Mark Binder

A Pesach like never before

Cabbage matzah never tasted so … good? (photo from pixabay.com)

Have you ever eaten cabbage matzah? Probably not. But, in Chelm, the village of fools, they still talk about it….

Many winters ago, to battle an outburst of influenza, the villagers of Chelm used all their chickens and most of their vegetables to feed their sick neighbours in Smyrna a healing chicken soup. The Smyrnans got better, but, in Chelm, all that was left was cabbage.

Because of this food shortage, the Chelmener ate cabbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Mrs. Chaipul in her restaurant served cabbage porridge, cabbage stew, cabbage stuffed with cabbage, cabbage brisket (don’t ask) and cabbage cake for dessert.

No one was happy. The children whined, teenagers complained, fathers groused and mothers growled and snapped. Only Doodle the orphan, who had an unfathomable love of cabbage, enjoyed the food. But, he quickly learned to keep his appreciation to himself.

Reb Cantor the merchant had hoped for a delivery, but supplies were not expected to arrive until after Passover.

One morning, there was a timid knock on the door to Rabbi Kibbitz’s study.

“Go away!” The learned man was cranky from excessive consumption of cabbage.

Rabbi Abrahms nudged Reb Stein the baker into the room. “We’ve come up with a solution.”

“Rye bread?” Rabbi Kibbitz’s eyes gleamed hungrily. “Challah? Babke? Strudel?”

“Stop it! No!” Reb Stein cried. “You’re making me hungry. I have invented cabbage matzah.”

The wise rabbi stared at his friend the baker. “That sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Reb Stein admitted.

“But it’s kosher for Passover!” explained Rabbi Abrahms, the mashgiach responsible for everything kosher.

“No one is going to want it.” The poor baker was near tears.

“Bake it anyway,” sighed Rabbi Kibbitz. “I’ll pay for it out of the discretionary fund.”

Reb Stein nodded glumly and returned to his bakery.

The weather was fine that year, so the villagers planned the community seder to be outdoors in the round village square.

“The menu is a marvel,” Mrs. Chaipul sarcastically explained to Rabbi Kibbitz. “Cabbage ball soup, chopped cabbage liver, poached cabbage, braised cabbage, cabbage charoses and, of course, Reb Stein’s cabbage matzah for the afikomen.”

Rabbi Kibbitz suppressed a wave of nausea. “At least we’ll be outside, so we won’t smell it.”

Aside from young Doodle, no one was looking forward to Passover.

On erev Pesach, everyone trudged to the round village square to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt. With a sigh and a blessing, the service began.

The wine flowed. Reb Cantor the merchant had opened a locked cellar and rolled five barrels of “I don’t know what vintage it is, but it’s not cabbage” to the round square.

“This is truly the bread of affliction,” Rabbi Kibbitz said as the thick brassica afikomen snapped with a resonating crack!

Reb Stein looked doleful.

At last, after the Hamotzi, everyone tasted the so-called matzah.

It was revolting. Not only was the greenish cabbage matzah bitter and sour and cabbage-flavoured, it was dry and stuck to the roof of your mouth and your teeth like grout on tile.

Everyone quickly mumbled another blessing, and gulped down another cup of wine.

Through his tears, Reb Stein the baker, who was a craftsman at heart, began to laugh. His laughter spread around the table. It grew loud. It grew raucous.

Young Doodle took the opportunity to jump up onto a table and bang his glass with a spoon.

Quickly the laughter died down. Such behaviour in the middle of a seder had never been seen! Fortunately, Doodle had taken off his shoes and wore clean socks because Mrs. Kimmelman never would have forgiven him for getting dirty footprints on her best tablecloth.

Doodle began, “I know that you all hate cabbage!”

There were cheers and boos and applause.

“But,” he continued, “I look around and see my whole community gathered together and I can’t help but think how grateful I am. We have our health. We have our homes. We have one another to support us.”

It is rare for the villagers of Chelm (or indeed any gathering of Jews at mealtime) to fall quiet, but a hush spread.

“We are blessed that we live in peace and freedom, and are not enslaved.”

Now there was nodding and shouts of, “Amen!”

“Raise a glass with me,” Doodle said.

All glasses were held high.

“For this cabbage that we eat tonight,” Doodle said, “represents the hope that, one day, all women, all men, all people will be freed from oppression and slavery.”

“And freed from more cabbage!” heckled Adam and Abraham Schlemiel together.

“May we all live in peace!” shouted Rabbi Kibbitz, who had gotten completely caught up in the moment.

Then, with a rousing “Mazel tov!” the villagers of Chelm toasted, drank and ate with gusto.

The next morning, Rabbi Kibbitz realized something as he talked with Mrs. Chaipul.

“Actually, that was one of the best seders ever. And the food.…” The wise old man looked around the restaurant to make sure no one else was listening. “The food was delicious.”

The wise old woman smiled, thought about it, nodded and asked, “So, shall I order some cabbage matzah for next year?”

“No,” laughed the rabbi. “Never again!”

Mark Binder is the author of The Misadventures of Rabbi Kibbitz and Mrs. Chaipul, Matzah Misugas, and many other “Life in Chelm” stories. Visit his website at markbinderbooks.com.

* * *

Reb Stein’s Kroyt Matzah

Grind one large dried cabbage very fine.
Stir in just enough water, so it forms a gruel-like slurry.
No salt. No yeast!
Spread it thickly with a trowel on a baking sheet.
Bake in a really hot oven until crisp but not black.
Serve with cabbage butter, chopped cabbage livers (don’t ask) and cabbage jam.
Enjoy with friends and family.

The last candle for the rabbi

(photo by Jon Sullivan)

In the village of Chelm, just before every Chanukah, the ancient debate begun by the two great rabbis Hillel and Shammai resumed. Do you start the festival by lighting one candle and counting up, or with eight and counting down?

Every year, Rabbi Kibbitz issued the same ruling – do whatever makes you happy.

This year, although the argument was heated, rumour was that Rabbi Kibbitz was bedridden. He was old. Was he sick? He was tired.

It was worrisome that his wife, Mrs. Chaipul (she kept her name, which is another story), who owned the only kosher restaurant in Chelm, hadn’t been to work in three days.

Filling in behind the restaurant’s counter, Rabbi Yohon Abrahms, the schoolteacher and mashgiach, was cooking, cleaning and taking orders.

“So, about the Chanukah candles,” Reb Cantor the merchant asked the young rabbi, who was busy refilling cups of tea, “how many on the first night and how many on the last?”

Rabbi Abrahms answered with a shrug. “Rabbi Kibbitz always says, do whatever makes you happy.”

“But you’re a rabbi, too,” Reb Cantor said. “What do you think?”

“Do you want food or a theological dissertation?” Rabbi Abrahms shot back. “Because I can’t do both at the same time!”

The room fell quiet.

“Food, of course!”

In Chelm, food was always more important than discussion – until it was gone, then discussion.

* * *

“Channah, you should go to your restaurant,” Rabbi Kibbitz said. His voice was soft.

“No, my love,” Mrs. Chaipul said. “I’ve left it in good hands. I will stay here with you.”

“It’s OK,” he said. “I’m not going to die until after Chanukah.”

“Don’t say such things.” She made the sign against the evil eye.

“Will you cry when I go?”

“For you? Probably.” She was barely holding back the tears. “But enough. We have years ahead.”

“No.” He sighed. “We’ve had years. Good years. Many, but not enough. Never enough. Now we have only days.”

He began coughing, and she fed him spoonfuls of warm chicken soup.

“Channah?”

“I’m here.”

Do you know what the problem with sitting shivah is?”

“Too much noodle pudding?”

“True.” The rabbi laughed, then he coughed. “Shivah is meant to comfort the living, but I’ve noticed that most bereaved are very uncomfortable. Mourning is overrated. For a week, everyone visits and talks about the recently deceased. And the family has to sit and listen, no matter how tired or sad…. All they really want is their loved one back.”

“Shaa, shaa,” his wife said. “Your shivah is a long way off.”

“No. But I have a request.”

“What is it?”

“During Chanukah,” the old rabbi said, “let me sit shivah with you, before I’m dead. Then you won’t be so alone.”

She covered her mouth to stifle a sob. What a foolish request!

Then she nodded. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

* * *

It caused quite a stir in the village.

“If he’s not dead, how is it shivah?”

“We’re going to talk about him while he’s lying there in the house?”

“After he dies for real, are we going to have to do another shivah?”

“And what if he doesn’t die?”

This last question was interesting, because no one really believed that Rabbi Kibbitz would ever die. He was a bear of a man, who had been old forever. How could one such as that pass on?

Still, Chelm was a village that embraced the unconventional.

A schedule was made and, on each night of Chanukah, a different group trudged through the snow to light the candles and sit shivah.

The two-room house was small. The table was moved to the side of the kitchen, and extra chairs brought in for visitors. The rabbi’s bed was set in the doorway of the bedroom, so he could sit up or lie down as needed. Mrs. Chaipul’s sewing chair was next to the doorway, so she could sit beside him.

This living shivah turned out to be quite a success, mostly because the rabbi kept his mouth shut and said nothing. Everyone forgot that he was there.

Each night, blessings were sung and candles were lit. Most of the villagers were counting up with Hillel, but some were counting down with Shammai. No matter how many or how few, the light was warm and bright.

Yes, there was noodle kugel, but there were also latkes, so many different kinds, including potato, sweet potato and even zucchini.

Every villager stopped by and shared stories of how Rabbi Kibbitz had listen, talked, helped, advised or officiated. There had been weddings and brises, funerals and so many sermons.

Mrs. Chaipul listened to all the praise, and the occasional complaint. She accepted comfort and hugs, and wondered at the frequent comment, “What will we do now that he is gone?”

Strangely, hearing these words while her husband was still breathing didn’t leave her as sad as she’d expected. She found herself reliving their life together.

“He never had children with his first wife,” she told everyone. “And we, of course, were too old. But he always told me that he didn’t need any kinder because the whole village was his family.”

At last, on the eighth night of Chanukah, by some silent agreement, only the younger villagers came to visit. They all had chosen, with Shammai, to light just one candle.

There was wine and laughter and spirited discussion about the many texts that they had read with the rabbi.

Rachel Cohen said that she was proud to have been the rabbi’s first female student.

Her husband, Doodle, agreed that, without Rabbi Kibbitz, none of his many questions about life and death would have been answered so well.

A hush fell over the room as Doodle mentioned death.

The last few Chanukah candles sputtered and one by one extinguished.

All eyes turned to Mrs. Chaipul, who began to cry softly.

Except for the coals from the stove, the room was black.

“Is he?” someone whispered.

“We should go,” whispered another.

“Why is it so dark and quiet?” came a booming voice. “Am I dead?”

“He’s very noisy if he is dead,” said Doodle.

Rachel Cohen quickly snatched up a spare candle and lit it from the stove.

In the dim light, everyone looked and saw Rabbi Kibbitz was sitting up in his bed.

“Hello,” he said. His eyes glinted brightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You all said such nice things about me. Thank you. But I don’t think I’m done yet. I’m feeling much better. Channah, maybe you and I could leave Chelm together and do some traveling?”

“You old fool!” His wife threw her arms around his neck.

Rabbi Kibbitz hugged her close, and thought about the days to come; each of them an adventure to be shared.

One by one, but all at once, the students sneaked out of the house to spread word of the miraculous recovery.

The next morning, when a delegation of elders went to the rabbi’s house, they found it empty.

A note on the kitchen table read, “No, we’re not dead. Yes, we’ve gone. Shalom.”

Mark Binder is an author and storyteller. The former editor of the Rhode Island Jewish Herald – back when there was such a thing as a for-profit Jewish newspaper – writes the “Life in Chelm” series of books and stories. The first volume, A Hanukkah Present, was the runner-up for the National Jewish Book Award for family literature. The Brothers Schlemiel was serialized for two years in the Houston Jewish Voice. Binder’s a graduate of the Trinity Rep Theatre Conservatory, studied storytelling with Spalding Gray, and has taught the course Telling Lies: How To at the Rhode Island School of Design. He’s toured the world telling stories to listeners of all ages and backgrounds with the secret mission of transmitting joy with story. Readers can listen to the audio version of “The last candle” story at transmitjoy.com/spotify.

Every year, a new beginning

Barring disaster, this season’s apple harvest would be bountiful. (photo from maxpixel.net)

“I don’t want to do my job any more.” That loud thought just popped into Rabbi Yohon Abrahms’ head.

It was dawn, and the birds were singing. He was lying in bed alone, staring up at the whitewashed wooden ceiling of his small house. Alone.

Summer in Chelm had been hot, with enough rain to produce a bumper crop of wheat, rye, corn, squash, barley and buckwheat. Hard work. Lots of sweat. In a small village like Chelm, when it was time for ingathering, all hands, even the rabbi, joined in the work. From daybreak to dark for nearly a month, the fields had been full of neighbours working and laughing and complaining.

The whole world thought that everyone in Chelm was always happy but, of course, there was complaining. As Rabbi Kibbitz, the wise old man, often said, “Kvetching is one of the greatest pleasures in life! It’s free and opportunities are plentiful. Anyone can kvetch! And you should!”

The harvest was hard. Back-bending, blister-raising, mind-numbingly repetitive tasks. Reach, cut, lift, wrap, tie, and a small sheaf of buckwheat stood in the field, drying under the sun. Bend, grasp, twist, pick, turn, place the cucumber in a basket. Curse the sharp thorn that poked through a hole in the worn leather glove. And repeat.

It had been bliss. For weeks on end, Rabbi Abrahms had lived in his community, outside his house, surrounded by fellows, outside his mind. All summer, he had not had a moment’s peace to think about his own problems. Instead, he’d rushed from field to field, with the occasional visit with Reb Schlum, the butcher, to perform his job as mashgiach, overseeing the ritual slaughter of chickens and cows. He barely had time to eat and, when he fell asleep at night, it was an exhausted and dreamless slumber that left him feeling eager and refreshed in the morning.

Yesterday, though, the last of the crops had been harvested. The fresh vegetables were on their way to market or into barrels for pickling. The seeds in the field weren’t dry enough to begin threshing.

“Enjoy your rest,” said Reb Cantor, the merchant, over his shoulder as he drove his cart toward Smyrna. “Rosh Hashanah is coming soon and, this year especially, Rabbi Kibbitz is going to need your help.”

The great Rabbi Kibbitz was old. He had always been old. When Rabbi Abrahms first moved to Chelm decades ago, Rabbi Kibbitz had seemed ancient. Now he was practically prehistoric, eating nothing but the healthy chicken soup made by his beloved wife, Mrs. Chaipul (she kept her name, which is another story). Rabbi Kibbitz was beginning to fail. Everyone knew it, but nobody would say it. Soon, beloved Rabbi Kibbitz was going to die.

“Chak, chak, chak.” A red-spotted bluethroat, pecked at a piece of straw outside Rabbi Abrams window. “Chak, chak.”

Rabbi Abrahms did not want to lead the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services by himself. For years, he had assisted, ready to take over whenever the senior rabbi got tired or needed a break. But Rabbi Kibbitz had been an indomitable bear of a man, davening his prayers from side to side in his peculiar fashion long after younger men grew weak and sat down for a rest.

Rabbi Abrahms did not want to stand on the bimah alone. Truth be told, he did not want to stand on the bimah at all. For years, he’d been picking at that scab, a sore spot in his thoughts, that perhaps being a rabbi was not for him.

It was nonsense, of course. He had studied hard to become a rabbi. He had moved to Chelm to accept the position. He had worked hard as a maschgiach and even harder to teach the stubborn children in the village’s small yeshivah. Being a rabbi had consumed his life. Of course, he was a rabbi.

He was 55 years old, and still the junior rabbi. What else could he be?

He was not married, something that the yentas in Chelm tutted him about regularly. As a younger man, he had loved and lost and, until it was necessary, he would not walk that road again. So he had no children to occupy his mind and time.

He had written some small books: a thin catalogue called The Wildlife of Chelm and the Nearby Black Forest, an English and Hebrew Haggadah that had been published by someone in America named Maxwell House, even a slender humorous novel in the style of the Russians. Writing, though, was not a job that would pay for eggs and tea and firewood.

“Chak, chak,” the bluethroat chided.

Foolish thoughts.

But, even after Rabbi Kibbitz left the world behind (may that day be distant), Rabbi Abrahms knew that he would always be the junior rabbi of Chelm.

It wasn’t the relative position or lack of prestige that bothered him. Rabbi Abrahms hated listening to other people’s troubles. He didn’t like cheering people up. He was bored with morning prayers, afternoon prayers, evening prayers and Sabbath prayers, let alone the special prayers for holidays and festivals. He dreaded officiating over wedding and bris ceremonies. Visiting the sick made him feel sick. And the idea of saying the Mourner’s Kaddish at Rabbi Kibbitz’s funeral left him weak and heartbroken.

Even being called Rabbi Abrahms chafed like a burr.

“My name is Yohon,” he whispered at the wall. “Can’t you see?”

Perhaps if he had mentioned his affliction to Rabbi Kibbitz a few years earlier, they could have worked something out. Put an advertisement in the Jewish newspaper in Pinsk for a new rabbi for Chelm. Or together found passages in the Torah or Mishnah that would have eased his mind.

But the great man was dying. Rabbi Abrahms shouldn’t trouble him.

Maybe he wouldn’t die this year. Maybe there would be time.

Barring disaster, this season’s apple harvest would be bountiful.

Sukkot was early, right at harvest time, and Rabbi Abrahms would take to the fields, climb the thin triangular ladder with a basket looped over his shoulder. Reach. Pick. Drop. Until the basket was full.

Then move the ladder to another tree, and begin again.

Every so often, he would stop, near the top of a tree heavy with fruit. He would lean against the trunk, take a bite of a crisp just-picked apple, and look up through the leaves at the wide, blue sky.

Mark Binder is a writer and storyteller, who lives in Providence, R.I. He is the author of more than 20 books and audio recordings, including The Brothers Schlemiel, a novel of Chelm. Follow him on Instagram, @MarkBinderBooks, or visit his website markbinder.com.

Time to light the lights

Chanukah lights (photo from pxhere.com/en/photo/285940)

Rabbi Kibbitz! Rabbi Kibbitz!” Young Doodle ran into the rabbi’s study, breathless and excited. “Rabbi Kibbitz! It’s time to light the Chanukah candles!”

Doodle stopped cold. The senior rabbi of the village of Chelm sat behind his desk, with his head drooping in his hands, staring blankly into nothing.

“Rabbi Kibbitz, are you all right?”

The wise old man shook his head.

“Are you having a heart attack? A stroke? Indigestion?!”

Again the rabbi shook his head.

“You’re not getting a divorce are you?”

The rabbi’s head shot up. He stared at Doodle, and firmly shook his head, no.

“Then, Rabbi, what is it?”

“The world, Doodle,” the rabbi said. “It’s falling apart. The czar is going crazy and so is the king of Poland. It looks like war may happen at any time, and Chelm is right in the middle.”

“That’s not new,” said Doodle. “The czar is always crazy. I hear last week he commissioned a jeweler to make a dozen eggs out of gold!”

“What’s crazy about that?” asked Rabbi Kibbitz.

“Eggs come out of chickens for free,” Doodle said. “With real eggs, you can eat ‘the gold.’ But golden eggs, it seems like you’re paying a lot for nothing.”

The rabbi nodded. He’d never been able to understand how Doodle thought.

“Come, Rabbi,” Doodle said. “It’s time to light the Chanukah candles. Everybody is waiting.”

“The harvest was poor this year,” the rabbi said. “It’s been poor the last four years. I don’t know how we are going to feed ourselves this winter. And, if next harvest is bad, then I’m sure we will all starve.”

“Actually, rabbi, it’s been six bad years,” Doodle corrected. “And you know what they say in the Torah? After seven years of famine, there will be seven years of feast!”

“I’m not sure it says that.”

“Perhaps not,” Doodle said. “But we will figure it out. We always do. If nothing else, we can always move somewhere.”

“Borders are closing, Doodle. Nobody wants to have poor refugees.”

“In America, there is plenty of opportunity!”

The rabbi shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Come, let’s light the candles,” Doodle said.

“People are becoming so hateful.” The rabbi’s head slumped back into his hands. “Neighbours fight each other. Everyone looks out only for himself or his tribe. I always thought that, over time, the world would become a better place, but I hear the news about this revolution or that uprising or this massacre and that famine and all I see is darkness.”

“Let’s light the candles,” Doodle insisted.

“Enough with the candles!” The rabbi burst with frustration. “Chanukah is not even a major holiday. With all the problems of the world, it just doesn’t matter.”

Doodle stood still and stared at the rabbi. “It does matter. Every year, on the last night of Chanukah, our whole community gathers in the synagogue to light the candles. We kindle a shammos from the eternal lamp, and then that flame is passed to every shammos. We sing the blessings, and then one light becomes eight lights, multiplied by every single family in the village. It doesn’t matter how cold it is outside. We are warm and together in celebration. Even in the darkness the menorahs glow as bright as day.

“Come, Rabbi. Let’s light the candles.”

Rabbi Kibbitz looked up at the young boy. The wise old man had tears in his eyes. He nodded and stood.

Just then, Reb Cantor the merchant burst into the rabbi’s study.

“Rabbi Kibbitz! Have you heard? They’re devaluing the currency. The money – all the money – is going to be worthless!”

“Reb Cantor,” said Rabbi Kibbitz. “It seems very dark and bleak sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Reb Cantor nodded in agreement.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” the rabbi said, “that it is time for us to gather in the synagogue and light the Chanukah candles?”

Reb Cantor took a deep breath and nodded. “You are a very wise man, Rabbi Kibbitz.”

Together, the rabbi and the merchant left the study and their troubles behind.

Doodle rolled his eyes. Then, he grinned and ran to catch up. “Rabbi Kibbitz, Reb Cantor! Wait for me!”

Mark Binder is a Jewish storyteller and the author of A Hanukkah Present! Twelve Tales to Give and Share and Matzah Mishugas. These and other books are available in print and ebook on Amazon, iBooks, Google Play Books and other booksellers. To learn more about Binder, visit markbinder.com.

The genie in the chanukiyah

Alan Dean was the world’s largest manufacturer and distributor of Chanukah menorahs.

“You what!” Zoe’s father was yelling at her. Again. “You traded my lamp?”

Nothing Zoe did seemed good enough for Dad. Her room was too messy. Her grades weren’t high enough. Her clothes were too expensive, too ratty or too “inappropriate.” He was always screaming at her.

“I didn’t mean …” Zoe began. She gazed into the first light burning on the new chanukiyah and tried to hold back the tears.

Ever since her mother had died, Zoe had tried to take good care of her father. Only 12 and a half, she wasn’t a good cook. She didn’t like cleaning the toilets. But all she wanted was to help.

Her dad’s office was a mess. The whole house was a mess. Alan Dean was the world’s largest manufacturer and distributor of Chanukah menorahs. There were candelabras all over the place. They were in the bedrooms, the kitchen, dining room, living room, even in the bathrooms. Every single morning, there was shouting about something that had gone missing: a wallet, keys, a cellphone, a cleaning bill, a shoe.…

That morning, Zoe had taken a black plastic garbage bag into the office to clean out some clutter. Which was when she got a weird text on her phone.

“@Jenny.Hunter New Lamps for Old. Want to trade?”

Zoe happened to be staring at this old, dusty and tarnished chanukiyah on her father’s bookshelf. It was squat and primitive. Her father hadn’t touched it in years.

Before she could think too much, she replied and, a moment later, there was a knock at the door.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Jenny said, smiling into the video intercom. She was a well-dressed woman, a little old, and her teeth could use braces. “Do you have a lamp to trade?”

Zoe was careful. “Let me see yours.”

The woman opened an aluminum suitcase from which she pulled a beautiful stainless steel Chanukah menorah. It was very sharp and very shiny.

Zoe nodded and opened the door a crack. “Why would you trade that for an old lamp?”

The woman smiled again. “Call it a present. Or an almost free sample, with the hope that your father will buy more.”

Now Zoe smiled. Dad always liked a bargain. She nodded, took the steel menorah and gave the woman the old brass one.

“Finally it is mine!” the woman said with something that sounded like a cackle.

Before Zoe could change her mind, the woman was gone. It was as if she had vanished.

That evening, her father was distracted. He didn’t even notice the new chanukiyah until after they’d said the blessings and Zoe lit the candles.

Then he saw it. “Where did that come from?”

“I traded it for your old lamp,” Zoe answered, happily.

Her father rushed into the office. When he came back, he began yelling.

“You went into my private space and…. Don’t you start,” Dad shouted. “Don’t you start quivering that lower lip. Don’t you start tearing up.…”

Which was when Zoe lost it.

Alan Dean stared as his beautiful daughter cried.

He didn’t know what to do. He never knew what to do.

For seven generations, the Dean family had produced boys, and the story had been passed from father to son at the bar mitzvah. The lamp was found in a cave. A genie inside gave each owner three dangerous wishes – guard the magic lamp and use it well.

When his daughter was born, Alan was surprised, even upset.

His wife forbade him from calling her Aileen.

“It has to stop sometime,” Shana had said. “A new girl, a new beginning.”

And she was right. Al’s life, which was always about business, had broadened into a wonderful family, until Shana had passed.

Alan hadn’t told his daughter that their fortune was based on a magical lamp. Zoe wasn’t 13 yet, and he didn’t want her to laugh, but mostly because Shana had been the last one to touch it.

“Make enough so we are happy,” Shana had said as she rubbed the chanukiyah. “And not a single one more.”

The genie, which was now barely a flicker said, “Your wish is my command.”

Instantly, the entire factory was automated, with only enough jobs to keep all the existing employees busy, while increasing production tenfold. The whole system was computerized and efficient. Orders came in, and candlesticks went out. No one worked too hard. The bank accounts swelled. It was every businessman’s dream!

Then Shana had gotten sick and, in one day, she died.

Alan’s world collapsed. After a week of shiva, when he’d finally wandered into his office, he saw the lamp on the shelf and his heart broke.

Could a wish have saved her? In the mournful chaos, he had completely forgotten the power of the lamp. He couldn’t bear to touch it, and it had gathered dust on the shelf. His wife was gone, but he still had his work. He had thrown himself back into it, and barely had any time for his daughter.

Now the lamp that had sustained his family for centuries was gone, too, and he knew that the factory would soon go silent.

Zoe stood in front of him, tears running down her face.

How could he do this to her? Yes, he was unhappy, but his daughter didn’t have to be.

Shana had known. “Make enough so we are happy,” she had wished. “And not a single one more.”

Alan thought for a moment. His mind tallied the amounts in the bank, the value of the factory and the land. The good will of the Alan Dean brand name. He would sell it all. It would be enough.

Alan wrapped his arms around Zoe’s shoulders and pulled her close. He hadn’t done that in years.

“It’s OK,” he said. “Let me tell you the story of that lamp. It has always been a story of magic and wealth, greed and fear, but now I think for us there will be a happy ending.”

Zoe felt warm and safe in her father’s arms.

The lights from the Chanukah candles flickered.

The End.

Mark Binder is a Jewish author and storyteller who tours the world sharing stories for all ages. His life in Chelm stories and his latest collection, Transmit Joy! an audio storybook, are available on audio download and CD.

Ordinary holiday in Chelm

Reb Cantor and Rabbi Yohon Abrahms paused at the top of the hill to watch the sun spread its warm red rays in a growing embrace across the Black Forest. (photo by Rainer Lück via commons.wikimedia.org)

It was an ordinary Chanukah in the village of Chelm, which was strange. Depending on who you talk to, Chelm is called a village of fools or of wise people, and there’s always something going wrong. This year, however … it was quiet.

Chanukah was neither early nor late. The weather was good – not too cold and not too hot. There was enough food so no one was hungry, and the lands surrounding Chelm were at peace; the Cossacks were far away. And, for once, no one got into an argument over whether the Americans should spell the holiday with an “H” or a “Ch.”

On the first night of Chanukah, families gathered and lit their candles according to the traditions of Hillel or Shammai, depending on whether they felt like building up to a big finish or starting off bright and getting more relaxed as each day passed.

“Something is going to happen,” worried Reb Cantor the merchant, as he huffed and puffed his way up Sunrise Hill for his morning exercise with Rabbi Yohon Abrahms, the schoolteacher.

“Something always happens,” said the young rabbi.

“Something bad,” said Reb Cantor. “It’s too quiet.”

“Not when you’re breathing so hard,” said Rabbi Yohon Abrahms.

They paused at the top of the hill to watch the sun spread its warm red rays in a growing embrace across the Black Forest.

“I’m still concerned,” said Reb Cantor.

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t,” said the young rabbi.

“I’ll race you to Mrs. Chaipul’s restaurant.”

“But you always win!” said Reb Cantor.

It was too late. The young rabbi was already running, and the fat merchant had no choice but to trundle after, hoping that he wouldn’t trip, fall and roll down the hill like a barrel.

By the time Reb Cantor caught up, Rabbi Abrahms was busy playing a friendly game with Joseph Katz, a well-known dreidel shark. Instead of wagering raisins on who would win, everyone was betting about how many coffee cups and teacups Joseph could rebound a dreidel off before landing on whatever letter he chose.

“Watch this,” Joseph said with a twinkle. He twirled a square top onto the table, where it ricocheted back and forth, striking five mugs and three cups before flying up, hovering over Rabbi Kibbitz’s plate of latkes, and then splashing down into the rabbi’s apple sauce.

“Nun!” said Joseph. “I win.” (In Chelm, foolish as it is, they say it takes nun to win.)

“You always do,” said Rabbi Kibbitz, who fished out the dreidel and wiped it off with a napkin before returning it to the young man.

“Sorry about that,” Joseph said.

Rabbi Kibbitz shrugged. “I’ve always felt that apple sauce is more of a garnish than a necessity.”

“How can you eat those latkes?” whispered Reb Stein, the baker. “I know you love your wife, but….”

Mrs. Chaipul, the rabbi’s wife (she kept her own name, which is another story) was listening from the kitchen to see how her husband would answer.

As the owner of the only kosher restaurant in Chelm, she was known as a miracle worker in the kitchen, with the exception of her lead-sinker matzah balls and her notoriously lethal latkes.

She knew, as did everyone in Chelm, that she had something of a culinary blind spot when it came to potato pancakes. She’d solved the problem at the annual Chanukah party by enlisting the help of Mrs. Rosen and her daughters, but her husband insisted that she still make her old recipe for him.

Rabbi Kibbitz smiled. “First of all, my stomach is protected by my belief in God.”

Everyone in the restaurant rolled their eyes.

“Secondly, it’s a question of scale,” he said. “When she cooks a small batch just for me, they’re quite good.”

“Really?” Reb Stein said.

“Would you like a taste?” the rabbi said, raising a piece on his fork.

“No, no, no, no!” Reb Stein said, hastily backing away. “I have work to do today.”

Even Reb Cantor, who had caught his breath by then, joined in as Reb Stein fled from the restaurant ahead of a wave of laughter.

Every night for seven more nights, candles were lit and the stories of the Maccabees were told. Songs were sung, dreidels spun, and latkes and doughnuts were fried.

More and more families were following the Schlemiel’s tradition of giving Chanukah presents to each other, but it wasn’t to excess. No one fought over whose present was best or biggest. And everyone remembered to give a little extra gelt to Rabbi Abrahms the schoolteacher to honor his contribution to their children’s lives.

On the last night it snowed, but everyone was home safe. They looked out their windows at the falling flakes, glad of their walls and roofs, and warmed themselves in front of their fires. And, as the candles finally burned down, the children were tucked into bed beneath comforters and blankets with a final goodnight kiss.

It was an ordinary Chanukah in the village of Chelm.

For once, nothing bad happened and nothing went wrong.

And that in itself was a miracle.

The End.

Mark Binder is the author of the award-winning Life in Chelm series, which includes A Chanukah Present, The Brothers Schlemiel and Matzah Mishugas. His latest book is Cinderella Spinderella. A professional storyteller, he regularly performs at synagogues, Jewish community centres and the National Yiddish Book Centre.

A cure for menorah malaise

Reb Cantor discovers that some families, like Chelm’s Gold family, light eight candles on the first night of Chanukah. (photo by Dov Harrington from commons.wikimedia.org)

“I’m sick of Chanukah,” Reb Cantor, the merchant of Chelm, muttered. His wife, Shoshanna, looked up with surprise. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Did I say that aloud?” Reb Cantor paused and frowned. “But now that you ask…. I’m tired of Jewish holidays. I’m tired of non-Jewish holidays. I’m done with giving and getting. I’m bored with lighting candles and saying the same blessings over and over and over again. I’m finished with wondering when Chanukah is, and I’m exhausted by all the conversation about whether it’s early or late. And I am so fed up with latkes and greasy food. If I never see another potato pancake in my life it won’t be too soon.”

“But Chanukah’s a tradition,” Shoshanna said. “It’s a mitzvah! And is it so wrong to celebrate one of the few battles the Jews actually won?”

“I don’t care anymore,” Reb Cantor answered. Shoshanna Cantor nodded and sighed. Her husband, Isaac, had always been prone to depression and, as the winter days got longer, his moods often got darker. Usually, she wouldn’t worry, but Chanukah hadn’t even started yet, and listening to him kvetch for a whole eight-day week would be too much to take.

“Well, there’s a one benefit.” She smiled. “If you’re not eating latkes, you’ll probably lose some weight.”

Then she rubbed his big belly and kissed his balding forehead.

Reb Cantor tried to be grumpy about this too, but he couldn’t help himself and snorted a laugh.

***

The door of the Cantor house slammed. It was late in the afternoon of the first evening of Chanukah, and Reb Cantor was furious. He was ready to rant and rage and stomp. Not only did he hate potato latkes, he hated the way Shoshanna fried them in advance and then left them to warm in the oven until they became greasy and soggy. He sniffed the air and … there was nothing … no rancid oil or stale potato scent.

“Shoshanna!” he bellowed just as his wife appeared. “What….”

“Don’t take off your coat,” she said as she put on a wrap. “We’re not having dinner at home.”

“I’m not going to the Chelm Chanukah party!” Reb Cantor barked. “Mrs. Chaipul’s latkes always make me queasy.”

“It’s not till tomorrow night anyway,” she said. “Come with me.”

Then she walked out. He had no choice but to follow.

It wasn’t far to the Gold house. The poor cobbler lived with his many children in a home that had been completely rebuilt after it had accidentally won the sukkah contest several years before.

Shoshanna knocked on the door, and then went in. Clearly, they were expected.

Reb Cantor frowned and stomped his feet on the stoop in frustration.

A quiet voice asked, “What are you doing?”

Reb Cantor looked down at Reb Gold’s youngest daughter, Fegi, who seemed a little frightened.

“Nothing,” the merchant said, softening his voice. “I’m just making sure my boots are clean before I come inside.”

“Oh,” the little girl said. “Mama makes us take them off so we don’t track mud or scratch the floors.” She beckoned to a stack of shelves on the wall that were filled with shoes and boots.

Reb Cantor forced a smile, and sat on a bench.

“What’s that amazing smell?” he asked.

“Latkes!” the girl said with delight. “Mama’s making them and everybody’s gobbling them as fast as they come out of the pan.”

“You eat before the candles are lit?” the merchant said.

“Papa says that since Chanukah is so late this year and there are so many people to feed that we should eat while the oil’s hot.”

“So, they’re not warmed-over and limp?”

“They’re hot and crispy!” Fegi grinned. “With delicate, lacy edges.”

Reb Cantor’s mouth watered, despite his attempts to be angry and upset.

He padded his stocking feet into the kitchen full of the Gold family, large and small.

“Here, eat this,” Esther Gold said, popping a tiny warm latke into his mouth before he could say a word. “We wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Reb Cantor couldn’t speak because of the savory explosions in his mouth.

“You’re just in time for the blessings,” Joshua Gold said.

The room fell silent. Even the oil stopped sizzling.

Soon it was filled with the song of the blessings. Each child harmonized and, as soon as he had chewed and swallowed the delicious bite, Reb Cantor couldn’t help himself and joined in.

Each of the Gold children and both their parents lit a candle until eight lights and the shammos were burning brightly. The sun had set and there was no other light in the room but the glow from the stove and the tall tapers in the middle of the long table.

“Why does your family light eight candles on the first night of Chanukah?” Reb Cantor asked.

“Chanukah celebrates a miracle,” Reb Gold said. “And my family is a miracle. That we are together is a blessing. That we have a house and food and enough money to buy so many candles is a blessing. Chanukah is a golden holiday. The latkes are golden. The light from the candles is golden. And this is the Gold house. We are so fortunate it would be a shame not to celebrate that.”

Reb Cantor looked at his wife, who was smiling at him. He did his best to hold back his tears.

“Besides,” Fegi said brightly. “If we only lit one candle it would be dark.”

Everyone laughed. Latkes were made, dreidels were spun, and the cold dark night was made warm and bright.

The End.

Mark Binder is the author of the award-winning Life in Chelm series, which includes A Chanukah Present, The Brothers Schlemiel and Matzah Mishugas. His latest book is Cinderella Spinderella. A professional storyteller, he regularly performs at synagogues, Jewish community centres and the National Yiddish Book Centre.