenses of one person. Each Jewish family would contribute to the communal pot, and when a special occasion would arise, a raffle would be held. The winner would travel to the Rebbe as an emissary of the community.

At the Rebbe's court, the representative was given a private interview with the Rebbe who would question him about the state of his Chassidim in the little village. But that wasn't all. When the emissary set off, the Rebbe always presented him with a pure, silver coin. These coins became the property of the community and were its prized treasure.

It was a month before Chanuka and a special meeting was called. The villagers twittered with anticipation of this unexpected event. Finally the caretaker of the shul began to speak: "My dear brethren, we have called you here tonight to discuss the matter of the holy coins of our beloved Rebbe. We have merited to amass many coins, and we have decided to give them all to a G-d-fearing silversmith who will make from them a most beautiful menora."

Excitement rose as the congregants murmured their approval to one another. "The beautiful menora, we will put in our study hall, and each Chanuka we will sell the honor of lighting it to the highest bidder. This money will help pay for the many needs of our community- - food and medicine for the sick and poor, dowries for needy brides, salaries for the teachers." The congregants were all very excited, and each of them dreamed about the beautiful silver menora made from the Rebbe's holy coins.

The first night of Chanuka arrived and every corner of the shul was packed tight. At the southern wall stood the Chanuka menora, a masterpiece of the silversmith's art -- intricate in design, glowing, and sparkling in the lamplight.

The bidding began, and then rose quickly. It wasn't long before the poor and average homeowners were outbid, leaving only the wealthy to continue the contest. In the end, Reb Lipa, a wealthy wood merchant won the honor. With great emotion he approached the menora. He recited the three blessings, and ignited the wick.

This scene was repeated each night of Chanuka. The same bidding, the same enthusiasm, and in end, the same result: one of the wealthy congregants always emerged the winner.

The poor people of the shtetl realized that the coveted honor would never fall to one of them. They had to content themselves with watching the lighting and answering "amen" to the blessings.

One of them, however, couldn't accept the situation. Reb Baruch, the blacksmith, was a Chasid to the core of his soul. His love for his Rebbe filled his entire being, and he was heartbroken that he couldn't light the menora even once. Chanuka passed and once again life's dreary sameness returned to the inhabitants of the little shtetl.

But for Baruch the blacksmith life was different. He had a mission which filled his nights and days. He began to work a little extra every day, and he hoarded every penny he managed to scrape together -- all this for his much longed-for Chanuka lighting. Months went by and he managed to amass a tidy sum.

A month before Chanuka his wife took ill. When all the old remedies failed to cure her, a doctor was summoned from the big city. The doctor's fee was tremendous and the medications very costly. When G-d blessed his wife with a complete recovery, Reb Baruch's entire hard- earned savings were gone.

Chanuka arrived and Reb Baruch was inconsolable. He had come so close to attaining his heart's desire, and now it was lost.

As the nights of Chanuka passed by, Reb Baruch watched the successive lightings with a pained heart. Finally, the eighth and final night came. The bidding was frenzied, and the poor looked on as their wealthy brethren bid astronomical sums for the honor. Reb Baruch felt that his heart would break.

Suddenly all was still. All eyes focused on the figure ascending the bima. Could it be Reb Baruch, the blacksmith!? With tears running down his face, he turned to the crowd: "My dear friends, this is the second year that I have yearned with my whole soul to kindle the holy menora. All year I saved, but then my wife became ill. G-d has granted her a complete recovery, but my savings are gone. Believe me, my brothers, I cannot continue; my soul is expiring from longing. So, I am making you a proposition. My house is very small-- worth about 300 crowns. I am giving it to the community. I will continue to live in it, but as a tenant of the community. Accept my plea and restore the soul of a poor blacksmith."

Reb Baruch's heartfelt words touched everyone. Tears flowed freely, and a great roar came up from the crowd. "Reb Baruch has won the bidding!" was heard from every corner. When he rose to kindle the silver menora, there was not one heart which did not tremble at the sight of the flame that burst forth and rose up from the soul of Reb Baruch, the blacksmith.

How Reb Moshe Leib Sassov Returned A Precious menorah To Its Owner

Everyone knew of the tzadik from Sassov, Rabbi Moshe Leib.

Thousands of people constantly streamed to him to ask for blessings and advice on personal and business matters, and he never refused them his precious time.

Once, when Rabbi Moshe Leib was visiting the town of Brod, a wealthy woman came to him to ask him to pray for the recovery of her daughter who was seriously ill. When the woman introduced herself and mentioned her father's name, Rabbi Moshe Leib realized that he knew of her family, who were famous for their generosity to the needy.

As the conversation progressed the wealthy woman described her child's illness, and the tzadik promised to pray for her.

As it was customary to give the tzadik a monetary donation to distribute among the poor or for a specific urgent cause, the woman removed an envelope from her purse and placed it on the table, but Rabbi Moshe Leib refused to accept it. "I don't want money from you!" he said.

"But Rabbi, what do you mean? What is it that you want from me? I will do anything in the world to help my daughter!"

"I know that you have a very beautiful and precious menora. That is what I want!"

"Rabbi, I do have the menora you describe, but it is a family heirloom and my most precious possession. However, if you want it, I will gladly give it to you!"

The Rebbe listened carefully, nodding his head. "I am aware that the menora is very special and precious to your family. If you agree to let me have it, you must mean this most sincerely; you must give it to me with no compunctions or inner doubts whatsoever."

"I understand completely, and I agree with all my heart. The menora is yours, and I will bring it to you today," the woman said in a strong, firm voice.

That evening, when she came and presented the menora to Rabbi Moshe Leib, his students were buzzing with amazement. How had the Rebbe known about the menora's existence? Why had the Rebbe asked for a gift, something so far out of character? And why in the world did he want it anyway, when it was a known fact that he used only the menora he had received from his teacher and Rebbe, Reb Shmelke of Nicholsburg?

On the first night of Chanuka, as the Rebbe prepared to light the first wick, Reb Yechiel Tzoref the silversmith stood at his side. He had no idea why he had been chosen for this great honor, but he was beaming with happiness.

After the light was kindled, the Rebbe beckoned to Reb Yechiel to enter his study. "I want to tell you a story about your grandfather, may he rest in peace, for whom you were named.

"When the time came for your grandfather to arrange a match for his daughter, he was so poor, he couldn't find a suitor. No one would lend him money, since it was obvious he could never return the loan. After exhausting all of his acquaintances he decided to approach a certain very wealthy man. When he asked him to lend him money to arrange a marriage for his daughter, the wealthy man replied, 'I know you will never be able to repay me, but I will make a deal with you. I know that you own a very beautiful menora, the likes of which I have never seen. If you will give it to me, I will give you 10,000 gulden, enough for the marriage and even more!'

"When Reb Yechiel heard the demand, he was shocked. It was his most precious possession, something which was infinitely precious to him. Every year, his Rebbe, Reb Zushe of Anipoli, had distributed silver coins to his Chasidim. Reb Yechiel had collected the prized coins year by year, and they were dearer to him than anything in the world.

"When he had amassed quite a collection, Reb Yechiel melted them down and formed from them a magnificent menora. It was this menora which the rich man wanted. No, thought Reb Yechiel, he couldn't even think of relinquishing it.

"Having refused the rich man's offer, Reb Yechiel went everywhere to try to borrow the money, but in the end he failed. He had no choice but to accept the rich man's terms and part with his beloved menora.

"When the wealthy man passed away and stood before the Heavenly Court there was great confusion as to how to rule in his case. On the one hand, the rich man had certainly performed the mitzva of giving money to help poor brides. But on the other hand, he had coveted the prized possession of a poor man and caused him great pain.

"Finally, the Court reached a decision. The wealthy man's reward would be withheld, since the mitzva was intertwined with the sin of coveting the possession of another.

"That is why I have arranged to return the menora to you, his grandson. The sin has now been atoned for, and the wealthy benefactor of your grandfather will rest in peace, enjoying his eternal reward.

The Wars Of Juda Maccabee

by Gershon Kranzler

The brightness of the first Chanuka lights had dwindled down, but the holy fire on the altar burned again in the Holy Temple, from morning to morning, as prescribed by the Torah. The priests were once again busily officiating in the old customary ways. Day in and day out they prepared the offerings. Order and peace seemed established.

The Jewish farmer longed to return to his land after two years of hardship, privation and danger in the victorious Jewish army. It was high time to break the ground and to till the soil, if the barley was to grow and ripen in time for the "omer offering" on Passover. The Jewish farmers had left their ploughs to rally about the heroic Hasmoneans. The first victories had drawn even the hesitant into the ranks of the enthusiastic Jewish rebels, led by the sons of Matathias. Farmers had forsaken their land, and merchants and tradesmen their stores and shops. Even Torah students had emerged from the four walls of the yeshiva to join the fight against the oppressors.

But the songs of victory which had filled the reclaimed Holy Temple with praise and gratitude to the merciful G-d had ceased. The goal of the battle seemed to have been attained, and Torah was again supreme in Israel.

One man, though, realized that the time for the return to normal living had not yet come. Israel could not yet afford to relax; it would have to stand ready and prepare to carry on the fight against the overwhelming odds of the enemy. This man was Judah Maccabee, a man whose name was upon everyone's lips and in every Jewish heart. He was admired as a hero, as a man with the heart of a lion and the simple piety of a child; as the one whose mighty armies fought and conquered, yet who never failed to pray to G-d, the Master of all battles, before he entered the fray.

It was not the spirited warrior's joy that made Judah Maccabee stay in camp. His heart, too, longed to return to his former peaceful life, to Modiin, the quiet town of priests, which held the grave of his adored father. Bloodshed and battle were a hard and unwanted profession for the men of Judea, who preferred peace to strife. Yet this was no time to relent. Not only must he stay, he must also convince his comrades at arms to do so as well, with all the persuasion of his magnetic personality. Only the first phase of this war of liberation had passed; hard and desperate times were yet to come. Clever enemies could seize an extended lull to prepare new assaults with more troops and better equipment. And there was no shortage of enemies all around Judea, besides the defeated Syrians. Old hatreds were revived. The descendants of Edom, the Idumeans, the Ammonites, the Philistines and Phoenicians all revived their ancient jealousies.

Messengers arrived from Gilead. The pagan peoples had joined forces to destroy Judea. From Galilee came the bad news of similar evil intentions and active preparations for war in Ptolomais, Tyre and Sidon. The messengers found Judah Maccabee already at work. Fortifications had to be built around Zion. Towers, walls, battlements and moats had to be constructed opposite the fort still held by their worst enemies, the Hellenist Jews, under the leadership of Menelaos, the false priest. These Jews hated everything Jewish, and lived hoping for the return of the Syrian masters. Judah Maccabee prepared Jerusalem for imminent assault by the troops of Antiochus. Under his supervision, the Jewish people worked feverishly to refill their arsenals and transform the whole country into a stronghold.

Once this most important task was accomplished, Judah Maccabee led his freshly trained troops to the aid of the regions and villages harassed by the spiteful neighbors of Judea. He drove the Idumeans from Hebron, which they had annexed, and punished those people who had acted hostilely towards the Jewish settlers. Then he led his army across the Jordan River against the Ammonites. Their capital fell before the furious onslaught of the Jewish troops, and so did their fortress Yaeser. Judah's brother Simon led an army north to help the beleaguered Jews of Galilee. He defeated the enemy and cleared the Jewish land. At his urging, a great many of the Jewish settlers who had fled to Jerusalem returned to rebuild in safety what had been destroyed during the years of turmoil. Judah Maccabee and Jonathan joined forces and marched against Gilead, where they were met with the toughest resistance. By Shavuot their campaign was successfully concluded.

Judea was again free, and all parts of the land captured by the neighboring nations was recovered. Celebrations and festivities transformed Jerusalem and the Holy Temple, barely half a year after the victory over the Syrian armies. The Jewish people expressed their joy and gratitude in the form of alms and offerings, for G-d had once again restored glory and liberty to the Jewish land.

From The Jewish Companion, Kehot Publication Society

Reb Zushe Saves A Life On Chanukah

The followers of Rabbi Dov Ber, the Maggid of Mezritch, awaited his entrance into the synagogue for the lighting of the Chanuka menora on the first night of Chanuka. For the past few years, Reb Zushe, one of the Maggid's greatest disciples, had been honored with lighting the shamash candle. Reb Zushe would then hand it to the Maggid who lit his menora from it. But Reb Zushe was nowhere to be seen and the chasidim wondered if his absence was the reason the Maggid had not yet lit the menora.

Minutes, then hours ticked by, as the chasidim waited for their Rebbe to emerge. Finally, at about midnight, the Maggid emerged from his room and walked towards the menora. As if to himself, the Maggid said quietly, "Reb Zushe will not be with us tonight. We will light the menora now."

The Maggid honored another of his chasidim with the privilege of kindling the shamash for him, the blessings were chanted and the one, solitary wick was lit. Then all of the holy assemblage joined together in singing the traditional Chanuka hymns.

The next morning, just as the Maggid and his chasidim were finishing the services, Reb Zushe walked in. Weary from traveling, Reb Zushe shuffled over to his customary place and dropped down on the bench. His friends came over and gave him a hearty welcome. One of them reported, "The Rebbe waited a long time for you last night. What happened?"

"After we light the Chanuka menora tonight," promised Reb Zushe, "and with the Rebbe's permission, I will tell you what happened."

All of the chasidim gathered around the Maggid's menora on the second night of Chanuka. After the Maggid lit the menora they eagerly listened to Reb Zushe's story:

"As you all know, immediately after the High Holidays, it is my custom to travel throughout the small villages and hamlets near Mezritch. I go from town to town, speaking with the adults and teaching the children about the wonders of our heritage. I also speak to them about how G-d loves each and every single Jew and that they are all important to Him. I tell them about our Rebbe and explain some of the Rebbe's teachings.

"Each year, I plan my schedule so that I can return to Mezritch in time for Chanuka. Yesterday, I was on my way back to Mezritch when a terrible snowstorm started. I pushed on through the storm, though many times I felt I could not continue. Knowing that I would soon be back in Mezritch near the Rebbe was what kept me going.

"The storm worsened and I soon realized that I would have to stop and rest a bit before continuing, if I wanted to make it to Mezritch at all. And so, I stopped at the home of Yankel in a village not too far from Mezritch. By this time it was already quite late in the afternoon. I pounded and pounded on the door until finally, someone called out, 'Who is it?'

"'It is I, Reb Zushe,' I said loudly.

"Yankel's wife opened the door. She looked absolutely terrified as she bid me inside. I noticed that the children, too, looked frightened.

"The poor woman burst out, 'Yankel left the house early this morning to gather firewood. He promised he would come back early, for even then he saw we were in for a terrible storm. It is late already and still he has not returned,' she wailed.

"For a split second I hesitated. If I went into the forest now, who knew if I would come out alive? But I knew I had no choice. I put on my coat and scarf once again and set out toward the forest.

"I passed a few rows of trees when I saw the upright form of a man covered with snow. Only his face was visible in that white blur. I saw right away that it was Yankel, and I thought for sure that he had frozen to death. But when I came very close, I noticed to my surprise, that he was still breathing. I brushed Yankel off and tried to warm him up.

"Somehow I managed to drag and carry Yankel back to his house where his wife and children greeted us with cries of joy. With my last ounce of strength I deposited Yankel on the bench near the stove and fell to the floor myself. Miraculously, Yankel's wife was able to "thaw" him out. She brought us a bottle of strong mashke which we drank eagerly to warm our insides. At about midnight we felt sufficiently strong enough to stand up and light the Chanuka menora. As we said the prayer, 'who made miracles for our ancestors, in those days at this time," we knew without a doubt that G-d had made a miracle for us now, too.

"As soon as the sun rose in the morning I set out for Mezritch and arrived when you saw me this morning."

Reb Zushe finished his story. The Maggid looked deeply into Reb Zushe's face. "Know, Zushe, that in Heaven they waited--as it were--to light the Divine Chanuka menora until you lit the menora together with Yankel. In the merit of your saving a Jewish soul from death, the Heavens awaited you."

The Jewish Professor Who Didn't have A Menorah

by Chana Sharfstein

It was just a postcard with a simple message, but to me it was a wonderful Chanuka present. My thoughts drifted back to the beginning of the fall term last September.

The first night of classes. I had been looking forward to this course in Spanish Literature and Culture because it sounded so interesting. Besides, it was my final course that would fulfill the license requirements for my job as an "English as a Second Language" teacher.

That very first night things went wrong. Professor Mendez appeared competent and interesting as he began his introductory lecture. I was surprised, however, that he was addressing us in English, since this was an advanced course. I raised my hand and questioned the professor on this point. The room grew uncomfortably still and then in a stern voice Professor Mendez sarcastically answered that he was sure we weren't advanced enough to be able to discuss history and literature in Spanish. This developed into a heated debate with everyone vocally taking sides, and of course I was viewed as the instigator. The feeling of antipathy that developed that night grew steadily stronger during the term.

When we had the midterm exam, the professor had his opportunity to pay me back. I prepared thoroughly, but he gave me a "B" and wrote a note explaining that I had misinterpreted a question; I had analyzed the material rather than summarized it. I was really furious but my family felt he probably was an anti-Semite, and anyway, my class discussions had certainly placed me in an unfavorable spotlight.

Just about that time a magazine arrived in which one of my stories had been published. It contained some cherished memories of the holidays from my youth. I brought the magazine to class to show some of my classmates. I had even planned to show it to the professor. That night, we had another disagreement which positively settled the issue. At the end of class I angrily rushed out of the room.

Halfway down the hall, and I'll never know why, I turned around and went back. The professor was there gathering his belongings. He looked at me in surprise and I showed him my article. He looked at it briefly, and then quite unexpectedly asked if he could take it home.

The following week, the professor asked me to meet him in his office after class. After we were comfortably seated, he began to tell me how much he enjoyed my article. "He probably found it unique," I thought. "This might be his first exposure to Jewish life."

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted. "It reminded me of my own youth," I heard him saying. "It was during World War II, and we celebrated the holidays in secrecy, each year not knowing if there would be another, each year in a different place."

It was a good thing that I was sitting for his next question really stunned me. "How did you figure out that I was Jewish?" he asked. Professor Mendez a Jew? I just couldn't believe it.

"My father changed our name during the War," he continued, "so we could escape to South America. We trained ourselves to appear non-Jewish. We carefully studied and imitated the native Spanish settlers." We sat and discussed Jewish life and Judaism for a while.

The following Tuesday afternoon, as I was getting ready to leave, one of my daughters presented me with a problem. She had received several Chanuka menoras in her school with the instructions to give them to someone who would not otherwise light Chanuka candles.

"You can give me a menora now," I told her. "And find some wrapping paper." When I left for class moments later I had a neatly wrapped menora in the bag with my books.

I remained after class and presented Professor Mendez with the gift. "Is it something special you baked or cooked?" he asked. I shook my head. "Please don't open it until you get home," I said. "And please read the material inside. No matter what, keep it and think about it carefully." As I left, I turned and called, "Happy Chanuka."

"Did you light the menora?" I asked at the next session. "No," he said, "I told you I am not observant. My life has changed drastically since my early years." He had placed the menora on his desk at home, but he had not been interested in lighting it.

"Why?" I asked. "Isn't it time that you took a stand? Light the candle to identify. There is no need to hide anymore. Come forward and find your real self."

"Perhaps some other time," he said. "Not now. But thank you anyway."

And now, a year later, he had sent me a postcard. I re-read the message, and again it filled me with joy. There were only four words in the short message, and that was all. "The candles are burning." And then, he had signed his name, Professor Mendez, and under it in small letters, Yehuda Mendelovsky.

There are many kinds of battles and victories. The heroism displayed by you, Professor Mendez, is comparable to the battle of the Maccabees of old. When we light our candles tonight, I will think of your new little lights, those tiny flames representing victory.

Reprinted with permission from Di Yiddishe Heim