The Cigarettes and the Train

It is told that a young man could not understand the strange behavior of the Rebbe’s gabbaim. He had travelled a long way to see the tzaddik, but no matter what he said, they would not let him in. Smiling, they told him that his room and lodging had been prepared for him, as if they had known he was coming. If the Rebbe truly had ruach hakodesh, as he had been told, then room and board were not what had brought him to Stolin. Surely the Rebbe knew the real and terrifying reason. Earlier that week the dreaded notice had arrived, an official letter ordering him to appear before the Russian military committee, which would surely seal his bitter fate and take him into the army. Few Jews returned from the army, and those who did were never the same. It was nearly impossible to keep Torah and mitzvos there. Surely the Rebbe knew this, so why was he being kept out?

The Rebbe did know. A few hours before, the Yanuka of Stolin had told his gabbaim that a bachur would arrive asking to see him about his conscription papers. They were to welcome him warmly, receive him well, and prepare food and lodging, but under no circumstances were they to let him in to the Rebbe. When the bachur arrived a few hours later, the gabbaim, though used to the Rebbe’s powers, were astonished at this clear display of ruach hakodesh, and they carried out his instructions. The bewildered bachur had no choice but to sit and wait.

One evening his wait came to an end. The Rebbe called him in, and what happened next caught him completely off guard. “There is no time for long discussions,” the Rebbe said. “Time is of the essence. Here, take this.” He handed the bachur a pack of cigarettes. Then he took out his pocket watch, glanced at it and said, “Hurry, the train leaves the platform in just a few minutes. Run and catch the train.” The bachur had no chance to ask what any of it meant. The Rebbe urged him to obey.

He took the cigarettes and ran. As the Rebbe had said, the train was about to pull out of the station. He hurried aboard and sat down, his head spinning with questions. Why had the Rebbe rushed him so? What were the cigarettes for? Where was the train going? What would he do when he got there? In time, his faith in the Rebbe calmed him, and he resolved to trust the tzaddik completely. Having placed himself in the Rebbe’s holy hands, he was finally able to relax.

The conductor’s call woke him from his thoughts: “Last stop, everybody off.” He understood that this must be his destination. He stepped onto the platform and asked some gentiles whether there were any Jews in the town. They said there were, 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 asked for a place to spend the night. The innkeeper gladly gave him free room and board, explaining how happy he was to fulfill the mitzvah of hachnasas orchim (hospitality).

While the bachur sat eating, a group of loud, rowdy guests came into the inn. Three gentiles ordered drinks and enjoyed their meal amid loud laughter and drunken camaraderie. After their meal and more drink they called out, “Innkeeper. We want a smoke.” The Jew apologized: he did not smoke himself, and he was out of cigarettes for his guests. But his apologies fell on deaf and drunken ears. “We want a smoke. Get us cigarettes now. If you have none, go out into the night and get some, and don’t come back until you have them.” they shouted, growing belligerent.

The poor innkeeper was at his wit’s end. Helplessly he turned to his guest and asked, “Perhaps you happen to have some cigarettes for these customers?” At first the bachur was afraid to give away what the Rebbe had entrusted to him, for who knew what lofty purpose it served. But once the innkeeper realized that his guest had salvation in his pocket, he pleaded with him to part with at least half a pack. The bachur agreed, reluctantly, and the innkeeper went back to his guests with relief.

Clouds of smoke settled over the now relaxed gentiles, and they turned to the innkeeper again, this time with words of wonder and praise. “Where did you get such excellent cigarettes?” they asked. The innkeeper apologized and explained that he had received them from another guest and had no idea where they came from. “Bring him here at once.” they ordered. When the bachur stood before them, they asked him the same question.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I got them from my Rebbe, the Stoliner Rebbe.” He told them the whole strange story, from his conscription notice, to his journey to Stolin for a brocha and a yeshua, to the Rebbe’s parting gift of cigarettes instead of a brocha, and the mysterious instruction to hurry to the train.

“Do you mean to say,” sneered one of the three, “that you believe in this rabbiner so much that you traveled to him from so far away, and boarded a train to who knows where, just so that he can somehow get you out of the army?” They laughed in disbelief at those silly Jews and their silly rabbis. “How much for the cigarettes?” they asked. “Please take them as a gift,” said the bachur. “I did not pay for them either. The Rebbe gave them to me.” That was to their liking. They thanked him, paid the innkeeper and left.

A few weeks later the bachur stood in the Russian military offices, about to go before the committee that would decide his fate, conscription or exemption. The bored officer in charge of the paperwork told him, “Before you come before the committee, you must go for a short medical examination. It is only a formality, as you seem to be in good health. Come back with the doctors’ letter.” He showed the young man to the next office, where three Russian military doctors sat with their clipboards and stethoscopes, ready to perform the examination.

Suddenly the room swayed and the bachur’s vision blurred. It was impossible, yet it was true. The three doctors were the same three gentiles who had been drunk at the inn and had enjoyed his cigarettes. They stood open-mouthed with shock, as shocked as he was to see them. Then they began to laugh together and skipped the examination. “No exam needed for you,” they said. They asked no questions and wrote out an exemption letter, signed and stamped, and handed it to him. “You are not fit to serve in the army,” they laughed, and gave him the letter that saved his life.