Some 250 years ago in the town of Mezhibuzh, the Baal Shem Tov - the founder of Chassidut - sat secluded in intense study with one of his chassidim, Reb Wolff Kitzis.

The Baal Shem Tov had chosen Reb Wolff for the honor of blowing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. With just a day to go before the awesome day was to begin, the Baal Shem Tov was now teaching his disciple all the secret hidden meanings that he should meditate upon while sounding the various blasts.

But despite his sincere efforts to master the many mystical meanings, Reb Wolff was no kabbalist. It was impossible for him to remember by heart what to meditate upon with which blast, and so he decided to write everything down on a little piece of paper. That way, when the time came, he would be able to use his notes to jog his memory.

The Baal Shem Tov, however, was displeased when he saw what Reb Wolff was doing - for divine secrets such as these were not meant to be recorded for all eyes to see. But he did not say a word to his chassid.

The study session came to an end, and Reb Wolff stuffed the slip of paper into his coat pocket. The Baal Shem Tov watched as his disciple made his way down the path. When Reb Wolff had gone about half way, he stopped to take a handkerchief out of his pocket and - unbeknownst to him - the little slip of paper came flying out, too.

Reb Wolff continued on his way, while the slip of paper was carried by a gust of wind to a nearby stream. Now that the Baal Shem Tov was sure that the writing was being washed away by the waters of the stream, he was able to regain his usual composure.

The awesome moment of blowing the shofar in the synagogue finally arrived, and Reb Wolff made his way to the bimah (podium) with trembling knees. He was well aware of the great responsibility that had been placed upon him, and thankful that he had had the foresight to write down all the divine mysteries. When he reached inside his pocket for the little slip of paper, however, he began to tremble even more - for, of course, the paper was not there.

But slip of paper or no slip of paper, Reb Wolff still had a job to do. With a broken heart he began the solemn task of sounding the shofar. But with each blast of the shofar a new burst of tears began to flow down his face, because he was so saddened that he could not remember even a single divine mystery that he had been taught.

After the shofar service was over, Reb Wolff humbly returned to his seat. He was too ashamed to look the Baal Shem Tov in the eye, for his heart ached that he had let down his rebbe and the entire congregation.

The Baal Shem Tov came up to Reb Wolff after all the morning prayers were over, and to Reb Wolff's amazement, the face of the Baal Shem Tov glowed with happiness.

"You should know," the Baal Shem Tov said to his chassid, "that in a king's palace there are many locked rooms and each room has its own key. But there is one implement that can open all the doors of the palace and that is an ax.

"So, too, in the World Above there are numerous gates to the King's palace," the Baal Shem Tov continued. "The kabbalistic mysteries I taught you, the kavanos, are the keys to these gates. But just as an ax can break through every door in this world below, there is one thing that can open all the gates of all the heavenly palaces above. Do you know what that one thing is, Reb Wolff?"

Reb Wolff was still so overcome by emotion that he could only shake his head "no" in reply.

"It is a broken and humble heart," said the Baal Shem Tov. "With your tears, you opened all the gates of Heaven and brought down upon us a myriad of blessings for the coming year."

Reb Elimelech of Lyzhansk (1717- 1786) was one of the great masters of the Chassidic movement, and so it was no surprise that many would flock to his town to observe how the master performed the mitzvot.

A few days before Yom Kippur, a certain wealthy chassid came to Lyzhansk for just that purpose. It is customary during this time to perform the symbolic ceremony of "kapparos" (atonement). In this ceremony, a person takes a live rooster or hen and then swings the bird three times above his or her head, while saying the words: "This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my expiation."

(Today most people wrap money in a handkerchief and swing the handkerchief over their heads. The money is then immediately donated to charity.)

The wealthy chassid had come to Lyzhansk many times for Yom Kippur, but he had never seen his rebbe perform this ceremony. This year, he was resolved to finally see how kapparos was done by a master. Much to his surprise, however, Reb Elimelech refused his request.

"There's nothing so special about the way I do kapparos," Reb Elimelech told his chassid. "But if you want to see a really fine way to perform this mitzvah, go to a certain chassid of mine named Reb Moshe who lives in the next village."

Although the hour was already late, the chassid did not tarry. Within minutes, he had his horses harnessed to his carriage and he was on his way. It was already almost midnight when he approached the home of the man called Reb Moshe.

When the chassid stepped inside, he was appalled at what he saw. Reb Moshe earned his living by running a small tavern in the front room of his house. This tavern was frequented by the local gentiles - who now sat sprawled across the room in various stages of drunkenness as they puffed away at their smoke-spewing pipes.

The chassid's first thought, as he gazed about the room, was to leave the premises immediately and return to Lyzhansk - for what sparks of holiness could possibly be found in this sorry place? But then he spied Reb Moshe coming towards him, and he remembered why he had come.

"I would like a room for the night," the chassid said to Reb Moshe.

"There's a comfortable inn another ten miles down the road," the tavern keeper replied. "You'll do much better there, than here."

"But it's late," the chassid insisted.

"But I have no spare room to give you," the tavern keeper replied with equal persistence.

"So I'll sleep…" The chassid glanced about the smoke-filled room and then pointed to a corner near the stove, "…here."

"Do as you wish," the tavern keeper said wearily, for it had been a long day and he still had much work to do.

At the stroke of midnight, the tavern keeper began to ask his customers to leave. With some, a tap on the shoulder was enough to rouse them from their inebriated reverie and send them on their way home. Others, however, needed a firm hand to stand them on their feet and direct them out the door. But finally the tavern was empty.

With a sigh of relief, Reb Moshe flung the windows open wide and breathed in deeply the fresh night air. Then he straightened up the tables and chairs and gave the floor a good scrubbing.

When he was satisfied that all was in order, he called out to his wife: "Yente-Beile, please bring me the notebook that is sitting on top of the bureau."

His wife brought him the requested notebook, and then Reb Moshe sat down at one of the tables and began to read from the pages in a low undertone. By now he had forgotten all about the chassid, who sat quietly in the corner.

As he read through the various entries listed in the notebook, tears began to well up in his eyes - for in this notebook he had recorded all his transgressions from the previous year.

"Seventh of Cheshvan," Reb Moshe whispered, "said the Shema after the prescribed time. Twentieth of Cheshvan, spoke harshly to the serving girl."

By the time he had read the last entry on the last page, he was sobbing from the depths of his heart.

"Ribbono Shel Olam! Master of the Universe!" he called out, "didn't I promise You last Yom Kippur that I would mend my ways and be a good and pious Jew? Now see what's become of me - it's all written plain as day in this book! I'm so full of sins, how can I possibly stand before You this year?"

Reb Moshe sobbed some more, and then he carefully placed the little notebook to one side.

'"Yente-Beile, my sweet wife, " he called out to his wife a second time. "Please now bring me the second notebook, the one that's on top of the other bureau."

From this notebook, too, he read from quietly, one entry after another.

"Tenth of Tevet, three days worth of firewood stolen by thieves," Reb Moshe said calmly. "Twenty-third of Adar, two ribs broken by a drunken peasant. Second of Iyar, my little girl Leah passed away."

When he had finished recounting all the sorrows that had befallen him during the previous year, Reb Moshe called out to G-d once more.

"Ribbono Shel Olam," he cried, "last Yom Kippur didn’t I clearly ask You to give me a year of blessing and life and peace? Didn't I trust You, and believe that You would listen to my prayers? And now, look at the year that You gave me. It's all written here in this notebook, plain as day."

Reb Moshe wept some more and then he carefully place the second notebook on top of the first.

"But what can I do?" he said with a sigh. '"This is the eve of Yom Kippur, and all Jews are commanded to forgive one another before the holy day begins. So, Ribbono Shel Olam, let's You and me also put aside our accusations against each other and say we're even. I'll forgive You - and You'll forgive me. Okay?"

With that, Reb Moshe took a heavy piece of cord and tied the two notebooks together. He swung the little bundle over his head three times and said, with great enthusiasm, "This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my expiation."

And then he tossed the bundle out the window.

The chassid, who had been sitting in the corner all this time, now stood up and went over to Reb Moshe. With great gratitude, he warmly thanked the tavern keeper for showing him the way a master performs kapparos.

It had been pouring down buckets of rain since the early hours of the morning, and by now the dirt roads of the town of Lechovitch had turned into rivers of mud. The town's rebbe, Reb Mordechai of Lechovitch (died 1810), stood at the window and gazed upwards, in the hope that he would see some sign that the storm clouds were finally about to pass.

That evening the holiday of Sukkot would begin, and all the Jews would leave the warmth of their homes to dwell in the little temporary booths they had built in fulfillment of the Torah's commandment. But if it continued to pour throughout the night, it would be impossible to fulfill the commandment - a bad omen for the coming year.

Seeing that the clouds appeared to be determined to stay where they were, Reb Mordechai let out a sigh. He was about to turn away from the window to begin his final preparations for the holiday when he noticed a thin, ragged figure limping down the muddy path that led to his door. It was the village cobbler, who was lame in one leg and eked out a miserable living that barely sustained his family with bread.

Reb Mordechai was known for his many charitable acts, and so it was not uncommon for the poor folk to come to his door with one request or another. He was glad that he still had a bottle of wine and a challah to give to the cobbler, for he was certain that it was food for the holiday that the poor man needed. But much to his surprise, the cobbler had a very different request.

"'Reb Mordechai," the cobbler pleaded, "do you still have a few planks of wood so I can build my sukkah?"

Now, in the few days between Yom Kippur and Sukkot, Reb Mordechai was accustomed to amass a fine store of planks of wood, which he would then distribute to all the poor people who needed them. But by now - just a few hours before the holiday was to begin - all the wood had already been given out.

Reb Mordechai's heart nearly broke when he saw how sad the cobbler looked upon hearing the news - but what could he do? He couldn't manufacture planks of wood out of thin air. And so the cobbler was forced to go begging from door to door, in the hope that one of the villagers might have an unused plank or two still lying around.

As Reb Mordechai watched the cobbler make his way in the pouring rain, he could not help but cry out to G-d.

"Ribbono Shel Olam," he exclaimed, "see how Your children cherish the mitzvah of dwelling in a sukkah! See with what self-sacrifice they strive to perform it. Look down at this poor, lame cobbler who is tramping through the mud and the mire, getting soaked to the bone from the pouring rain, because he wants to perform Your mitzvah!

"Look down from Your dwellling place," Reb Mordechai continued. 'Look down and bless Your People, Israel. And just as we build our sukkot for You, spread out Your Sukkah of Peace over us!"

When the tzaddik had finished his prayer, he suddenly remembered that he had a few planks of wood from the previous year stored up in the attic. He quickly brought down the wood and called to his attendant to run after the cobbler and tell him the good news.

"And while you're at it," Reb Mordechai called out after his attendant, "help that cobbler build his sukkah, too!"

For Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (1772 -1810), the main holiday of the year was Rosh Hashanah.

"As soon as Rosh Hashanah is over," he would tell his chassidim, "I listen to hear if there is a knocking on the doors, if Jews are once again rousing themselves to say their penitential prayers.

"For in no time at all, the whole year passes by in a twinkling of an eye…"