The Vanished Chanukah Flame

It is told that on the first night of Chanukah a snowstorm raged outside, but inside the beis medrash it was warm and still. Rav Boruch stood before the menorah, surrounded by his chassidim. With deep devotion he made the berachos, lit the single flame, set the shamash in its place and began to sing HaNeiros Halalu. His face shone with holiness and joy, and the chassidim gazed at him in awe. Then, as Rebbe and chassidim sat singing Maoz Tzur and other songs, the flame began to flicker and leap, though there was no draft in the room. It seemed to dance, or to struggle, and then it was gone. There was no smoke. It simply was no longer there, as if it had flown elsewhere.

The Rebbe seemed lost in thought. When his attendant came to light the wick again, the Rebbe waved him off and signaled the chassidim to keep singing. Between songs he spoke words of Torah several times, and the evening passed pleasantly, until the missing flame was nearly forgotten.

Close to midnight, carriage wheels grated on the ice outside, and the door burst open. A chassid from a faraway village came in. His clothes were torn and filthy, and his face was swollen and bleeding, yet his eyes sparkled and his face shone with joy. Seated at the table, with every eye on him, he told his story.

He knew the forest road to Mezhibuzh well, he said, but a heavy snowstorm had slowed him badly, and he feared he would miss the first night of Chanukah with the Rebbe. So he pushed on through day and night. A gang of bandits stopped him and, assuming that a man travelling alone in such weather must be a wealthy merchant, demanded his money. Though he pleaded that he had none, they would not believe him. They took the reins, drove him off to meet their chief, and for hours beat and questioned him. Then they bound him and threw him into a dark cellar.

That evening the chief came to speak with him. The chassid told him how much it meant to be with the Rebbe at the start of the holiday, enough to risk his life. Whether the chief was moved by this or by the man’s firmness under torture, he freed him. “I sense that your faith is strong and your longing for your Rebbe is real,” he said. “I will let you go, but the forest is deadly, especially at night and in a storm. If you pass through it unharmed, I will disband my gang and change my ways. When you reach the edge of the city, throw your handkerchief into the ditch behind the signpost. A man of mine will be standing there, and that is how I will learn that you got through.”

The chassid was terrified, but when he thought of the menorah lighting with the Rebbe, he set out. In the pitch darkness he heard animals crying close by. His horse would not move, however hard he lashed it. Then a small light flickered ahead of the carriage. The horse stepped toward it, the light moved on, and the horse followed, while the wild beasts fled. “That flame led us the whole way to this door,” he finished. “I threw my handkerchief by the signpost as I had promised. Who knows? Perhaps those bandits will change their ways, in the merit of that little light.”

Only then did the chassidim notice that the Rebbe’s light was burning again in the menorah, steady and clear, like a flame freshly kindled.