Time for a story / The Miraculous Paper

Instead of saying goodbye to a disciple, a chasidic rebbe would often tell him a story, as if the rebbe were transmitting to his disciple part of himself, to take with him on his journey home. He wanted his disciple to have holy thoughts to enhance his faith until his next visit.

And so it was that Rebbe Y’hudah Tzve MeStretin, a disciple of Rebbe Uri HahSahrahf MeStrehlisk, told this story which occurred during Rebbe Mordechai Neschiz’s latter years.

PART ONE

Few Jews lived in St. Petersburg during the reign of Czarina Elizabeth (1742–1762). Her intolerant attitude toward Jews consisted of permission only for “useful” Jews and their families to remain in the city. Depending upon the ruler, the situation of the Jews permitted to live in St. Petersburg improved slightly or worsened drastically. When Czar Nicholas I (reigned 1825–1855) ascended the throne, he ordered all Jews living in the city “without doing anything” expelled.

I traveled with my businessman father as a young child. When we traveled through Jewish sections, particularly through the Pale of Settlement, we dressed like Jews, big yarmulkes on our heads, tzitzit flying from the sides of our jackets. But because of the intolerance of Russian officials, we dressed as Russian business people when we traveled through the cities. Our heads were covered with the fine fur hats worn by Russian rich men and our tzitzit were tucked inside our shirts.

We appeared to be the same as every other traveler who had come to St. Petersburg on business. The difference being that they traveled freely, and we were forced to hide our ritual symbols and constantly feared for our lives.

It was very clear that Jews did not belong in St. Petersburg, afflicted with an exile complex, the exile of being out of place in a strange land. We prayed for our fear to disappear and our mental anguish to end, but we also knew that the exile complex would not be set to rest until the time of Messianic redemption. 

I remember the incident clearly. We registered in a very comfortable hotel, one of the best in St. Petersburg. It was late in the day; we settled down in our room. My father removed food from a large suitcase, food for dinner. He always carried enough food supplies with him for the duration of our trips, for it was difficult to find kosher food in St. Petersburg without calling attention to ourselves. I was lying down, for I was fatigued from travel. My father sat at a table, the dim light of a lantern illuminating the pages of a holy book that he was studying.

Suddenly, I was conscious of a conspicuous sound which seemed to grow louder and louder. It seemed to be approaching nearer and nearer to the hotel.  I imagined the sound to be that of a shofar. I trembled, wondering at the meaning of this sound in the night in St. Petersburg. I glanced at my father; he had risen from his chair, visibly shaking.

My father said softly: “I know the many reasons for the sounding of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. The ten reasons for the sounding of the shofar are:

n“Rosh Hashanah celebrates the creation of the world and the crowning of God as the king over creation. We acknowledge our King with the sounding of the shofar.

n“Rosh Hashanah marks the first day of the ten days of repentance.  We sound the shofar to announce that these ten days are a propitious time to return to G-d, to mend our ways, to do t’shuvah.

n“The sounding of the shofar reminds us of the Revelation at Mt. Sinai, when the blasts of the shofar resounded in the world.  We remind ourselves to emulate the ways of our forefathers; they received the Torah with the oath “nahahseh v’ nishmah” (“we will do, and we will listen”).

n“The sounding of the shofar reminds us of the exhortation of our prophets, that we are ultimately responsible for our actions.

n“The shofar reminds us of the destruction of both bahtay mikdash. Through the cry of its sound, we pray for their rebuilding.

n“We are reminded of the ahkaydah, the binding of Yitzchak.  Avraham substituted a ram as a sacrifice instead of his son. As G-d had compassion upon Yitzchak, so we pray that His compassion be on us. 

n“When we hear the broaken sound of the shofar, we are reminded to subjugate our will to His will.

n“The sound of the shofar reminds us that Rosh Hashanah is the day of judgment for all mankind.

n“The sound of the shofar reminds us of our belief in t’cheyat hahmaytem, the resuscitation of the dead.

n“At the time of the ultimate redemption, the sound of the shofar will lead the exiles to the Holy Land.  We pray that the ultimate redemption arrive soon.”

He lowered his voice.  He was practically whispering.

“It is the middle of the summer, not anywhere near the season of Rosh Hashanah.  None of these reasons make sense, except maybe the last one. Maybe we are listening to the call of the shofar of redemption.”

He walked over to the bed where I lay, pulled me to a sit-up position and spoke firmly: “Come, we better go down to the lobby to find out why we hear the sound of the shofar in St. Petersburg.  If it is signaling Messianic redemption, we want to be ready.”

We descended the winding staircase quickly, deliberately, searching the faces of other guests for a clue, but those who ascended seemed oblivious to the shofar sounds. When we finally reached the lobby, we experienced tremendous commotion. The service people were running helter skelter, the manager faced two peaceful looking men, adorned with the epaulette’s of high command on their uniforms. 

We overheard their conversation.

“We are the commanders of a battalion of warriors, who are camped on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. The Tzar has granted us official permission, and expects that we will be treated as visiting dignitaries, as ambassadors of good will on a peaceful mission. The joyful shofar blasts that you heard indicate that we are men of peace. We request accommodations for the night.”

The commanders were shown to their rooms, and the commotion in the lobby gradually quieted. We returned to our room, also.

As our usual custom, we awoke early the next morning, dressed carefully, ascertaining that our tzitzit were neatly tucked inside our shirts, prayed the morning service, ate our breakfast, donned our fine fur hats, and descended to the hotel dining room for tea. To our absolute amazement, the commanders that spoke to the hotel manager the previous evening were standing, facing a wall, majestically wrapped in talis and t’filin, praying fervently. We wondered that they were not afraid to exhibit the rituals of Judaism in public, in hostile St. Petersburg. It dawned upon us that these two commanders were so proud of their Jewish heritage, that they had set to rest their exile complex. When they finished praying, they slowly removed the t’filin of the head, unwound the t’filin of the arm, pulled off and folded their talis. Simultaneously, two joyful shofar blasts sounded from the camp.          

We had to speak to them. We had to find out who they were, why they did not fear the stares of other St. Petersburg business people while wrapped in talis and t’filin, what was the significance of the shofar blasts.

First we spoke Yiddish, the language that binds most Jews together. They shook their heads, not understanding one word. We tried Russian, also unsuccessfully. We thought that they might understand Hebrew, but we had only uttered a few words, when a sad, haunting shofar blast sounded, very different from the one sounded just a few minutes before. It seemed that they were being summoned, for they disappeared within seconds.

As we attended to our business during the day, wee could not forget the vision of those two proud, majestically clad Jews.

When we returned to the hotel that evening, we stopped into the dining room for tea. The two commanders were fervently praying at the same wall where they stood that morning. Their voices chanted the hauntingly tragic melody of Lamentations, recited on Tishah B’Av, mourning the destruction of both Holy Temples. They were no longer standing triumphant and proud; they were shamefaced and stooped.  When they stepped away from the wall, we saw that their eyes were red, tears overflowing; their faces bore grievous pain.

My father could not restrain himself.  He had to make himself known to these strangers. He quickly removed his fine fur hat and replaced it with his yarmulke. He pulled out his tzitzit from under his shirt. When the commanders saw that we were Jews, they approached. My father asked them in Hebrew: “Me Ahtehm?” (“Who are you?”)

One of the commanders responded: “We are representatives of the ten lost tribes, the ten holy tribes of Israel. We were invited by the Russian government to help them deal with Russian Jews, for the majority of the world’s Jews live in the Pale of Settlement. We have spent a great deal of time here, visiting one shtetl after another. We concluded that the only solution to the Tzar’s problem would be Messianic redemption; but the Messiah will come only when the pain of exile is so great that it can no longer be borne.

“What we found on our travels is that the anguished sighs of our people, living under Russian oppression, is so great; it is even difficult for our people to open their mouths in praise of G-d. Our people are existing in a state of total despair. Our people are so yearning to return to our land. We were actually waiting for the Heavenly court to announce the redemption of the Jewish people from this bitter exile. 

“We were prepared to lead them back to the holy land. Know that every morning the deeds of the world are weighed on the scale of justice. It must be determined by the Heavenly Court if the world is truly ready for redemption. Usually, the evil deeds outweigh the good deeds, so redemption is delayed. But this morning, we were so joyful; we thought that good deeds outweighed evil deeds. We were expecting to leave! Our mission would have been achieved.”

“What happened?” interrupted my father.

“Somewhere, in one corner of the world, one person murdered his brother. The scale of justice was no longer balanced. Evil deeds once again outweighed good deeds.

“You should know that G-d has special love for His people only when they are unified and not jealous of each other, when they work together for the common good, when they satiate their hunger, not with bread but with yearning for the word of G-d. When murder occurs in the world, when needless hatred exists, obviously the people are not unified. Destruction replaces redemption, even if it is destined, even if it is impending. Redemption was once again delayed.”

My father pleaded: “Please give me a sign that I have met representatives of the ten lost tribes, the ten holy tribes of Israel, that Messianic redemption is on the way, albeit delayed. When my business trip is concluded, we will return to our shtetl. It will probably be around the time of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I want to be able to tell my brothers that I met representatives of the ten lost tribes, the ten holy tribes of Israel. I want to share with them what you explained to me; that we have to work harder to earn Messianic redemption. It is within the power of our hands, our actions, to achieve holiness by the way we live and act. When that murder occurred, the accumulated merit pointing toward redemption dissolved. We have to be very careful not to act in any way which lowers the level of holiness necessary for redemption.”

The commander removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to my father. 

My father examined the paper. It was blank. He was stunned.

The commander explained. “The paper is blank now, but your rebbe, Rebbe Mordechai Neschizer, will be able to read it. He is one of the few people in the world, which included our patriarch Yaakov and the prophet Y’chezkel, who understand about Messianic redemption. Tell him how and why we met. Tell him that he is to read the paper by the light of the moon, immediately following the sounding of the shofar after Yom Kippur. He will know how to read what is inscribed on this paper.”

The commanders bid us farewell; we concluded our business and returned to Neshciz, just prior to Rosh Hashanah. My father turned the blank paper over to his rebbe. We anxiously counted the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Following the sounding of the shofar, the rebbe signaled to the entire congregation to go outdoors.

He lifted the paper to the light of the moon. He began to read: “Mordechai ben Dov Ber.” Everyone knew that this was his name and the name of his father. The silence was heavy with expectation. He continued to read the names of his ancestors, one by one, all the way back to Avraham Ahvinu. Then he re-read his name and the names of his children: Yosayf ben Mordechai, Yaakov Aryeh ben Mordechai, Yitzchak ben Mordechai. He added the names of his grandchildren and their children, many future generations, yet unborn. Then he strained to lift the paper, higher and higher.

Suddenly, he stopped reading.  “A candle,” he said. “Bring me a candle.”

He held the candle very close to the paper, as if straining to see the words. He seemed to be frightened. We were standing very close to him; we saw tears dropping from his eyes.  He wailed a pitiable sigh of woe, then mournfully, groaning “shalom, shalom,” with trembling hand, he placed the candle near the edge of the paper and burned it.

Rabbi Eugene, z”l, and Dr. Annette Labovitz traveled to Jewish communities worldwide collecting stories and teaching through them about the Jewish experience. These stories were published in five books which are currently out of print. Dr. Labovitz resides in Woodmere and gives a weekly shiur on Tanach at Congregation Aish Kodesh. This story is from “The Legendary Maggidim — Stories of Soul and Spirit,” published by Targum-Feldheim.