There was an unmistakable buzz in the air. Up and down the streets of the Jewish quarter, people were tidying up their front lawns; cutting grass, trimming bushes, and planting flowers. The distinct scent of turpentine wafted out from many homes and shops, where fresh coats of paint were hastily being applied to their facades or fences.
A group of the shtetl’s young bachurim were pressed into service to ensure that the streets were clean and all public areas were in pristine condition. Simultaneously, the community leaders paid personal visits to key figures in the community, instructing them on how to proceed.
Yes, there was an unmistakable buzz in the air, but it was not an anticipatory buzz. The Jewish community, along with along the other villages and towns dotting the countryside, were preparing for a visit from Duke Alexander, viceroy of the land. As master of the vast swatches of the country’s land, he would periodically pay visits to his domains, to assess them for himself and check up on his subjects.
From peasant to peddler, merchant to craftsman and beyond, everyone quaked with apprehension in the weeks leading up to Duke Alexander’s visits. He demanded utmost perfection and uncompromising honor from his citizens, and even the slightest mishap during his trip was liable to cost the unfortunate villagers steeply.
The duke, an avowed anti-Semite, was always more high strung in the presence of Jews, and so his visits were a time of high tension in the Jewish villages that were under his domain. Feverish preparations would begin almost from the moment each visit was announced by the town crier as the community leaders sought to ensure that the duke’s journey through their shtetl would pass without incident.
Just two days before the duke’s arrival in their village, the rosh hakahal called a meeting with all of the townspeople. “My friends,” he said gravely. “A significant threat is hanging above our heads. You all recall the last time the duke came to visit, a few years ago. As a result of a careless oversight during that visit, our taxes were raised significantly, and we are still feeling the pain in our wallets today.”
A collective sigh went up in the audience as they nodded along.
“The duke is scheduled to arrive here in just a short time,” he continued. “It is imperative upon each member of the community to do their utmost, and I mean their very utmost, to ensure that we don’t trigger his ire unnecessarily. It goes without saying that he must be accorded the honor befitting his title. We all know what that means: standing up for him when he enters the room, moving aside on the road to allow his carriage to pass, not speaking before being acknowledged, addressing him in third person with his formal title…”
The assemblage listened respectfully as he droned on. No one wanted to be the one to cause a permanent tax increase, or even just a hefty fine, to be levied on the entire community. They were well aware that it was incumbent upon them to learn and know the proper etiquette lest they encounter the duke during his visit.
Srulik the innkeeper, sitting all the way in the front of the room, was taking notes. It was a surety that his establishment would be on the duke’s list, as it always was, where he would be counting on a hearty meal and some good, strong wine to wash it down.
The grocer sat with his chin cupped in his left palm, listening intently. Beside him, the blacksmith twirled his peyos around his index finger, a sure sign that he was nervous. From Shimon the wealthy importer to Hersh the water carrier, each man resolved to do his level best to ensure that the duke’s visit would be a success.
The morning of the duke’s arrival dawned all too soon. Before they knew it, the community leaders were greeting the nobleman at the entrance of the village, gracious smiles on their faces and prayers in their hearts.
The duke’s visit began smoothly, almost worrisomely smooth. As he made his way down the main street by foot, he didn’t find any of the shops to his disliking. He didn’t comment negatively about the color of the paint, the condition of the cobblestones underfoot, or the large welcome banner that had been erected in the market square in his honor.
Together with his entourage of bodyguards and the community leaders, Duke Alexander wound his way around the entire village, up each and every street, with roving eyes. It was though he was looking for a reason to punish his Jewish subjects. To the great relief of the Jews accompanying him, however, all the people they passed behaved just the way they had been instructed, demonstrating utmost honor and respect for their noble visitor.
Halfway through his intricate tour of the shtetl, the duke stopped at the inn for a meal. He was warmly welcomed and duly seated, and then the specially commissioned waiters began bringing out dish after luxurious dish, all churned out of the inn’s kitchen in honor of the duke’s visit.
With the food came the wine, bottle after bottle, and the duke kept asking for his cup to be refilled with the chilled, refreshing alcohol. By the time he left the inn, allowing poor Srulik the innkeeper to breathe for the first time in days, Duke Alexander was good and well drunk.
The tour of the shtetl continued, although this time the duke opted to ride horseback. While the nobleman appeared to be handling the liquor well, the rosh hakahal and the parnas exchanged worried glances. With an abundance of alcohol fizzing in his blood, the duke’s mood and behavior were unpredictable, and they hoped that things would continue to bode well for the community.
The duke turned his horse down the next street and his entourage followed. And that was where the trouble began.
Sitting unobtrusively on a rock on the side of the narrow street was a Jew, holding a sharp, menacing looking stone. As the duke rode toward him, he hurled the rock with all his might. It whizzed through the air in a perfect arc, heading directly for its target.
One mindful bodyguard noticed the rock and let out a shrill cry, alerting the duke. He looked up, saw the flying weapon, and jumped off his horse to avoid getting hit. The rock, which had been poised to strike him in the head, collided with his knee instead, knocking him to the floor.
The guards rushed to attend to the nobleman while the white-faced parnas ran to call a doctor. The duke lay on the floor, blood gushing from his knee as his lower leg jutted out at an odd angle. He moaned loudly, in terrible pain, as people scurried around him.
In the commotion, the Jew who had thrown the rock managed to slip through the alleyways and disappear.
From his position on the floor, the duke wanted only one thing: revenge. But he was in unbearable pain, and he didn’t have the luxury to think about revenge just yet. He allowed the doctor to split his leg and left the village in his gilded carriage, headed directly for the hospital.
The Jewish community immediately understood that this meant trouble. They didn’t know how much, how badly, but they knew that retribution was coming. No one knew who was the one who injured the duke, certainly no one understood the culprit’s motivations, but they knew that regardless, they would all be made to pay for his actions.
Less than two weeks later, the duke was back. His leg was heavily casted, and he did not disembark from his carriage, but he called the entire community to the town square and demanded to know who had thrown the rock. “The man who had the audacity to throw that stone at me must come forward immediately and admit to his crime!”
As expected, no one came forward to admit his guilt.
“I see,” the duke said after some time. “Well, then, will another brave voice come forward and tell us who the culprit is?”
There was another lengthy pause, and still no one came forward. The duke’s voice became hard and dangerous. “In that case, I will give you three days to come up with the culprit. Three days for you to turn over the guilty man, or else I will send in my army to destroy all of you! I’ll be back in three days’ time. The choice is yours.”
He motioned angrily to his chauffeur and the carriage rolled out of the square, leaving an ominous silence in its wake.
The Jewish community fell into distressed turmoil. No one, even those who had personally witnessed the attack on the duke, knew who the culprit was. Even had they known, they would never stoop to betray him in order to save themselves. It seemed that the entire village was doomed for annihilation.
The Jews began to fast and tefillah gatherings were arranged. The deadline hung over them like a huge hourglass, the grains of sand seeping through the funnel with all too hasty speed. The three days passed in a blur of tears and prayers.
At the end of the last day, shortly before the duke was scheduled to return, Rav Yitzchak, the av beis din, was sitting with two other rabbanim, saying tehillim, when there was a knock on the door. He stood up to open it.
Shlomo, the village cobbler, was standing on the other side, his face slightly ashen. “May I come in?”
“Come in,” Rav Yitzchak invited, leading him inside. “How can I help you?”
“Rabbosai,” Shlomo said hoarsely. “I am the one who did it. I threw the rock and tried to kill the duke, although I didn’t succeed.”
There was an audible gasp in the room.
Rav Yitzchak struggled to keep his voice even. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why did you do it?”
Shlomo shrugged. “I did it because I hate him. He makes our lives miserable, and it just seemed like the perfect opportunity to get rid of him.”
Something about the way he spoke, perhaps the serenity with which he admitted to his crime, caused the rav to question the truth of his words. “How do we know that it was really you? Perhaps you are trying to be a tzaddik, willing to give up your life to save the rest of us.”
“I don’t know how I can convince you,” Shlomo said, still in the same calm voice. “But I promise you that I am saying the truth. I am the one who tried to kill the duke, and I am ready and willing to tell this to the duke directly when he gets here.”
The rabbanim all looked at each other, uncertain how to proceed. Were they allowed to give him up? Was he even speaking the truth?
As they sat there mulling over the question, the town crier began to make an announcement. They quieted down and listened.
“Hear ye, hear ye! In the name of His Excellency, Duke Alexander, viceroy of the land, if the Jew who attempted to take his life during his visit here does not admit to his guilt immediately, then by tomorrow morning, we will begin killing each and every Jew in this village! Hear ye, hear ye!”
Hearing this announcement caused Shlomo to become agitated. “If you aren’t willing to go to the court to give me up, I will go there myself,” he said sharply. “Of course, it would be helpful for me if you came along, but I will be going even if you decide not to accompany me.”
He stood up and walked to the door, and the rabbanim all stood up and followed him. What choice did they have, really?
It was nighttime by then, and Shlomo calmly led the way to the civil court, the three trembling rabbanim following behind him. The duke was waiting in the courthouse, his leg propped up on a chair, and he perked up when he saw the Jews.
“Ah, so you do have news for me, after all,” he said, drumming his finger on the tabletop. “Alright, out with it. Who is the guilty man?”
“I am the one who did it,” Shlomo said, quietly but clearly.
The duke nearly fell out of his chair in surprise. He had been expecting one Jew to rat on his neighbor, not the culprit to come forward himself. “You? And how come you are admitting to your guilt so easily? How do I know to believe you?”
“I am saying the truth, but why does it really matter?” Shlomo countered. “You’ll kill me and get your revenge.”
“True, it doesn’t matter much,” the duke agreed. “Tell me, then, why did you try to kill me?”
“Because you make life for the Jews very difficult,” Shlomo said, somewhat brazenly. “We spend hours of backbreaking labor to earn a pittance, almost all of which is then claimed by taxes. I decided that we couldn’t go on like this, and so I wanted to kill you.”
The duke pursed his lips. “Do you understand what your punishment will be?”
“I am ready to accept whatever punishment I deserve,” Shlomo responded.
“Tomorrow morning, we are going to hang you,” the duke said. “We will hang you in the main square before all the Jews. Let everyone see what happens to the man who tries to kill his ruler! Guards, take him to a cell!”
“Please, Your Excellency, I want to be alone tonight. I promise I will come back tomorrow to the gallows myself,” Shlomo said.
“Ha! Give me one reason why I should trust you,” the duke demanded.
“I came here myself, on my own free will,” Shlomo reminded him. “I didn’t have to give myself up, and I did. I am not looking to escape justice, just to spend my last night in This World a free man.”
To the surprise of everyone in the room, the duke actually seemed to be considering this argument. “Are you willing to take responsibility for him, to ensure that he comes to the square tomorrow morning for hanging?” he asked the rabbanim.
They nodded hastily. The least they could do for the condemned man was ensure that he did not have to spend his last night in a cold, dingy prison cell.
“Alright then, you may go with them,” the duke said to Shlomo. “Don’t do anything foolish, or else the entire community will pay. You’d better show up tomorrow, or else.”
The duke immediately dispatched his chief of staff to arrange for the public hanging, as Shlomo followed the rabbonim out of the courthouse, his head bowed. When they reached Rav Yitzchak’s house, he asked for a room where he could spend the night alone. From his demeanor, it was clear that he did not want to be pestered with questions, and so the rabbanim didn’t ask him anything.
In the morning, after Shacharis, Shlomo approached Rav Yitzchak. “I’m ready,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.
Together, the two of them walked to the town square, where the entirety of the Jewish community was already waiting. The duke had ordered that all Jews without exception be present to witness the hanging, and the Jews had no choice but to comply.
Shlomo was led by two burly guards onto a raised platform, and the noose was wound around his neck.
The executioner, standing on the platform beside him, asked him to admit to his deeds before the public.
“I tried to kill the duke because he makes our lives miserable,” Shlomo stated, loudly and clearly, as the crowd of Jews erupted in tears. “Give me what I deserve, but leave my people alone.”
“We will grant you one dying wish,” the executioner told him. “What is your dead man’s wish?”
“I want my body to be returned to the Jewish community when I die,” Shlomo answered, his voice quivering slightly. “They should bury me according to halachah, and write on my gravestone, פה נטמן הרוצח ישמאל בן נתניה שהרג את גדליה בן אחיקם – here lies the murderer, Yishmael ben Nisanya, who murdered Gedalya ben Achikam.”
“Granted!” With those words, the executioner opened the trapdoor beneath the condemned man’s feet, and he fell below, meeting his death.
When Rav Yitzchak heard Shlomo’s words, he nearly fainted. He was a baalei ruach hakodesh, and he understood that the man they had known had been a gilgul of Yishmael ben Nisanya, the man who orchestrated the murder of Gedalya ben Achikam, and that he had been deserving of death by hanging to atone for the sin of murder.
Shlomo, the gilgul of Yishmael ben Nisanya, instinctively knew what he needed to do in order to atone for this severe sin.
Have a Wonderful Shabbos!
This story is taken from tape # A239