For several weeks, snowstorms and a thick layer of ice had rendered the roads impassable. As farmers from the surrounding villages couldn't bring their produce to market, there was a shortage of many food items in the big city of Lublin. And while most of these commodities weren't essential, there was one thing the Jews of Lublin couldn't live without: onions.
Onions played a very important role in the Shabbat menu. In all of Lublin, it would have been very difficult to find a Jewish household in which the traditional dish of chopped eggs and onions wasn't eaten on Shabbat. Indeed, a shortage of meat or fish would have been less distressing.
Everyone was troubled by the lack of onions, but most particularly the family of the famous tzadik, the "Chozeh" (Seer) of Lublin. Try as they could to obtain the prized vegetable, there just weren't any to be had.
One Friday morning, the Chozeh's disciple, Rabbi Naftali of Ropshitz, was on his way to the synagogue when he saw something that made him stop. There, in the middle of the town square, was a farmer sitting next to a bulging sack of onions. The farmer, well aware of their market value, had traveled a great distance to make what he hoped would be a sizeable profit.
A daring idea suddenly popped into Rabbi Naftali's head. Without further ado he approached the farmer and asked to buy his entire stock of onions. The farmer was surprised, but didn't ask any questions. He named a rather exorbitant price, and Rabbi Naftali paid him on the spot.
"Oh, and I also want to buy your sheepskin coat and hat," Rabbi Naftali added. At first the farmer was appalled by the thought of having to return home without his warm clothing, but the thick wad of bills the Jew pressed into his hand managed to convince him. A few minutes later Rabbi Naftali was hurrying home with his new purchases: a large bag of precious onions, and a peasant's sheepskin coat and hat.
That afternoon, a well-bundled "farmer" set up shop across the street from the Chozeh's house. "Onions," the farmer cried out, "onions for sale!" The peasant's body was swaddled inside a thick sheepskin coat, and his furry hat obscured most of his face. His boots were covered with mud, obviously trekked in from the countryside...
Within minutes there was a large crowd of Jews vying for his wares. The farmer named his price, then suddenly announced that he had changed his mind: he was not interested in selling his onions.
"Please!" the Chasidim begged him. "We need the onions for a holy man, a great tzadik. Surely you will be blessed if you let us buy them."
"If that is the case," the farmer replied, "I will only sell them directly to the tzadik himself." The Chasidim were wary, but what could they do? They led the farmer across the street and brought him to the Chozeh.
At that moment, the tzadik was doing what he did every Friday afternoon in honor of the Sabbath: polishing his golden Kiddush cup. It was a very unusual goblet, a true masterpiece of workmanship. Fashioned out of pure gold, the cup was engraved with scenes from the Holy Land: the Tower of David, the Western Wall, and the Mount of Olives.
There were many rumors circulating about this goblet, but the general consensus among the Chasidim was that it had belonged to a holy tzadik of a previous generation. One thing they were sure of: whoever recited a blessing over the cup and drank from it was very fortunate.
In fact, the Chozeh was the only person who ever used it. A whole week long the Kiddush cup was packed away; only on Friday would he take it out and polish it lovingly. The contrast between the burnished gold and the white Shabbat tablecloth was truly a sight to see.
"How much do you want for your onions?" the tzadik asked the farmer.
"One minute, one minute," the peasant answered. "What's your rush? My bones are frozen. First give me something to drink."
"Bring him a small glass of whiskey," the Chozeh instructed his servant.
"What?" the farmer raised his voice. "Only a small glass?"
"Bring him the whole bottle," the tzadik amended his words, but this only offended the farmer more. "What do you think I am, a drunkard?" the peasant sputtered. "That's it!" he said suddenly, jumping up and walking toward the door. "I'm going home. I don't need to sell you anything."
The Chasidim tried to placate him and eventually calmed him down. "All right," the farmer said, "I will sell you the onions, but only for a glass of whiskey from that cup." He pointed to the golden cup. The Chasidim were scandalized, but the tzadik himself hurried to fill the goblet with trembling hands.
The farmer picked up the cup, closed his eyes and then said in a loud voice: "Blessed are You, L-rd our G-d, King of the Universe, by Whose word all things came to be."
Everyone was too shocked to speak, with the exception of the Chozeh. "Lechaim, Naftali!" he said with a broad smile. "You are very clever, and truly deserve to drink from this cup..."
