It was Motzoei Shabbos.
The Bobover Rebbe had come to Bnei Brak to escort a new
sefer Torah to the Bobover Shul. Little cheder
boys, carrying lit torches and dressed in long sleeved white
shirts and navy blue trousers, marched in a spectacular
parade to amplified music that resounded throughout the
streets of the city. From all directions, people were
hurrying over to join the joyous procession that followed the
Rebbe, who, dancing and singing, carried in embrace a newly
written Torah scroll beneath a swaying chuppa.
Wherever you looked, you saw kerchiefed women pushing baby
carriages, children of all ages, yeshiva boys, men and women,
girls in long braids joining the procession to give honor to
the Torah. The porches all along Rechov Chazon Ish were
packed with spectators who, at the sound of the music, had
come out of their houses to see what was going on.
The happy procession arrived at the shul. There the Rebbe,
carrying the holy scroll as though it were a beloved child,
placed it gently in the holy Ark.
"Lamnatzeiach..." he cried out with joy and
trepidation and the congregation joined him in the psalm of
thanksgiving and praise.
The Rebbe then asked if it would be possible for him to visit
Pa before he joined the festive meal.
I hurried to prepare Pa for the unusual visit.
It was already ten o'clock. Pa was in bed. He was alarmed to
find me in his room at that late hour. After reassuring him
that all was well, I told him why I'd come.
When Pa heard that the Bobover Rebbe wanted to visit him, he
got very nervous. Then he looked around to see if the room
was presentable.
"Wash out that glass, hang up that robe, put the shoes inside
the closet, hang the zek'l out on the porch.
Straighten that picture on the wall," he ordered, sounding
like an army sergeant, and I hurried to carry out his orders.
When he seemed satisfied with the way the room looked, he
leaned back on his pillows, exhausted.
"Come, Pa," I told him. "let me help you out of bed. You'll
put on your robe and sit on your chair over there."
When he was sitting at his table, he put on his
shreitmel, smoothed his beard and payos and
nervously leaned forward in anticipation of the Rebbe's
visit.
You could see that he was overwhelmed with a rush of feeling.
At first, he looked as though he didn't believe that what I'd
told him could be true. I must have made a mistake, hadn't
understood what they'd said. For after all, who was he that
the Rebbe would accord him such an honor?
Then he was radiant, bursting with joy to be granted an
audience with the holy man. And then, he was pensive.
Pa's brows were pinched together, his eyes were sharp and
piercing. You could see him searching his mind for the right
words to say, for the most relevant request to make at such a
moment. He needed so much. How would he ever find the few
simple words from which the Rebbe would understand
everything, when he couldn't concentrate?
Pa was so agitated, angry at himself for being unable to rise
to the occasion and take advantage of such a rare
opportunity. Because Pa knew without a doubt that if he told
the Rebbe what he needed, the Rebbe would pray for him and
his prayers would be answered. But what could Pa do? As hard
as he tried, he wasn't able to pull his thoughts together.
The anticipation of the Rebbe's coming was suddenly too much
for Pa to handle. He leaned back again, exhausted.
I was beginning to question if the Rebbe coming to visit Pa
had been such a good idea.
We waited for the Rebbe to arrive. My thoughts drifted back
in time, many years before; soon after Ma's death, our family
had spent a Shabbos together with the Bobover Rebbe in his
shtetl in Bat Yam.
Pa had been in bad shape then, but Meyer had insisted that he
come along for Shabbos. Bobover chassidim from all over the
world were coming to Eretz Yisroel to be together with the
Rebbe that Shabbos. How would it look if Pa, a Bobover
chossid all his life, from Bobov, itself, already living in
Eretz Yisroel, wouldn't go?
Everybody was already dressed for Shabbos when our family got
there on Friday afternoon. Colored lights were strung along
the path that led from the shul to the Rebbe's house, where
the entire community was quickly assembling.
The women, stout, outfitted in their dignified best, stood at
the side. Freshly braided girls in ribbons, long white
stockings and patent leather shoes, chattered excitedly. It
wasn't often that the Rebbe came to Eretz Yisroel. It was
unusual for his shtetl to host so many guests.
The Rebbe's door opened. He was immediately swallowed up in a
tight circle of black shiny coats that rushed his way. In
every chossid's face was the hope to be noticed, the wish to
catch the Rebbe's eye. Each one pushed to get closer to the
holy man as he made his way to shul.
The Rebbe's youthful gait defied the grey in his beard, the
white in his earlocks. His eyes flashed. His face shone. In
satin cloak and sable hat, he towered high above his
chassidim.
Black, swaying figures filled the shul: bowing, bending,
clapping hands. Heads shook from side to side, arms reached
out, eyes shut tight... The spirit of prayer was fierce and
fervent: a rumble of oceans, thundering skies. The Rebbe
stood, his arms spread wide and in quivering voice welcomed
the Sabbath.
Women and girls standing on top of the tables and benches
pressed against the mechitza, straining to see the
Rebbe. The prayer was the sound of a soul calling, the song
was an angel's hymn. In a worldless stirring tune, souls
cried out silently in longing.
The niggun throbbed, swelled, burst out in yearning,
stretching to the source of all souls. Prayers and tears were
not always enough to enable one to unite with Hashem's
spirit, and the added dimension of joy through song was
needed to make the connection.
Overwhelmed, I had wondered: was this one of the tunes that
the Levites had sung in the Beis Hamikdosh, songs that had
stirred men's soul and awakened a nation, speaking when words
failed?
Afterwards, the Rebbe, a happy smile on his face, greeted
each chossid by name, then conducted the Shabbos meal,
nibbling a small amount of food and passing the platters on
to the rest of the chassidim. They held the food in their
hands and ate in deep concentration. Every face expressed the
wish that, having eaten from their Rebbe's shirayim,
they, too, would become holy.
The Rebbe raised a finger, then spoke in a whisper, both
gentle and fierce, full of both anger and softness,
chastising, making demands, begging his followers to be good
Jews. Then he looked around, lifted his arms and declared,
"Come, let us rejoice together."
The chassidim rose and circled the room; no one remained
seated except for the Rebbe and his young grandson. It was
already two in the morning, but the child was wide awake:
observing and absorbing. Some invisible chain seemed to
connect him to the Rebbe and both to all the chassidim.
Then the Rebbe jumped up, spread his arms, and began running
back and forth the length of the room, reaching, groping,
searching, yearning, beseeching Peace and Blessings for his
flock. Curious people from the neighborhood, hearing the song
and seeing the colored lights, came and remained standing in
awe, eyes glued to the dancing figure.
The song of the chassidim grew louder and when the Rebbe
danced through the door into the star-filled night, they all
danced after him and escorted him home.
*
I was awakened from my reverie by the sound of a car pulling
up to the curb. There was a low hum of voices and footsteps
in the hall. I had left the door to Pa's room open and the
Rebbe suddenly stood there.
His beard and sidelocks were silver white. He wore his
shtreimel and held a walking stick in his hand like an
aristocrat, straight and royal in black satin. A smile
illuminated his face.
Tears immediately rushed to Pa's eyes and as is customery in
the presence of royalty, he struggled to get to his feet,
pushing his hands down on the arms of chair and with a
herculean effort, stood tall, for a moment.
"Zitz, Reb Mendel, zitz!" the Rebbe called out,
hurrying over to Pa's form. But knowing that Pa would remain
standing until he, himself sat, down, the Rebbe immediately
pulled over another chair.
They sat opposite each other, talking like old friends,
reminiscing about the old days in Bobov when they were both
young men.
"Nu, Reb Mendel," the Rebbe finally asked when he saw
that Pa was more relaxed. "Vee gait ess, how are
things?"
Pa gave a deep sigh, looked into the Rebbe's face, trembled
and whispered, "S'iz shver! It's hard!"
And in those two words, Pa had said everything and the Rebbe
had understood.
"Reb Mendel," the Rebbe cried out in a voice that rang of
love, "in the portion of this week it says, `LaYehudim
hoyso ohr bemoshvoseihem.' Though there was darkness in
all of Egypt, for the Jews there was light. Reb Mendel, by
Jews there is always light.
"Reb Mendel, I was recently in Toronto. You wouldn't believe
it. The city is full of yingeleit with beards and
shtreimlach, little boys with gekraiszilte
payos. You were the one who prepared Toronto for this
religious rebirth; without models such as you, ready to
sacrifice everything for Shabbos and mitzvos and a
Jewish education for your children, it could never have
happened. You laid the cornerstone.
"You know, I came to Bnei Brak to escort a new sefer
Torah to a Bobover shul. It was a beautiful ceremony, to
which I must now return. But before I go, Reb Mendel, let me
introduce you to my son who brought me here and then we'll
drink a l'chayim together."
The Rebbe asked for some shnaps and filled several
cups, passed them around to whoever had gathered by then.
Then he took Pa's hand in his own, lifted his eyes to heaven
and in a voice that vibrated wtih feeling, called out,
"L'chayim Reb Mendel! To life and to light, Reb
Mendel. Remember, for a Jew there is always light."
They both drained their cups. And then the Rebbe was gone.
When I helped Pa into bed that night, he seemed almost
weightless. And when I closed the light and said, "Good
night," his eyes glowed in the dark like two burning
candles.
