NEWS BULLETIN: BOOK RELEASE of THE DUAL LUMINARY: REVELATION (Book II)
THE SECRET ORIGINS OF CHABAD’S DELICIOUS OLIVE DIP FINALLY REVEALED ON THE YARZHEIT OF THE ALTER REBBE
Jerusalem, Israel (December 28, 2021 / Tevet 24, 5782)
We’ve all tasted it – that delightful combination of minced olives with mayonnaise and select spices. We’ve all ranted and raved to the local Chabad rabbi and rebbetzin about how delicious the olive dip is, greedily dipping our chunks of challah into it on a Friday night Shabbat dinner. And some shrewd Chabad rabbis and rebbetzins have coyly allowed us to believe that they slaved away in the kitchen for hours perfecting the recipe for the enjoyment of their Jewish community. Others, however, have inadvertently contradicted their respected colleagues, revealing that the olive dip recipe consists of only a few ingredients and about five minutes of effort.
But where did this olive dip come from? What is the true origin of this simple yet addictive Chassidic delicacy?
We have no idea whatsoever.
But that didn’t stop us from creating a wholly fictitious account of where this tantalizing olive dip mixture came from, and how the Chabad-Lubavitch movement came to be in possession of this clandestine culinary knowledge.
Lehavdil Press proudly announces the release of The Dual Luminary – Revelation: A Novel of the Alter Rebbe, Chabad-Lubavitch, and Napoleon Bonaparte. It is the sequel to The Dual Luminary – Revolution. The purpose of these two historical novels is to present the life, story, and some select teachings of the Alter Rebbe and the early Chabad movement as well as the contemporaneous history of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in a way that is unique, dynamic, and engaging for both Chassidic and non-Chassidic audiences.
The Dual Luminary – Revelation recounts the arrest, imprisonment, and release of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (twice!) as well as the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte as a bloody tyrant and cruel conqueror who spread his imperial clutches all throughout Europe to Russia and even to the land of Israel itself. And the later years of the Ba’al HaTanya are described as the first Rebbe of Chabad faced-off head-to-head in a vicious spiritual battle (and in some ways physical) against the notoriously ruthless Emperor of France. And in the midst of all that, the highly questionable beginnings of that delicious olive dip are revealed.
Great care was taken in the writing and production of The Dual Luminary – Revolution and The Dual Luminary – Revelation to ensure that the portrayal is both respectful and as biographically and historically accurate as possible (with the exception, of course, with the aforementioned facetious and fictitious hypothesis of the secret origins of Chabad’s coveted olive dip). These historical novels were designed in part to serve as an additional tool for the Chabad-Lubavitch movement to introduce Jews (and others) who are not familiar with Chassidic Judaism to the life and teachings of the Alter Rebbe (which naturally blend into those of Lubavitcher Rebbe and Chabad as a whole). The books were written with such organizations as Chabad on Campus and the Aleph Institute in mind, who perform an enormous service bringing persons ranging from Jewish college students to US military personnel to incarcerated inmates closer to Judaism. And these persons might not be at the level from the onset to attend a weekly Tanya class, but many of them would be interested in reading a dynamic saga of historical novels that introduces them to the Alter Rebbe and the Tanya, and thereby paves the way for further (and much more serious) study. For instance, The Dual Luminary books could be a “prize of completion” for university students who participate in the Sinai Scholars program. And the Aleph Institute could offer Jewish inmates exclusive access to the books.
Besides that, with such slanderous material like Unorthodox coming out into the mainstream market and completely confusing audiences (both non-observant Jewish and non-Jewish) about what Frum / Orthodox Judaism really is, we thought that it was high time that Chassidic / Frum Jews got some good publicity for a change.
The Dual Luminary – Revolution and The Dual Luminary – Revelation are both available for purchase in both print and ebook format from Amazon and other distributors for $16.99 (print) and $7.99 (ebook). The second book, The Dual Luminary – Revelation is now being released in honor of the yarzheit (the memorial of passing) of the Alter Rebbe of blessed memory.
We would love to hear your feedback! Please feel invited to e-mail us back at news@lehavdil.com and let us know your thoughts, questions, and/or comments!
SAMPLE of The Dual Luminary – Revelation (Book II)
The first Rebbe of Chabad quietly recited a series of Hebrew praises as he examined the tzitzis fringes of his tallis prayer shawl. He unfurled the white garment with black stripes, kissing the upper edge briefly. He then swung it around his shoulder and held it behind him and over his head, and then wrapped himself in the prayer garment.
“Baruch Atah Hashem… Blessed are You… Who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to enwrap ourselves with tzitzis.”
Reb Schneur Zalman concluded the Hebrew blessings while clutching the corners of the tallis and dangling tzitzis fringes. He draped the edges over his shoulders and reached for his siddur prayer book based on his own compilation of the rites of Rabbi Yitzchak Luria with his left hand. In his right hand, he clutched a long, curving shofar, or ram’s horn.
Reb Dovber and Reb Yossi Mendel both exited a cluster of small, wooden structures with thatched roofs. They observed their father and mentor respectively, but didn’t interrupt. The caravan of sixty wagons – later joined by Yossi Mendel’s party – had continued all the way to Mazaisk near Borodino. Now, they camped at Tritza Zerka. The sun had not risen, and there was only enough light in the early morning to distinguish their fellow man standing about six feet away. Otherwise, the night sky and shimmering stars had only just now begun to give way to the pending light of the dawn.
The Rebbe didn’t address them for a moment, continuing to recite the first blessings and prayers of the morning. He gazed into the siddur and read them aloud, even though he knew them all by memory several times over.
Finally the Rebbe spoke to the two onlookers. “K’siva v’chasima tovah, May you have a good inscription and be sealed in the Book of Life.”
Reb Dovber and Reb Yossi repeated the same greeting in return, then added, “Gut yontiff. A pleasant Rosh HaShanah festival to you.”
Reb Schneur smiled slightly. “I know what you want to ask me. You want to know why I am awake so early this Jewish new year festival.”
Reb Dovber and Reb Yossi didn’t answer and thereby conceded.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” the Rebbe explained. “Some of my other colleagues with whom I studied in Mezeritch are still supporters of Napoleon Bonaparte. The standard purpose of blowing the shofar is to fulfill the mitzvah and prepare the Jewish people and the rest of the world for the annual judgment of the Almighty. But I know my former companions enough to know that they will no doubt also sound the shofar of Rosh HaShanah partly in request for Divine assistance for Napoleon. However, today I will sound the shofar while additionally beseeching Heaven to thwart the plot of the enemy and thereby enable Czar Alexander I to be victorious.”
“But Tati,” Reb Dovber asked in perplexity. “Don’t we always sound the shofar at the end of our shacharis morning prayer service on Rosh HaShanah?”
The Rebbe’s eyes twinkled in the early morning night. “Yes, son, that’s true,” Reb Zalman acknowledged. “But there is a little known Halacha, rabbinical ruling, that, if necessary, the shofar can be sounded before commencing with the morning prayer service. So I will blow the shofar at hanetz hachochma, the visible rising of the sun, which is the first permitted opportunity to do so.”
Reb Zalman chuckled to himself, then added, “I can almost hear what my colleagues would say if they knew that I sounded the shofar before them. They would say something like, ‘The Litvak beat us to it.’” The Rebbe noted the affectionate nickname he had received during his days of studying under the Maggid of Mezeritch, referring to his origins in Polish-Lithuania and corresponding dialect of Yiddish.
“Tati,” Reb Dovber said, his voice cracking with anxiety, “I am grievously concerned about the battle that is no doubt about to commence at Borodino any minute. May the Almighty grant that it turn out well, for the enemy is getting the upper hand in this war. If Generals Kutuzov, Barclay, and Bagration as well as the rest of our forces are not victorious at Borodino, I fear that Napoleon will conquer Moscow and all of Russia.”
“You are correct,” the Rebbe commented ruefully and sadly. “The enemy will take Moscow.”
Reb Dovber’s face paled and he remained silent. A single tear slid down his face, getting caught on the hair of his full, dark beard. He began to tremble anxiously but silently. Reb Yossi hung his head sullenly.
“But there will soon be a change for the better,” Reb Zalman continued. “And our side will ultimately win the war. Although the enemy will take Moscow, Napoleon and his forces will enjoy no respite. Relief and deliverance will arise for us, and so it will be inscribed for us in the Heavenly records this Rosh HaShanah.”
“But, Tati,” Reb Dovber protested further, unable to process the magnitude of this tragic prediction. “The enemy has not taken Moscow as of yet.”
“Napoleon will certainly take Moscow,” the Rebbe affirmed grimly. “And even though Bonaparte and his troops are already exhausted – like a corpse, in fact – his hard-won victory will lead him straight to his most coveted prize… Moscow. But immediately thereafter he will suffer a fall of incomparable humiliation, for he will not last there. His campaign is simply not sustainable. Napoleon will turn back precisely by way of White Russia.”
Reb Dovber and Reb Yossi Mendel stood nearby, somber with silence.
“What troubles me deeply is the fate of White Russia, especially our Jewish brothers and sisters living therein. When Napoleon and what’s left of his army retreats, they will leave by way of White Russia. The land and population will be devastated by the retreating enemy as the balance of the Khmelnytsky Uprising when the Cossacks committed unspeakable atrocities. In the same manner, there will undoubtedly be mortal terror and ravages.”
“Tati,” Reb Dovber protested further. “Perhaps Napoleon will go back by another direction.”
“No, Dovber,” the Rebbe insisted resolutely. “Napoleon will return through White Russia. Mark my words.”
Reb Dovber shivered further as two more tears escaped from his eyes. He thought of all of their loved ones and acquaintances remaining in White Russia who would no doubt suffer immensely if Napoleon’s Grande Armée did, in fact, retreat and plunder in the manner predicted by his father.
The Rebbe gazed at his grieving son as well as Reb Yossi Mendel, who was standing nearby in an awkward, abysmal pose. Reb Schneur Zalman set his shofar and siddur down on a small table he had set up to aid him with his prayer service. He approached Reb Dovber and embraced him warmly for a long, reassuring moment.
“You see that I am now wearing my tallis and prepared to sound the shofar,” Reb Zalman whispered soothingly. “I will not deceive you.” He placed both of his hands on Dovber’s shoulders and locked his sharp yet warm eyes onto his son’s. “Listen to me. I assure you on my very life that the enemy will not go beyond Moscow, nor will Napoleon turn northward to Petersburg. Rather, he will soon turn back; his aim will be to return home, and to find provisions for himself as he travels through White Russia. But our Russian forces will not allow him to do so, and his debacle will come soon… Believe me.”
The Rebbe patted his son’s shoulders with a final gesture of reassurance. Reb Dovber nodded finally, doing his best to console himself with his father’s words.
The distant sound of booming cannons disrupted the peaceful, cool morning air. In the east, the top rim of the sun began to rise above the horizon. The first appearance of the golden orb climbed above the green hills and trees leading to Moscow as the first sounds of battle began to grow louder.
Reb Zalman declared, “The sun is rising. It is now permitted to sound the shofar.”
Reb Schneur Zalman retrieved the shofar and solemnly recited the appropriate Hebrew blessing. More artillery pieces bellowed. He then lifted the mouthpiece to his lips and prepared to blow.
Reb Dovber and Reb Yossi Mendel listened carefully as long blasts emanated from the shofar. Long sounds probing deep into the soul; short waves mimicking repentant weeping; choppy, staccato sounds, serving as a warning of Divine judgment; all were sounded together according to the traditional order and patterns of the Rosh HaShanah liturgy. The deep, surreal blasts of the ram’s horn echoed throughout the early morning air, blending with the rumbling of faraway cannons.
One by one the Rebbe’s family and community members stepped out of their transient housing, surprised by the early sounding of the shofar but deferentially showing respect nonetheless. Sterna Segal, the Rebbe’s wife, clasped her elderly hands together in a tight position. Reb Dovber’s wife, Sheina, waddled out of the doorway of her flimsy residence, placing her hands gingerly on her nine-month pregnant stomach. Reb Sholom Shachna stood with his arm around his son and the Rebbe’s grandson, Reb Menachem Mendel, who had just celebrated his twenty-third birthday.
The founder of the Chabad movement finished sounding the shofar as his family, friends, and some of his community listened in a most somber manner. The sounds of thundering cannons continued to echo in the distance, marking the commencement of the day’s battle.
* * *
Kapitan Mikhail Novikov grunted as he raised a heavy log onto a wide mound of dirt. Poruchik Vano used the butt of his rifle to dig into the grassy dirt, adding to the height of the fortifications. Mikhail exhaled heavily as he released the large cylinder of wood into the proper position. Vano Džugi paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. Mikhail Novikov approached him, carefully adjusting the bandage on his cheek and face as he sipped briefly from a skin of water.
“That’s just like you, Vano,” Mikhail chided facetiously with the corners of his mouth twisting upward in a slight smile. “You always were a slacker when it came time to build redoubts and fortifications.”
Vano glanced upward, then grinned upon seeing Mikhail’s own smile just under the bandage covering half of his face. The Russian-Jewish captain handed the Romani lieutenant the water skin, and he thirstily downed several gulps.
Vano replied quietly, “A lot has changed since our days in the cantonist school under the ‘tutelage’ of that despicable devil, Oleg.”
“Indeed it has,” Mikhail concurred as he watched the sun make its first appearance above the New Smolensk road and the Old Smolensk road, both leading to Moscow. Mikhail’s light brown horse neighed his white nose, being tethered nearby.
“Tell me honestly, Mikhail,” Vano inquired in a terse whisper. “Do you think we will be victorious today?”
Kapitan Mikhail Novikov sombered. He said nothing at first, instead glancing about him. Over one hundred and twenty thousand Russian soldiers manned the lines and fortifications stretching over five miles from the Moscow River through the village of Borodino down to the settlement of Utitsa and the surrounding forest. In between those two points, several fortified defenses had been hastily constructed, namely the Raevsky Redoubt and Bagration’s flèches, a network of arrow-shaped, reinforced mounds. Over six hundred artillery pieces had been shoved up against the walls of the long line of defenses.
As the sun rose, Kapitan Mikhail peered into the western horizon. The first vibrant rays of the dawn illuminated the Grande Armée. Nearly one hundred and fifty thousand enemy soldiers – mostly French, but also some Polish, Italian, and other allies – all shifted into their affiliated combat formations at the direction of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. Thousands of cavalry soldiers trotted into position as more than five hundred cannons glimmered in the golden light of the early morning.
Mikhail turned back to Vano, gazing into the searching eyes of his companion. He still said nothing, and Vano understood the pessimistic message in his silence.
Vano nodded and sighed. “Our forces fought valiantly at the frontmost positions of the Shevardino Redoubt the night before last when the French army arrived. But they nonetheless failed and were defeated.” The poruchik then asked suddenly, “Mikhail, do you believe in the existence of an Almighty Creator?”
Mikhail paused, surprised by the unexpected inquiry that coincidentally mirrored the piercing question the first Rebbe of Chabad had once asked him nearly two years before. He thought for a moment, looking about him. He glanced down into the grass in front of him. A colorful butterfly climbed onto a yellow wildflower, milling about in search of sweet, sticky nectar for breakfast. The Russian Jewish officer reached down into the grass and gingerly retrieved the insect. He held her close to his face and examined her closely. The delicate creature with orange, black, and purple wings crawled in the palm of his hand in confusion.
“I am not entirely certain what I believe,” Mikhail commented after a moment. “But sometimes I look at the world around me – the sky, the clouds, the stars, the animals, our fellow human beings – and I don’t see how it’s possible that this entire universe couldn’t have some kind of Creator. In some ways the world seems so random and cruel, and in others it seems so perfectly and intricately designed. Take this butterfly, for instance. It is merely an insect, but is perfect… beautiful even. And while there are countless millions of butterflies all over the world, no two are alike.”
Succumbing to eventual annoyance, the butterfly spread her wings and fluttered into the air in search of new feeding grounds. Mikhail smiled slightly as the insect disappeared from view.
“I feel the same way about human beings,” Mikhail continued. “No two people are alike. For as much as we are the same, no two people are identical. Each person – each soul – is intricate and complex. I have met a Jewish rabbi named Schneur Zalman who excels in wisdom. He ponders and discusses these types of spiritual questions at length with his community, including my mother’s cousin, Yossi Mendel. Me? Well, I am still at the point of asking the simple questions, like where did all of this come from? Where did we come from? What does the Creator want from us? What does it all mean? I guess my answer to your question is that yes, I do believe in a Supreme Being and Creator, but I don’t pretend to know Him or understand Him.”
Džugi nodded thoughtfully. He then added ruefully, “You know, it’s kind of funny when you think about it. For well over twenty years we have fought for and served an Empire that has abused us and mistreated us. And now we are the only thing that stands between a new monster and the crown jewel of Russia – Moscow. They ruined our lives and now that they are in danger, it is now once again our responsibility to sacrifice our lives for their well-being.”
“You are wrong about that, Vano,” Mikhail countered. “I am not here to fight for the czar. I am here to fight for my people and for my family… what little is left of them,” he commented, thinking for a brief moment of his relatives, Reb Yossi Mendel and his wife, children, and grandchildren. “And,” Mikhail added as he placed his hand on Vano’s shoulder. “I am here to fight for my friends. With the help of the Almighty Creator – assuming He does exist – we will live together. Otherwise…” Mikhail’s voice trailed off for a moment and then returned with a firm resolve. “Then we will die together.”
Vano Džugi reciprocated the gesture, placing his own hands on Mikail’s arms. “You have always been very kind to me, Mikhail, even when no one else was.” Vano’s dark brown eyes peered into his companion’s as he used his first name rather than the appropriate military rank and title. “If it comes down to it, then it will be an honor to die by your side today. K’cherta tsarya… Rudi druzhby. Forget the czar… For friendship.”
Mikhail smiled. “For friendshi–”
Over one hundred enemy cannons erupted in a single moment. Dirt and debris exploded on the redoubts and fortifications as incoming cannonballs soared into the structures. Russian artillery responded in turn, bombarding the lines of French troops.
Kapitan Mikhail shouted, “Take your battle positions!”
END OF SAMPLE