THE CIGARETTES THAT SAVED THE DAY
The traveler simply couldn’t understand the bizarre behavior of the rebbe’s gabbaim. Surely they understood that he had travelled from far away expressly to see the tzaddik, but no matter what he said, they barred his entry and, smiling, informed him that his room and lodgings had been prepared for him, as if they knew he was to arrive! But if the rebbe had ruach hakodesh like he’d been told, then room and board was not what had brought him there. Surely the rebbe knew the true and terrifying reason that had brought him to Stolin. Earlier that week, the dreaded missive had arrived; it was none other than an official letter requesting his presence before the Russian Military Committee that would surely seal his bitter fate and induct him into the army. A fate from which few Jews ever returned, and those that did were never the same. It was practically impossible to keep Torah and mitzvos in the Russian army. Surely the rebbe must be aware of this and if so, why was he barred entry?
The rebbe, in fact, did know. The Yanuka of Stolin had told his gabbaim a few hours earlier that a bachur would arrive and request to see him regarding his conscription papers into the Russian army and that although they should greet him warmly, receive him well and prepare food and lodgings for him, under no circumstances should they allow him in to see the rebbe. Once the bachur showed up just a few hours later, the gabbaim, although accustomed to witnessing the rebbe’s powers, were astonished at this clear display of ruach hakodesh, and complied with the rebbe’s explicit instructions. The bewildered bachur had no choice but to sit and wait to be called in for an audience.
One evening, his wait finally came to an end. The rebbe invited the bachur in, and if the boy was bewildered before, what happened next caught him completely off guard. The rebbe turned to the bachur and said: “There is no time for long discussions – time is of the essence. Here, take this,” he said, and handed the bachur a pack of cigarettes. The tzaddik withdrew his pocket watch, glanced at the time and exclaimed, “Hurry, the train leaves the platform in just a few minutes! Run and catch the train!” Without having a chance to explain any of this bizarre behavior, he urged the bachur to obey.
The bachur took the proffered pack of cigarettes and broke into a run to catch the train. As the rebbe predicted, the train was about to pull out from the station. The bachur hurried onto the train and sat down, his head spinning with questions: Why did the rebbe rush him so? What did he need the cigarettes for? Where was this train headed? What would he do when he got to wherever it was that he was going? Eventually his emunas chachamim calmed him down and he resolved to put his blind trust in the tzaddik. Having placed himself in the rebbe’s holy hands, he was finally able to relax. He was awoken from his reverie by the conductor’s call, “Last stop, everybody off!” When the train arrived at the last stop, he realized this must be his destination. He alighted the platform andproceeded to ask of the gentiles if there were any Jews in the town. They replied in the affirmative and directed him to a nearby, well-lit Jewish inn. Tired, hungry and as puzzled as before, he knocked and was welcomed by the Jewish innkeeper. He explained that he was looking for a place to spend the night. The Jewish innkeeper was more than happy to give him free room and board and put him up for the night, explaining how overjoyed he was to be able to properly fulfill the mitzvah of hachnasas orchim. As the bachur sat eating his evening repast, a bunch of loud and raucous guests entered the inn. As was their custom, the three goyim ordered drinks and proceeded to enjoy the fare amid loud peals of laughter and drunken camaraderie. “Innkeeper! We want a smoke!” they called
out after their hearty meal and some more drink. “I am sorry,” apologized the Jewish innkeeper, “but I don’t smoke myself and I seem to be out of cigarettes for the guests.” But his continued apologies fell on deaf and drunk ears. “We want a smoke, get us some cigarettes now! If you haven’t got any, go out into the night and get some! And don’t come back until you got them,” added the drunks who had become belligerent. The poor innkeeper was at his wit’s end. Helplessly he turned to his guest, and asked the bachur: “Perhaps you happen to have some cigarettes for these customers?” At first the bachur was afraid to give away the cigarettes that the rebbe had entrusted him with, who knew for what lofty purpose? But after the innkeeper realized that his guest had salvation in his pockets, he pleaded with the bachur to at least part with half a pack. The bachur reluctantly agreed and the innkeeper returned with relief to his guests with the cigarettes they had requested earlier.
As plumes and clouds of smoke covered the now relaxed forms of the drunken goyim, they turned once again to the innkeeper, but this time with words of wonder and praise, “Where ever did you get such excellent high quality cigarettes from?” they wanted to know. The innkeeper apologized and explained how he had gotten them from another guest and had no idea where they originally came from. “Bring him here at once!” they ordered. When the bachur appeared before the drunks they questioned him as well. “Where ever did you get such excellent high quality cigarettes from?” they wanted to know.
“To tell you the truth I got them from my rabbi, the Stoliner Rebbe.” The bachur proceeded to tell them the whole strange story from his conscription letter, to his travels to Stolin for a bracha and yeshua, to the rebbe’s parting gift of cigarettes in lieu of a bracha and the veiled mysterious instructions to hurry and board the train. “You mean to tell us,” sneered one of the three drunks, “that you believe in this rabbiner so much that you travelled to him from so far away and just like that boarded a train to who knows where, all so he can magically somehow get you out of the military service?!” They laughed incredulously at those silly Jews and their silly rabbis! What a novel notion indeed! “How much for the cigarettes?” they asked. “Please accept them as a gift, I did not pay for them either; the rebbe gave them to me.” This was to their liking, so they thanked the bachur, paid the innkeeper and left.
A few weeks after that strange episode, the bachur found himself in the Russian military offices about to enter before the committee that would decide his fate: conscription or exemption. “Before you come before the committee,” explained the bored officer in charge of bureaucratic procedures, “you need to go for a short medical examination. It is just perfunctory as you seem to be in good health. Come back with the doctors’ letter in hand.” He showed him to the office next door where three Russian military doctors sat with clipboards in hand and stethoscopes at the ready to perform the obligatory examination.
All of a sudden the room swayed and the bachur’s vision went out of focus. It was utterly bizarre, it simply could not be! But it was! Here stood the same three goyim who had been drunk at the inn and enjoyed his prize cigarettes; the doctors stood before him open-mouthed with shock, just as shocked as he was to see them. They began to laugh with one another and dispensed with the exam. “No exam needed for you,” they explained and proceeded to ask no questions and write up an exemption letter, which they handed to him signed and stamped. “You are not fit to serve in the army,” they laughed and gave him the letter that saved his life. (Maasei Tzaddikim pg. 34)
A CHANGE OF VIEW
The chassid Reb Chaim Yitzchak Schwartz was childless for over thirteen years since his wedding. In 5683 (1922), he made his way to chutz la’aretz to visit the son of the Yanuka of Stolin, Rav Avraham Elimelech of Karlin during the first year of his reign as rebbe after having succeeded his father, who passed away on the second day of Rosh Hashanah of that year.
“When my father handed the rebbe his kvitel,” related his son Reb Alter Avraham Schwartz, “Rav Avraham Elimelech told my father the following: ‘Der Tatte zichrono livracha hut mir iber gelazt zeine brilen, mir zalen leinen in dem a kvitel – My father z”l, the Yanuka of Stolin, left me his eyeglasses with which to read a kvittel.’ Then he added, ‘Mir huben es nuch keinmul nisht ungetin, far aich velen mir es untihn – I have never before used or worn them, but for you I will put the glasses on.’ s Rav Avraham Elimelech then donned the glasses of the Yanuka of Stolin over his holy eyes and read my father’s kvittel. I was born the next year!” (Siach Zekenim, vol 4, pg 67)
