The night was still, calm. A soft breeze rippled through the brush as stars winked down from overhead. In the distance, an owl hooted.

King Paul leaned back on the velvet cushions of his armchair, breathing in the crisp evening air. From his vantage point on the veranda, he could make out the shadows of the orange trees in the orchard, perfuming the air with a sweet scent that wafted up to him. He inhaled.

The king’s days were busy, filled with royal duties and obligations, and his evening getaways to his private verandas were like an oasis of calm amidst the constant hubbub of the palace. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the wind ruffling through his hair as he let go of all important thoughts and just relaxed.

A faint sound roused him. King Paul sat up abruptly, immediately alert. There was no one there on the veranda with him, and no one down below either, as far as his eye could see. He strained his ears.

Singing, that’s what it was! The wind was carrying soft sounds of singing up toward him. “Vlad,” he called to his personal valet, who was standing at the door to the veranda. “Vlad, come here and listen. Do you hear that?”

The servant was at the king’s side in moments, and he pursed his lips in concentration. “I don’t believe I hear anything, Your Majesty.”

“Shh,” the king admonished. “Now! Can you hear it now?”

There was a moment of silence as Vlad strained to catch the sounds that the king had heard. “Singing,” he said after a moment. “It sounds like singing, Your Majesty.”

“I thought so, too,” King Paul said, his expression puzzled. “Who could possibly be singing now, at night?”

“If Your Majesty desires, I can go down now and try to find out,” the servant offered. “Sound travels further in the stillness of the night, so the singing might not be coming from so close by, but if whoever it is continues, I may be able to find them.”

“Go ahead,” the king instructed. “It sounds to me like the singing is coming from that direction, down the mountain.”

“I will head that way, then, Your Majesty,” the servant said, bowing. He withdrew, leaving the king alone with his thoughts.

A few minutes later, Vlad was mounted on a steed and waving to the gatekeeper as he left the palace grounds. As the king had instructed, he rode down the mountain in the direction of the singing, which got louder and louder as he drew closer.

And then he saw it.

There were a few hundred Jews dancing in a large circle around an elderly man, who was dancing in the middle. They kept looking up at the moon as they danced, singing heartily along with the man in the center of the circle. Vlad watched, as if in a trance, as the throngs of men wound their way around the circle, over and over, singing joyfully. It was a surreal scene, something out of a dream.

After a few minutes, the dancing stopped as the huge crowd of Jews followed their leader into one of the houses. From the open doorway, Vlad could see them crowding into the house and taking seats in one of the rows and rows of chairs that were set up. What appeared to be a small meal was being served.

Satisfied that he had seen enough, the servant turned around and rode his horse back up to the palace. When he returned to the king’s personal chamber, he found the monarch still relaxing on the veranda. He bowed.

“Well, Vlad?” King Paul addressed him. “The singing appears to have stopped. Did you find the source?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his servant replied. “It was a group of Jews, Your Majesty, about four hundred of them, I’d estimate.”

The king raised his eyebrows. “Four hundred Jews! They were singing together? Why?”

“They were singing, and dancing too,” the servant continued. He described the scene he had witnessed. “There must be some Jewish holiday that we don’t know about, Sire. After singing and dancing and glancing up at the moon, they went into one of the houses and had a small meal.”

“Interesting,” the king remarked, standing up from his armchair and stepping back into the palace. He turned around to face his valet. “You’re probably right, Vlad. There must be some Jewish holiday that we don’t know about. Help me remove my cloak, Vlad. I’m ready to retire for the night.”

The servant hastily stepped in to unbutton the king’s cloak and helped him prepare for bed, the matter of the Jews and their holiday all but forgotten.

A few weeks later, the king was relaxing on his private veranda in the evening when he suddenly he heard the same faint sounds of singing. “Vlad, come here!” he called to his valet. “They’re doing it again! The same singing as last time!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his servant replied, straining his ears to hear the sounds.

“It doesn’t make sense that they celebrate these random holidays every few weeks,” King Paul said, thinking out loud. “When was the last time we heard them, Vlad?”

“About four weeks ago, Your Majesty.”

“Hmm.” The king was silent for a few moments, and a contemplative mood settled over the veranda. When he spoke again, his voice held a mixture of curiosity and determination. “I want to go see it for myself, Vlad.”

“As His Majesty wishes,” the valet replied obediently, although privately, he was groaning. The king’s schedule was always arranged in advance, and spur-of-the-moment trips like this one, especially during the night, meant a huge headache for him. “I’ll arrange with Your Majesty’s security detail—.”

“Not dressed as a king,” the king cut in. “I don’t want a big entourage escorting me. You, as well as a bodyguard, can come along, but we will all need to be disguised as common citizens. I don’t want these Jews putting on a show for me; I want to observe an authentic celebration.”

“Certainly, Sire,” his valet responded quickly. “Let me prepare Your Majesty’s civilian attire, then, and arrange for a plainclothes bodyguard.”

“With all due haste,” the king reminded him. “I want to get there before they finish.”

But nothing moves quickly in a royal palace, and despite the servant working deftly to dress the king and make the arrangements, it was not until twenty-five minutes later that three men dressed as ordinary civilians driving ordinary stallions rode out of the palace gates in the direction Vlad pointed.

The threesome rode down the mountain, the king in middle. When they turned onto the street that Vlad indicated, they came upon the very scene he had described a few weeks earlier. A few hundred people were dancing around their leader in the center, singing and glancing up at the moon.

“What are the words of the song?” the king whispered to his men. “And who is that rabbi in the middle?”

Vlad slipped off his horse and went to investigate, while the bodyguard remained behind with the king in the shadows.

“Excuse me,” the servant asked one of the men standing on the outskirts of the circle. “What is that song you are singing?”

The Jew looked up and examined the servant from head to toe. “We are singing, ‘Dovid melech Yisrael chai v’kayam,” he said, somewhat hesitantly.

“Dovid melech Yisrael chai v’kayam,” Vlad repeated, committing the phrase to memory. He was blessed with a sharp mind and strong memory. It was not for nothing that he had been reared from birth to be the king’s personal valet.

“Yes,” the man confirmed, still sounding unsure of himself. He didn’t trust the non-Jew stranger who was questioning him and didn’t want to fall into a trap.

“Oh,” Vlad said, trying to sound uninterested. He detected a light suspicion in the Jew’s tone, and the last thing he wanted was to call attention to himself.

He wandered around to the other side of the circle and approached another Jew. “Excuse me, sir, but who is the rabbi in the center of the circle?”

“That’s Rav Dovid,” the man told him. “He’s a great rabbi in our community.”

“And you have this celebration every few weeks?”

The man gave a slight nod. “About once a month. It’s a small ceremony where we sanctify the new moon.”

“Ah. Well, thank you.” The man turned back to his dancing and Vlad slipped back to the king with the information he had uncovered.

“Dovid melech Yisrael chai v’kayam,” the king repeated. “Now what on earth does that mean? If the rabbi’s name is Dovid, they must be singing something about him.”

“It must be Hebrew, Sire,” Vlad mused as he mounted his horse. “First thing tomorrow, I will work on deciphering the meaning of these Hebrew words. Does Your Majesty wish to linger here longer?”

The king gave a regal toss of his head. “No, I’ve seen enough. We’ll return to the palace now.”

At midday the following day, Vlad entered the king’s chambers with the translated phrase in hand. “It means, ‘Dovid, the king of Israel, lives and endures’,” he read off the paper.

The king threw him a sharp look. “So that rabbi, Dovid, thinks he’s the king around here? This was no monthly celebration of the moon, it was a celebration of a new king! That classifies as rebellion! Bring me paper, and a scribe!”

When the scribe was seated at the polished oak writing table adjacent to the king’s chair, King Paul began dictating an edict forbidding kiddush levanah, effective immediately. Any Jew who would be caught reciting kiddush levanah would be executed.

When the scribe was done, the king signed and sealed the new decree with a flourish. “Take it, and copy it,” he instructed the scribe. “I will sign and seal the copies as well, and then we will send them out to all the cities in the land with a Jewish presence.”

It took just days for news of the decree to reach the Jewish community, and they reacted with stunned uproar. No one had anticipated such an edict, and no one could understand it. The king had always been tolerant of his Jewish subjects and had allowed them to live in relative freedom. He had never banned any mitzvos or Torah study before. What had changed? And why did he choose the mitzvah of kiddush levanah?

Rav Dovid, the leading sage at the time, was a pious and holy Jew who had ruach hakodesh. He realized immediately what had prompted the king to ban kiddush levanah, and he planned on toiling in the spiritual spheres to have the decree repealed.

In the meantime, however, he instructed the Jews on how to fulfill the mitzvah of kiddush levanah without getting caught. When the new moon was visible in the few days following rosh chodesh, the Jews would extinguish the any lit lanterns or candles in their homes and open the window to gaze up at the moon. Then they would recite the brachah.

Many months went by, and the Jewish community continued to sanctify the new moon each month from the privacy of their own homes. They longed for the joyous dancing and singing that had accompanied kiddush levanah in the days before the decree and davened that Hashem restore the mitzvah to its previous glory.

The king, on his end, would send scouts to the Jewish communities around the land to ensure that no one was gathering to sing ‘Dovid melech Yisrael chai v’kayam.’ Thankfully, there was no trouble and the Jews obeyed his law. It appeared that he had successfully quashed the rebellion.

One chilly winter evening, King Paul sitting by the open window of his sitting room, gazing out at the scenery. A cup of steaming tea rested at his elbow, beside a plate of freshly baked cookies, still fresh from the oven. As he waited for the tea to cool, the king dozed off in his chair…

Suddenly, the king had an unexplained urge to go hunting. He stood up, abandoning the cookies and tea, and with a flick of his wrist and a brief command, his staff scurried into motion. If anyone had any misgivings about a hunting expedition at that late hour, no one gave any indication. They prepared the king’s hunting rifle and saddled his royal stallion without question, arranging the armed escorts and loading a carriage with supplies in a matter of minutes.

In no time at all, the small hunting party was assembled at the palace gates, waiting for the king to join them. Dressed in his hunting attire, the king slipped his signet ring onto his finger, just in case, and joined the group of bodyguards, skilled marksmen, and hunting dogs. Their destination, a forest just half an hour from the palace, was a favorite hunting spot of the king’s.

It was dark as they rode. The moon was in the beginning of waxing, still just a sliver of light in the sky. The thick knot of trees at the entrance of the forest grew nearer, and a shiver of anticipation trickled up the king’s spine. He loved hunting, and he intended to return to the palace with an impressive prize.

Then his breath caught in his throat. There, at the entrance of the forest, was a beautiful deer, its antlers rising majestically on either side of its head. It stared ahead, defiantly, as if daring him to hunt it down. That did it for the king. He wanted that deer.

“Let’s get the deer,” the king commanded his men.

But at that moment, as if to mock him, the deer turned around and dived back into the forest.

This only served to make the king even more determined to lay his hands on the regal deer. “Follow!” he called grabbing his rifle off its holster and charging after the deer.

His men ran.

The deer was quicker and smarter, dodging the hunters and the bullets as it led them deeper and deeper into the forest. The king, who was not in the best physical shape, found himself lagging behind the others. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath while his men continued in pursuit of the deer.

Suddenly, the deer made a swift maneuver and turned away from its pursuers right into the path of the king. King Paul dropped his rifle and stretched out his arm, ready to catch the deer barehanded, but it slipped right out and trotted leisurely away.

The almost-victory infused the king with a fresh burst of energy. The deer appeared to be walking slowly, and if he came up stealthily from behind, he would surely be able to catch it. The king tiptoed up behind the deer, slowly, carefully, and bided his time. After following the deer with utmost silence for a few minutes, the king reached out again.

But at that moment, the deer took a graceful little leap right out of the king’s reach.

“Aaargh!” the king yelped, thoroughly frustrated, though not at all willing to concede defeat. He was a king, after all, accustomed to having his whims catered to and his desires carried out on demand. Right now, he wanted the deer, and he intended to have the deer, no matter how much time it proved to take.

The deer appeared to be enjoying the game. It teased the king by standing still even as he crept up behind it, but the moment he tried to reach out and snag it, it sailed nimbly out of his grasp. 

For the better part of an hour, he followed the elusive deer, singularly focused on his goal. The palace, the hunting party, and all thoughts of sleep were far away from thoughts.

When his strength waned, he sat down on a small boulder to rest. It was then that he suddenly realized that none of the members of his guard were with him. He had dropped his rifle in an attempt to snatch the deer, and his knife was, presumably, still in the hands of his knife-bearer, together with the rest of the hunting party.

He was the king, the most powerful man in the land.

But sitting in the forest in the middle of the night; alone, unarmed and completely out of breath, King Paul realized just how powerless he really was.

He knew better than to try to find his way around the forest in the dark. The chances were small that he would manage to find the path out of the forest without light, and it was more likely that he would only get more lost.

The last thing he wanted was to meet his end on the dinner plate of a wolf or bear prowling the forest. Each shriek of the wind or rustle of leaves caused the king’s stomach to drop, certain that a beast of prey was eyeing him as fodder for breakfast. With each roar and growl that sounded in the background he bit his lip and resisted the urge to flee.

The night passed ever so slowly.

He curled up into himself, trying to shied himself from view, and remained silent. Save for an occasional shiver, he remained completely motionless. The cold stone beneath him was nothing like his comfortable bed in the palace; his thin coat no match for his warm feather comforter. Needless to say, despite his exhaustion, the king didn’t sleep a wink that night.

He welcomed daybreak with immense relief. The threatening shapes that had loomed over him in the dark turned out to be harmless trees and overgrown vegetation, and he could see the sun peeking through the forest’s leafy canopy. It was time to find his way home.

After spending the night in a fetal position, his muscles protested painfully when he stood up to his full height, but the king ignored the pain and began moving between the trees, hoping to find his way out of the forest. He walked and walked, climbing over thick logs and stumbling past thorny brush as he progressed.

It was after two hours of walking that he finally realized that he’d gotten nowhere. He was still trapped in the dense forest, surrounded on all sides by overpowering trunks that seemed too familiar. Was he walking in circles? There was no way to tell, but one thing was certain: home was a long way off.

By now, King Paul was hungry, disheveled, and exhausted, but he knew he had no choice but to continue forging ahead. He was away from the palace, away from his doting servants and protective guards, and there was no one to fend for him if he didn’t fend for himself. Armed with this thought, he pushed himself forward, trudging through the endless leaves and pine cones on legs that grew heavier and heavier with each passing moment. 

He pushed himself passed all physical limits, conscious of the race against time, but with sheer disrespect for the burning in his thighs and the fire in his chest, nightfall descended while he was still trapped somewhere deep inside the forest.

The king ate some wild berries for dinner and settled on a large, flat-shaped stone for the night, resigning himself to his fate. His harrowing ordeal began to make inroads on his optimism, which was slowly crumbling into a disappearing dust. I might spend the rest of my life here, he thought to himself just as a growl sounded from somewhere uncomfortably close by. I may as well get used to it.

Perhaps it was his utter exhaustion, or perhaps he had become more habituated to the rough outdoors, but whatever the reason, King Paul slept soundly that night on his stone mattress, oblivious to the terrifying nocturnal noises that had kept him up the night before.

He awoke, refreshed, with the rising of the sun, and was suffused a fresh burst of hope. I can make it out of here, he told himself with newfound confidence. I am the king, and I will find my way out!

The events of the king’s second day mirrored the previous day. He walked and walked with dogged persistence, but seemed to be getting nowhere. For the king trying to making his way out, worse than walking in a perpetual circle was not knowing whether he was repeating the same circuit or whether he was exploring new territory in the forest.

Having subsisted without proper nourishment for more than a day, he was considerably weaker on his second day in the forest, and was compelled to stop and rest at frequent intervals. He picked more wild berries and snacked on mushrooms growing beneath a leafy tree, but his mouth was parched and he knew he could not survive without water for much longer.

The sun moved steadily across the sky, painting the skyline in purples and golds as it slowly descended into the horizon. Night fell once again on the forest, with the king still imprisoned inside. The thin moonlight barely penetrated the thick branches, but this time, the king set his lips resolutely and continued walking. He would not be deterred by darkness nor danger, determined to discover some sort of direction before he was doomed by death.

And then, he saw it.

There, in the distance, a light was shining, its soft glow beckoning, inviting. King Paul stared at the light incredulously, unsure if he was seeing a mirage. He squeezed his eyes and opened them again, and the light was still there.

Relief washed over him like a warm shower, and he began running through the trees with an energy he did not know he possessed. Suddenly, the forest didn’t seem as dangerous or as dark. Light meant people, and people meant food, and warmth, and rescue!

But more than anything, the light would provide direction, indicating the way out of the forest. As he sprinted over fallen logs and around thick, thorny bushes, the king kept his eye on the light so that he would not lose his way.

It took over an hour for him to reach the light, which turned out to be emanating from a house on the outskirts of the forest. He slowed to a trot, thoroughly depleted, and made his way across the property to the front door of the home. With the last of his strength, he knocked.

The door opened immediately, but the blinding light shining out of the house was too much for the king, who’d spent two full days in the dark forest, to bear. He blacked out right then and there, collapsing on the doorstep in a faint.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. Two kindly men were sitting at his bedside, and one was moistening his parched lips with trickles of water.

“How are you feeling?” the taller of his two saviors asked in concern.

“Groggy,” the king admitted. “Hungry, too.”

“As soon as you’re strong enough to get out of bed, we’ll serve you a meal,” the other man, a stocky fellow with greying hair, informed him.

“Where are you from?” his friend continued questioning. “We will help you get back home.”

King Paul was at a loss. He couldn’t tell them that he was the king; they would laugh at him at best and at worst, commit him to an asylum for the insane. “Thank you, but where am I?” he asked instead of responding. “And I think I am strong enough to get out of bed and eat something.”

“In that case, come with us,” the man said, holding out his hand for the king to grasp.

He stood up on shaky legs and followed the men into a large room crammed with people. His eyes widened as he silently estimated that there were more than two-hundred people there. Why were they gathered? And where was he?

At the head of the table sat an elderly Jew with a flowing white beard, apparently the rabbi. His eyes were soft and kind, and he smiled welcomingly at the king. “Come, sit beside me,” he offered.

King Paul was moved by the invitation. As king, he was used to flattery and honor, but the respect displayed by the elderly sage toward him, at a time when he was not a monarch but an anonymous stranger, was the most genuine honor he’d ever received. Obligingly, he slipped into the seat beside the rav.

The rav looked at him, and then looked meaningfully at the empty plate and glass that sat in front of him. If the king had thought that this hunger and thirst were about to be sated, he was mistaken. The rav started to speak, and his words were the last things the king expected to hear.

“Why should I give you food and drink?” the rav challenged. “You’ve made a decree against the Jews, forbidding us from reciting kiddush levanah. Why?”

“I…I?” the king sputtered. He hadn’t introduced himself as the king; why would the rabbi accuse him of that? His instincts kicked in and he began to deny the charge. “I didn’t decree anything against Jews—.”

“You’re the king, are you not?” the rav asked directly, and gazing into his burning eyes, King Paul had no choice but to nod in the affirmative.

The rav’s voice was stern. “You are King Paul, and you signed an edict banning kiddush levanah.”

The king inclined his head, suddenly apologetic. What had ever caused him to make such a nonsensical decree?

“I would like you to sign a paper, right now, reversing the decree,” the rav continued.

King Paul nodded resignedly. “Alright, give me paper and I’ll sign it.”

“You don’t need me to give you a paper,” the rav said pointedly.

The king almost jumped. The rabbi, it seemed, possessed an uncanny ability to divine the unseen. He squirmed, uncomfortable under the rav’s scrutiny, which seemed to bear right into his soul. Indeed, he did have paper in his pocket. He pulled out a sheet and placed it on the table.

“Here,” the rav said, handing him a pen and a well of ink. “I want it written in your handwriting.”

The king took the pen, dipped it into ink, and did as the rav asked, formally declaring the Jews free to recite kiddush levanah. With a firm press of his signet ring, the decree was reversed.

The king rolled up the page and handed it to the rav, somehow feeling freer. “And now, please, can I have something to eat?” It was degrading to have to ask, but he hadn’t eaten properly in forty-eight hours and the sight of food on the table was making him dizzy.

The rav tucked the paper into his jacket pocket and looked up at the king. “Certainly, Your Majesty. I understand that you must be hungry, but you won’t need to eat much to be full. After having just a bit of our food, you’ll find yourself sated.”

He sliced a small piece of challah off of the loaf he had made the brachah of Hamotzi on and handed it to the king. Reaching for the jug of wine, he poured a small amount into the king’s cup.

The king put the challah in his mouth, and found, to his amazement, that the rav was right. Just that one small piece was enough to make him satiated.

“Thank you very much for coming to visit me,” the rav said warmly. “Here, you left your signet ring on the table. Please put it back into your pocket so that it doesn’t get lost.”

“Yes, of course,” the king murmured, slipping the ring back into his pocket. He reached out for the glass of wine, intending to take a sip…

…and pulled back as he burned his fingers on the scalding cup of tea.

Tea?

King Paul rubbed his eyes and looked around. He was still sitting at the open window, the cup of tea and plate of cookies untouched on the table beside him.

It had all been a dream.

He shook his head as if to clear it. It had felt so real! The hunting party, the forest, the light, the house, the rabbi… He could still taste the challah in his mouth, but it had all been a dream! What a nightmare!

He lifted the tea and took a tender sip, grateful to be ensconced in the security of the palace. He scanned the courtyard briefly through the open window, enjoying the still, the calm, the quiet; a welcome change from the nightmarish experiences of his mind.

His ears were tickled by a soft sound, and he leaned in, closer to the window, to hear better. “Vlad!” he called to his ever faithful valet. “Vlad, come here and listen.”

“Those Jews again,” the servant confirmed, straining his ears. “They’re singing that rebellious song, Dovid melech Yisrael chai v’kayam.”

“Indeed.” King Paul’s features were grim, his eyes narrowed. “Didn’t I decree that this ceremony be banned? Do these Jews have a death wish? I shall confront them personally. Vlad, see to it that we are ready to leave within the next ten minutes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

While he waited for the arrangements to be complete, the king paced the room, stewing at the brazen disobedience of the Jews. It was not yet five minutes since he’d woken from his dream, and already he’d forgotten its warning.

This time, there was no reason to visit the Jews’ celebration in disguise. This time, he would be arriving as a king, not a curious spectator. He climbed into the carriage bearing his royal coat of arms, wearing his kingly garments. He was arriving as a king, a ruler, a judge, and he would take the Jews to task for this blatant rebellion.

By the time King Paul’s carriage rolled into the Jewish quarter, the dancing was dying down. He arrived just in time to witness the Jews following the rav into his house, still singing the subversive song that stirred fury in his soul. He followed, entering the rav’s house behind the two hundred Jews in attendance.

The house, the room, the people, the rabbi! All were exactly the same as they appeared in his dream… The room spun dizzily around him, converging in a marbleized haze of color and noise and aromas, and then King Paul fainted.

When he opened his eyes, they met the penetrating gaze of the rav. “Come sit beside me,” the rav invited, in an eerie reflection of the king’s dream. “Can I offer Your Majesty something to drink?”

The king stood up and took a seat beside the rav. “You,” he said accusingly. “You defied a direct decree from your king! You know that this is an offense punishable by death.”

“But here is the document reversing the decree,” the rav responded innocently, withdrawing a familiar paper from his pocket and unrolling it. “Look, you signed it yourself.”

The king almost choked, understanding that something miraculous had occurred. He accepted, once again, the small piece of challah from the rav, and chewed it thoughtfully.

“Dovid melech Yisrael,” the rav began singing, and the entire crowd joined in. King Paul immediately stiffened.

As the notes of the song wafted throughout the room, the rav turned to the king with an understanding smile. “My name is Dovid,” he told the king. “But I am just a rabbi, not a king.”

“Then what is the meaning of this song?” the king asked testily.

“It’s a prayer,” the rav explained. “One day, Hashem will bring Mashiach to redeem us from our exile, and each month, when we sanctify the new moon, we pray that the day of our redemption will come soon.”

As the small piece of challah he had eaten filled him more fully than he’d ever imagined, the king nodded, grateful to clear the misconception and to learn that his Jewish subjects were not rebelling against him with kiddush levanah.

The rav gave a small smile. “You know,” he said to the king “We Jews are a little like the moon. We go through periods of downfall and despair, both as a nation and as individuals. But no matter how many times we wane, we never fail to wax again, to renew, to start shining again until we reach our fullest glow.”

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!

This story is taken from tape # A251