Once upon a time, long, long ago and far, far away in the land of the Sultans, there lived a man named Shlomo who was so poor that he could not even feed his family. Every day he set out with hope in his heart that he could perform enough small tasks to be paid enough so that he and his family could survive, but every day those hopes were dashed. And why? You see, the Sultan was a cruel, hard-hearted ruler who hated the Jews. He created rules that made life in his lands almost impossible for any Jews living there. And any breach of his inhumanly strict laws was an excuse for cruel punishment.
One day this poor man could stand it no longer. Out of extreme hunger, and with grief over the plight of his tiny family, Shlomo brazenly stole a single loaf of bread from the baker in the market.
Immediately, the Sultan’s guards grabbed Shlomo, dragged him to the dungeons and threw him into a dark, dank cell to await his punishment: death by hanging the next day.
Poor Shlomo sat on the ground of his filthy cell and wept for his sad life and for the plight of his family. He rose and began pacing like a caged animal. And then, remembering himself, he called from his place of grief to the Holy One of Blessing, pouring out his heart in tears.
As he stood there, Shlomo absent-mindly placed his hand in his pocket. There he felt something small and hard. He pulled it out and gazed at it in the dim light. A seed: a pomegranate seed. How long had it been there? A seed—of hope? Shlomo’s heart began to race. A seed! Yes, of course, a seed!
Shlomo’s voice rang out through the long, dark hallway of the dungeon. “Guards! Guards!” The guards came running down the hall, their footsteps reverberating against the stone walls.
“What is it, prisoner? How dare you disturb our rest!”
By this time, Shlomo was slowly pacing back and forth, rocking on his heels, holding the pomegranate seed, at peace, a smile playing on his face in the shadows. As he stood there in the cell, he was humming a niggun, a little, wordless melody.
“Well, what is it, Jew?”
Shlomo held up the seed for them to see. “I was just seeing this tiny seed and remembering something. It is too bad that the secret will die with me...”
“What secret, Jew? All things are known or will be known by the Sultan! Speak! Tell us!”
“Oh, I could not possibly tell you. This secret is for the ears of the Sultan.”
The guards held up their spears, their eyes flashing with anger. “Tell us, Jew, or you will now die right here!”
Silence fell in the dungeon. Shlomo the Jew pondered his fate.
“It’s only a seed. There’s nothing more to it.”
Then, “Tell us. Tell us now!”
“Slowly he began, “Really? Well, I suppose I could tell you part of the story. You see...” The guards bent closer, listening intensely. Now here was something that could allay the boredom of their lives.
“This is no ordinary seed. It is a pomegranate seed, a magic pomegranate seed. If it is planted, by the next day a full pomegranate tree will have grown in its place, covered with ripe fruit.”
The guards laughed, their coarse voices reverberating through the passageways of the dungeon.
“That is ridiculous, Jew! Why did we waste our time with you? Come, let us torture other prisoners. This one is pitiful.” And they began walking away.
Shlomo waited until they had turned on their heels to go. Then softly he said, “This secret was taught to me from my father, who heard it from his father, and so on for generations of our family. It is true, as I stand here...”
The guards stopped in their tracks. Surely they had heard the tales of how the Jews were possessed, how they knew magic and dark arts. What if it were true? Wouldn’t the Sultan grant them a grand reward if the story were really true? Should they miss this opportunity?
Off went the guards, disappearing into the darkness. Not knowing what they were doing, Shlomo collapsed onto the filthy floor of his cell. With a heavy heart, he fell into a restless sleep.
Shlomo awoke to the sound of quick, heavy footsteps, the clanking of keys, the creaking open of the rusty barred door of his tiny cell.
“Up! On your feet, Jew! Up now! Walk on your miserable legs. Prepare to meet your destiny!”
Shlomo was led through the maze of the dungeon, up, up the worn rock steps, and out into the blessed light of the courtyard. Then, across the courtyard he was dragged, straight to the royal palace, down hallways and into the sumptuous room of the Sultan himself. The Sultan was propped upon silk pillows of all colors; his richly brocaded robe swirled about him. Tapestries danced upon the walls, and intricate rugs rested upon the marble floors. The Sultan was surrounded by well-dressed and well-armed guards who were fanning him gently. Fruits and other delicacies of every kind and color were artfully displayed upon golden trays. Shlomo’s mouth watered in hunger.
Shlomo’s eyes were surely deceiving him, but yes! This was the Sultan himself before him, gazing down at him cruelly.
When the Sultan spoke, it was with a voice of gravelly disdain, tinted with just a hint of curiosity.
“So, Jew! Jew thief, Jew liar. What have you told my guards? Speak, Jew!”
Shlomo stood, weak but proud, before the potentate. He paused.
“Speak, Jew! Speak now, for soon we shall hang you.” A smile played about the Sultan’s face.
Taking a deep breath, lightly touching the pomegranate seed in the pocket of his tattered pants, and offering a pleading prayer—”Please forgive me, Holy One, for telling this tale!”—Shlomo began.
“Sire, Sire, there is a tradition in my family.” Shlomo’s voice grew in strength as he quickly continued.
“In every generation in my poor family, which used to be wealthy and well-known, there has been a secret passed down to the eldest alone, a secret which has been preserved for centuries.”
The Sultan leaned forward as he bit into a ripe apricot, the juice running down his beard as he spoke.
.... There is more of this story ...