When some quiet was restored after the riots and rebellions and killing and breakdown, some of those who survived the sword returned to their towns and their settlements. So did those who had been dispersed from Biczacz. They built themselves houses and shops, but first they built houses for study and prayer. There they dwelt for many generations in security and tranquility, except in years of war and revolution. Their first protector was the kingdom of Poland, later Austria; then Poland reestablished its kingdom and engaged in conquest and destruction, until the Enemy came and eradicated them all.
May God return the remnants of His people from wherever they are; may He assemble our Diaspora from among the nations; may He bring them to Zion, His city, in song, and to Jerusalem, His temple, in lasting joy; may no enemy or foe enter the gates of Jerusalem from this day forth. Amen. Selah.
The Tale of the Menorah
1
Rabbi Nahman, the keeper of the royal seal, was a man of great importance in the eyes of the king. Whenever he came to the royal court, the palace attendants gave him an audience with the king, for they knew how beloved Nahman the Jew was to the king.
It happened one day that Rabbi Nahman came to the royal court, for he had a matter about which he had to speak to the king. The king, too, had a certain matter that he had concealed from his closest counselors, his company of advisors. The moment he saw Rabbi Nahman, the king said, “This is the man I shall consult.” So the king related to Rabbi Nahman the matter that he had not wished to tell a single one of his counselors. But he did tell it to Rabbi Nahman, the keeper of the royal seal.
The Almighty bestowed wisdom upon Rabbi Nahman, and he responded with intelligent advice. The king listened and did as Rabbi Nahman had advised. And it turned out to be a blessing for the king. Then he knew how excellent was the advice Nahman had given him.
After this Rabbi Nahman was summoned to the palace court. When the king heard that Nahman was in the royal courtyard, he commanded, “Bring him to me.”
Rabbi Nahman entered the king’s chamber. The king said to him, “The advice you gave me was excellent. Ask of me now whatever you desire, and I will grant it to you.”
Rabbi Nahman replied, “Blessed be the Lord who has shared His wonderful counsel with the king.” But for himself Rabbi Nahman did not ask for a single thing. He said to the king, “I am unworthy of the least of all your kindnesses.” These were the very words that Jacob our forefather spoke to Esau, and Rabbi Nahman said them to the king.
The king replied, “Because you have not asked for a single thing for yourself, I will make a holy donation to your God.” Rabbi Nahman did not ask the king what it was he promised to give. And the king did not tell him.
2
It came to pass in those days that Buczacz built itself a Great Synagogue. Its community of Jews had grown to nearly two hundred and fifty householders, in addition to the women and the children and all the servants of the wealthy who had come from other towns and now lived in the city. So the people of Buczacz built themselves a large synagogue in which to worship. That is the same building that the Gentiles living in the city made into a church for their gods after the city fell into the hands of Chmielnicki and he had slain every Jew who had not fled in haste from the sword of his wrath.
The king commanded his metalworkers to make him a great brass menorah to place in the synagogue in Buczacz in honor of Nahman, the keeper of the royal seal and the leader of the community of Israel in Buczacz.
The king’s metalworkers made a great menorah out of brass. There were seven branches in the candelabrum, the same number of branches that we had in ancient days in the holy candelabrum in the Temple, the house of our glory. The artisans did not know that it is forbidden to make a vessel identical to one that had been in the Temple.
When they brought the menorah, which was a gift from the king, to the synagogue, the Jews saw it and they beheld its seven branches. They said, “We cannot place this menorah in the synagogue.” If we do, they said to themselves, we will sin against God; on the other hand, if we do not set it in the synagogue, we will insult the king and his gift.” They did not know what counsel to take for themselves. Even Nahman, the counselor to the king, had no solution. He said, “This has all befallen us because I frequented the court of the king.”
But God saw their distress, and He set the idea in their heads to remove one branch from the menorah and thus make it into an ordinary candelabrum. Then, if they placed the menorah in the synagogue, there would be no sin for them in doing so. And if someone mentioned it to the king, they could say, “From the day that our Temple was destroyed, we make nothing without marking upon it a sign in remembrance of the destruction.”
So they removed the middle branch. Then they brought the menorah into the house of God and placed it on the ark and lit its candles.
The menorah stood in the synagogue. The six candles in the six branches of the menorah lit up the building on the eve of every Sabbath and holiday. And on Yom Kippur and on those holidays when the memorial prayer for the departed is recited in synagogue to remember the souls of the departed, they shone during the day as well. A Gentile watched the candles lest one fall out.
So the menorah stood there, and so it shone for the entire time this house of God was indeed a house for God, until the day Israel was driven out by Chmielnicki and the town’s Gentiles made the house of God into a church for their gods. Then the Gentile who watched the candles, who was a millworker, took the menorah and hid it in the River Strypa, which was near the mill. The menorah lay at the bottom of the Strypa’s waters, and no one knew where it was. As for the millworker, he died after his body got caught in the millstone’s wheel; he was ground up and cast away, and his flesh became food for the fish in the River Strypa.
3
After some years, those who had survived Chmielnicki’s sword returned to their homeland and towns. The few survivors from Buczacz also returned to the town, and there they built themselves a small sanctuary in place of the Great Synagogue, which the Gentiles had plundered and made into a house for their gods.
That year, on a Saturday night at the close of the Sabbath, on the night that was also the first night for reciting the Selihot, the penitential hymns, the young children were shining candles over the surface of the Strypa. They were doing this in order to make light for the slain martyrs who had drowned in rivers, streams, and lakes. On the first night of Selihot all the dead whom our enemies have drowned come to pray to the eternal God in the same synagogue in which they prayed during their lifetimes. The other nights of Selihot are dedicated respectively to those martyrs who died by fire, to those who were stabbed to death, to the ones who were strangled, and to those who were murdered. For on account of their numbers, the building could not contain all the slain at once. As a result, they divided up the nights between them, one congregation of martyrs for each night of prayer.
Now while the children were on the banks of the Strypa shining their candles, a great menorah such as they had never seen before suddenly shone forth from beneath the water. They said, “That must be the menorah of the dead; for the dead bring with them their own menorot when they come to pray.” Their hearts quaked in fear, and the children fled.