Dei'ah veDibur - Information & Insight

A Window into the Chareidi World

5 Adar II 5765 - March 16, 2005 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly







The Fire of Torah

by M. Levin

Learning Daf Yomi for an hour a day is a great and wonderful thing to do. But there are higher levels of dedication to Torah.

"Wherever you walk it will guide you" — in this world.

"When you lie down it will protect you" — in death.

And when you awaken, it will converse with you" — in the Next World.

(Sotah 21)


Aryeh Leib was only twelve-years-old, though he had an almost new winter suit and a matching cap that his mother had sewn for him. In addition to the clothes keeping him warm, they also helped him find work, sometimes. Just sometimes.

Yesterday, for example, he stood around the wagon-drivers' square in the neighboring village from the early morning onwards. "Schlepping, cleaning, horse-feeding, baggage loading, helping with wagon-fixing," he recited to all who came near. He agreed to almost any type of work, except for fixing ovens, "because I don't know how," he would say apologetically. He tried everything else.

He already collected broken branches from the nearby woods, cleaned village attics and schlepped things many times. He would leave early for the neighboring towns and offer help with the milking, cleaning, and whatever else needed to be done. He would simultaneously stretch out his hand to beg for food. Everyone knew him and many others like him in the surrounding villages, as Lithuania was filled with hungry refugees at the time that the footsteps of the retreating Russian Army could still be seen in the snow on the sides of the streets and in the bakeries.

He had one more possibility: he could make his way through the hole that he discovered once in the bakery fence and then wait until the bread wagon would pass by. Then he could carefully "help himself" to one single loaf of bread.

He never did it, although it was a trick known to everyone, and the bakery even ignored those small orphans. He never did it. Because once, when he was still a small boy, his father told him that he would some day become a ben Torah.


They had just finished reviewing the Mishnayos that he had learned that day in cheder. His father gave him a pleased little pinch on the cheek and closed the Mishnayos with a little pat.

There was a comfortable quiet. Not completely quiet, as the logs crackled in the big stone oven. Not surprisingly. The winter was really cold and Peter made sure to bring a cart laden with wood to the village square, and to call out "Wood! Dry wood, dirt cheap!" His teacher taught them that it's even possible to tell two lies in four words. Everyone knows that it's impossible to buy dry wood in the winter. And, besides that, Peter's "dirt cheap" means five whole Polish zlotys. Okay, it's because he's a goy . . .

The black sewing machine, trimmed in gold, creaked under Mother's hands. Now she's sewing a festive Shabbos dress for Feiga-Nechoma, the trader's wife whose daughter was getting married in three weeks.

"Raizel," Father said suddenly, and Mother's sewing machine stopped for a quick breather. "Our son learns very well; he'll be just like our Yosha."

Mother's eyes turned to him, pleased, the way thin material slides under the machine's needle.

Yosha. The big brother away in yeshiva, whom they mention with a trembling of love and longing. The one who sends letters in a hurried scrawl. The brother who comes home once a year with Shaul, his chavrusa, the son of Zelig the baker. Then they go to speak in learning with the rav; and Father takes him to Betzalel the shoemaker and to Asher the tailor. Mother bakes two full trays of piping-hot cookies and packs them up. He, the little brother, looks at this big brother of his with a mixture of emotion and awe. The yeshiva bochur.

"You'll go far away to yeshiva some day." Father's voice was warm and friendly. "Sometimes you'll have food; sometimes you won't. The way to the beis medrash will be blocked by snow in the winter, full of mud in the summer, and there will be very small, wet logs in the fireplace. But you'll learn. And the day will come when you'll be a ben Torah."


That was so long ago, even before Mother sewed him his winter suit, even before the War. But since then he doesn't lie, because is it right for someone who can grow up to be like Yosha — someone who can become a ben Torah — to steal?

Aryeh Leib was in a big hurry. He didn't stop in the foyer to wipe his shoes, but headed for the creaking wooden stairs. In his pocket he had a big treasure — two thin slices of bread wrapped in thin, noisy paper that he found in the street, and another slice in his other pocket, marked by a fold in the wrapping paper. Now he stood next to the door, grasped the handle and pushed it open.

Thirty-four little heads turned towards him. Thirty-four little girls, orphans in a remote orphanage in the Lithuanian town of Ramigol. He scanned them with his eyes until he found the eyes full of expectation. "Come," he said to them tersely.

They came. Two little girls. Nine-year-old Chasia and six-and- a-half-year-old Rochel-Leah'le. It's true that he was only twelve, young to have the responsibility of providing for his sisters. But there was no choice.

Mother was killed at the beginning of the war by the bombs. Their father disappeared down a dirt path swarming with refugees, suitcases, wagons and screams in the middle of an especially cold winter night in 1940 (5700). Vilna was overflowing with refugees and it was almost impossible to find a place to live worthy of being called habitable.

In the meantime, the Lithuanian government also ordered that people spread out. Currently, a special certificate was needed to live in the capital. That's how they arrived in Ramigol, a small town between Ponovezh and Vilkomir. An orphanage numbering exactly thirty-two girls had been established there.

"It's not the space that's the problem." Golda spoke to him with the knot of her headscarf facing him, while animatedly stirring the watery soup. "There's no food! I have a way to get food for thirty-two girls, no more."

Nu, so he promised to bring them food every day. He didn't yet know how difficult it would be, but even if he had known he wouldn't have refused. As the eldest, it was his responsibility to take care of everyone. He could sleep in some corner on the street, but them? He was happy to know that things were good for them; that their hair was combed every day and that they had a warm bed.

There were special moments, like seeing them make a brochoh in a quiet whisper or when Chasia's eyes thanked him wordlessly. Or when Rochel-Leah leaned on him like a baby, carefully chewing the tastiest piece of bread in the whole world. How good it was that she had a big brother! She knew that everyone was looking at her kind of jealously, but she didn't care. Let everyone know that she wasn't another plain orphan like that. She even had a very big brother, all of twelve-years-old!

Aryeh Leib wanted to stay with them a little longer, to tell them a story or to just sit together, but he knew that it wasn't appropriate with thirty-two little girls looking at him, small, orphans, who didn't have a brother who brings them slices of bread, who came every day after "play time." He went into the kitchen, asked quickly how Golda, the housemother, was doing and inquired how they're behaving.

"Your mother has real Jewish nachas from them." Her words played over and over in his head. "She can be proud of them."


Nights he would stretch out his hand, pleading, "Dear Jews, help the orphan children." There was nothing unusual about that. Lithuania of 1940 (5700) was full of parentless children and full of parents bereaved of their children. No one had extra bread. Only rarely did he get a piece of bread from someone. He would eat before going to bed and save the piece in his pocket for the next day. But those times were rare. Most of the time his hand remained empty, pleading.

He went to the shul in the alley. The lights were still on and the children tossed and turned, murmuring or crying in their sleep. The refugees filled every corner: They were next to the bookcases, between the benches, on top of the oven and behind it, around the bimoh, in the women's section and in the entrance-hall. He maneuvered himself between the spread-out parcels, and repeated over and over again, "Dear Jews, help the orphan children." He made his way around the sanctuary, alternately begging and stepping over things, his outstretched hand in front of him. When he got to the Ark he stopped.

No one dared to claim the space next to the ark. Three wide steps of stone — and what was that?

Someone placed a bench horizontally so as to block the path to the ark. Two additional benches formed a square, and in the center sat a bochur, his eyes fixed on a large open gemora as if he were completely united with the words. A yeshiva bochur.

Aryeh Leib bypassed the benches with one big leap and came close to the young man. He put his hands in his pockets; one doesn't ask for food from a yeshiva bochur. He had another type of question for him.

"Excuse me," he said, tapping the bochur's shoulder gently, "Do you know a yeshiva bochur by the name of Eidelman from Vidishok?"

The bochur lifted up his eyes and gave the boy a penetrating look. A young boy, pale-faced with sober, energetic eyes. Simplicity and calm mixed with intelligence in those eyes. The bochur smiled.

"I don't know. In the yeshiva world boys are usually called by their first names. What's this Eidelman's name?"


"Hmm . . . Yosha Vidishoker . . . No, I don't know him," the bochur decided finally. Disappointed, Aryeh Leib turned around and got ready to leap out, but the bochur stood up quickly and grabbed him.

"Do you have a connection to this Yosha Vidishoker?" Since when does a young boy ask about a bochur's relationship with just anyone?

The boy smiled, "He's my brother".

His brother. This boy has a brother who's a yeshiva bochur. One of those who left behind his house, his family, his town and its special way-of-life, his friends and parents and went off to yeshiva to learn. And this ben Torah has a brother who's wandering aimlessly around the big world without knowing anything about the holy Torah, without sitting even a little bit to learn . . .

"You know," said the bochur, sitting down again on the bench and making space for the boy, "if you had a brother who was a yeshiva bochur, you are doubly obligated."

Aryeh Leib sat down on the bench, wordlessly, next to the unfamiliar bochur who was now talking to him excitedly. The last candle finished sputtering and faded into darkness. Good, because in the dark of the shul, thoughts are clearer and memories stronger.

"Everyone has an obligation to learn Torah," whispered the bochur in order not to wake those sleeping behind the bench. "All of us stood at Sinai. But if your parents sent your older brother to learn Torah, if they knew how to value Torah, then you are even more obligated to learn out of respect for your parents. Your father would have definitely been happy if he knew you were going to learn."

He became quiet, studying the face next to him. The boy sat in the same stiff position, listening intently. "Okay," said the boy, and gave an adult sigh as he got up and dusted imaginary dust off his pants, "I need to think about it. Good night."

"Good night," said the bochur, regretting what he said to the boy as soon as the latter left the area with a quick leap. He had just spoken without thinking, without knowing to whom.


The night was very dense and cold. Dampness penetrated the village granary where Aryeh Leib lay down to sleep. Even the winter clothes that his mother had once sewn for him did little to keep him warm. Most nights he would fall asleep as soon as his head touched the pile of planks in the corner, but tonight he was unable to fall asleep. He sat up carefully, folded his arms and saw —

Eyes squinting in perpetual concentration that looked at you with an intense kind of stare. A pale face. Long payos that come out from behind the ears. Yosha.

Every year he would come home with Shaul, his study partner. All of Vidishok would come out excitedly to meet their yeshiva bochurim. The two friends would learn together until the wee hours of the night, by the small light in the shul. Two heads bent over one shtender. . . .

Aryeh Leib would help his father take the bed out of the shed at the edge of the yard and, together, they would set it up in his room. Chasia and Rochel-Leah'le, would be dressed in the beautiful flowered dresses that Mother had sewn for them, their braided hair tied in white ribbon. They would climb the hill next to the bathhouse and pick blossoming spring flowers.

His father — the town storekeeper with his brown boots and long woolen coat — would stay in shul between Mincha and Ma'ariv to give a daf yomi shiur to the town's ba'alei-batim. The one who happily told Mother that his son knew how to learn . . . Mother stuffed the contents of two trays' worth of cookies into a glass container for her son who learned Torah in yeshiva . . . Mother sent a warm scarf that she knit herself with Chatzkel the wagon driver so that he wouldn't be cold on his daily walk to the study hall . . .


"You are even more obligated," the bochur's voice still burned his ears. "Your father would definitely have been happy . . . "

Rochel-Leah'le savored the bread with obvious pleasure. The slice of bread that he acquired through his own sweat, in exchange for three hours of shoveling snow at the entrance to an exceptionally large farm. Chasia gave him a deep look and whispered, "Thank you," and it made him so happy.

"Everyone has an obligation to learn Torah." The bochur's words rang out through the entire granary and dispersed in the dark corners. "Everyone, e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e- "

— And what about food? Is he allowed to just abandon them?

"Aharon HaCohen placed the container of mohn in the Ark." The teacher's voice rose above the children's bent heads, his beard long and black, his face stern and his eyes loving. "He wanted to teach the generations that HaKodosh Boruch Hu always helps those who learn Torah, just like he gave bnei Yisroel the mohn in the desert.

Aryeh Leib crossed his arms just as he did then when he sat around the scratched wooden table in the narrow room behind the shul in Vidishok. In the dark the wind blew entering the granary through the cracks in the corners. It flipped the open pages of the Chumashim and chilled him to the bone. But Father sat with him one long, cold Polish night, sat and studied with him, because one day he would become a ben Torah.


Day dawned slowly over the roofs. In the granary on the outskirts of the village, a boy got up from his bed of planks, fastidiously shook out his pockets and left. The granary gave off the definitive smell of mildew. Small puddles formed in the corners and the winter was cold and cruel. Despite the conditions, he made his way to the central market of the nearby village of Crakinow.

The deal was made quickly. He held onto two loaves of bread as he ran the three-kilometer distance between the two towns. He was only twelve-years-old. A simple, ordinary Jewish boy. He no longer had a light-colored winter suit and a matching cap.

The sun hadn't yet managed to melt the ice off the shul's windows by the time Aryeh Leib arrived. Clasping his hands, he easily skipped over the messy piles of hands, feet, clothes and packages.

The bochur was there again, next to the Ark, sitting exactly where he had been previously. He was completely immersed in his learning, unmoving. He didn't look around him; he hardly even breathed, so intense was his concentration.

Aryeh Leib walked carefully around the bench and stood next to the bochur. For a brief moment he trembled, full of hidden tension. Then he leaned over and tapped the bochur on the back, and said in the same gentle way as the previous night, "Excuse me".

"Hmm?" The bochur lifted up his head, surprised. He blinked his eyes in concentration and then his eyes suddenly lit up. He gave him a long, deep look and then finally let out another, "Hmm".

"What's new?" he whispered.

"Would you learn with me?" asked Aryeh Leib.

A simple request stated simply from the mouth of a Jewish boy, a boy who understood the purpose of life. Aryeh Leib stood across from the bochur. The boy's back was a little bent, and he yearned to learn, so much.

The bochur made room for him on the bench and brought the shtender closer to both of them. "My name is Chaim Yosef Mann," he said gently, "We'll begin with the fourth chapter of Yevomos." He began to read aloud. "Look, look inside."

Suddenly he lifted his head up and glanced at Aryeh Leib as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"Hey, your clothes!"

"Ah, that?" Aryeh Leib waved his hand as if to say it were nothing, and bent over the sefer. "I sold them."

A winter suit in good condition was worth a lot. You could get a loaf-and-a-half of bread or even two loaves. Why would a twelve-year-old boy need so much bread?

Aryeh Leib was still waiting, leaning over the gemora. "It's simple," he said nonchalantly. "I'm alone here with my two sisters and I have to support them so I sold my clothes in order to learn. I got two loaves of bread for my suit, and when that runs out, Hashem ya'azor."

Simple, so simple . . .

No, no he didn't imagine that the boy's situation was like that at all. He had assumed that Aryeh Leib was wandering around doing nothing. Maybe it's even forbidden for him to learn now; maybe he is even exempt from such a level of self- sacrifice . . .

"Every Jewish man is obligated to learn Torah, whether he is poor or rich, healthy or ill, young or his strength has left him with old age. And even if he were a poor person, supported by charity, who goes out to beg, and even a husband and father" (Rambam, Mishnah Torah, chapter 1).

He didn't intend to; he didn't think at all, but even water spilled unintentionally can cause fresh life to come forth from the ground. Aryeh Leib sat next to the open gemora, waiting for him, the boy's heart and eyes immersed in the text. His hands were tightly clasped under the shtender. He was seriously ready to accept — the Torah . . .

Chaim Yosef, the yeshiva bochur, acquiesced to this silent, bold request. He lovingly grasped the edge of the page, and with obvious emotion, bent over it and began to read out loud.


The last candle in the shul burnt out. It was time to close the gemora together and to kiss it. One big hand, familiar with the noise of yellow pages turning. Another hand, small and smooth, hesitant. A large Vilna edition gemora, frayed at the edges. An un-sanded wooden shtender, shaky, yet so sturdy.

At this time they would say their good-byes and each would go to his corner. Each to his own bench. At first Aryeh Leib would return to the granary at the edge of the town. Aryeh Leib would awaken to a morning laden with heavy rain. He'd rush to the shul at the end of the alley, a young boy struggling against the wind. Later the granary flooded and it became impossible to stay there. His only option was to move into the beis medrash. Tomorrow, the large, heavy gemora would be waiting for him after davening, and he would once again be able to grasp it with warm hands and to caress the words on the page he was learning.


"Aryeh Leib," whispered Chaim Yosef, "I think . . . it seems to me that I have to leave Ramigol tomorrow. They say that the Russian Occupation is very near. It's time to go back to yeshiva. Under Communist rule, a ben Torah can't survive alone.

The gemora was still in his hands. Aryeh Leib always looked intently at the small print and listened quietly. Rarely would he interrupt, ask a question or offer an explanation. Yet, he always listened intently. The two of them had established a branch of the yeshiva of Volozhin, a Torah center, in Ramigol with their own hands. And now Chaim Yosef was leaving, and a twelve-year-old boy would remain in the beis medrash, as would a gemora on a shtender. Waiting for the special taste of learning.

But Aryeh Leib didn't think about it at all. He knew one thing, and one thing only: What you have to do, you do. Chaim Yosef's job was to go and learn Torah now in the yeshiva like Yosha and the other boys that Aryeh Leib's father would speak about so reverently. Aryeh Leib's job, right now, on the other hand, was to stay in the small town and to continue learning where they had left off.

No, he shouldn't wake up to a hostile morning, go to the wagon-drivers' square, and cry, "Schlepping, cleaning, horse- feeding, wagon-loading, help with wagon-fixing." Instead, he should toil the whole day in Torah. Afterwards, he would make his way three streets over from the shul to the second-floor room with the peeling light pink paint and the delicate, fading flower pattern. There, two girls would be waiting for him with hair braided, and confused, forlorn eyes. Chasia and Rochel-Leah. He would say good night to them and, time- permitting, tell them a story about Rabbi Akiva or the righteous convert Potocki. He no longer had to provide them food, as Golda informed him that the Joint was granting aid enough to even cover an additional five new girls. But he couldn't leave those tiny orphans alone in the big world.

And, what about him? He was also an orphan — alone but not deserted. The gemora waited behind the stairs leading to the Ark, for the special taste of learning. Chaim Yosef went to the factory that manufactured life: to the beis medrash where hundreds of gemoras waited, to the Ramigol plant.


"Have a good trip," Aryeh Leib said simply. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"At 9:15, after davening . . . and after we learn together a little for the last time."

"Fine. Good night."

They stood at the wagon-drivers' square in Crakinow where Aryeh Leib had worked two months earlier in his almost-new winter suit. Then he had transported overstuffed suitcases. He had carried resin for oiling wheels from one wagon-driver to another, all the while announcing his willingness to accept almost any type of work. Now it was the two of them together: the slightly short yeshiva bochur with the burning eyes and the twelve-year-old boy. They carried their gemora, well-worn at the edges. Chaim Yosef held the boy's hand and spoke earnestly:

"G-d will help you. One of the attributes of the Torah is that it gives life to those who keep it. A person who follows Torah merits life. One who walks with life, never dies. And even when he passes away, he merely goes to the Heavenly yeshiva to speak with Rabbi Akiva Eiger and Tosafos. That's not death; that gives life, and that's the greatness of Torah!

"We didn't finish learning that chapter of gemora. Try to continue. G-d willing, we'll meet in Eretz Yisroel together with the gemora we've acquired!"

"Amen," answered Aryeh Leib, very seriously.

"Nu, bochur," shouted the wagon-driver from his perch. "Are you coming? Let's get a move on it!"


12 August 1946 (15 Av 5706)

Letter for: Rav Yaakov Shlomo Eidelman

Whoever finds this letter is requested to deliver it expediently to the refugee camp outside of Warsaw.

Rav Yaakov Shlomo, you don't know me and I don't know you. I knew your son Aryeh Leib very well . . . I learned with HaRav Boruch Ber in Kaminetz before the War. During the war, I ended up in a small village in the area of Zhamut in Lithuania. Your son was there, supporting his two little sisters with such dedication and responsibility as I have never seen again. We learned gemora there over the course of a few months.

Aryeh Leib sold his winter clothes so that he would be able to sit and learn without having to worry about finding work. That was during an exceptionally cold winter. The way to the beis medrash was covered with mud and there were no logs in the fireplace whatsoever. Your son suffered tremendously from the cold and had almost no food. When the house where he slept was ruined by rain, he was forced to sleep on one of the benches in the beis medrash.

But he learned with all of the perseverance and dedication of a real yeshiva bochur! I still have one of his divrei Torah with me. But there was something else that he taught me.

I always knew that there was the concept of self-sacrifice, but I never experienced it personally. Sure, I left home and went through a lot growing into a young adult, but I never had to deal with a situation such as his: Torah on the one hand, war on the other, and the burden of making a living on top of it all. I always thought that I would be surrounded by people learning, that yeshivas would always be close by, and that the conditions would be right for me to learn without worry. I wasn't at all prepared for a situation where a person is required to choose Life, to choose Good.

Aryeh Leib was only twelve-years-old. He was alone, without a house, parents or income. A heavy burden was thrust on his shoulders; one that many adults would find difficult to bear. He bore it with love and dedication. Around him the world was thrown upside down: blood and fire and pillars of smoke. Underneath him lay a barrel of explosives.

Lithuania was still called "independent" then, but everyone knew that the freedom would be extremely short-lived. Whoever wouldn't get a certificate before the Russian Occupation, would be stuck forever. People wandered the streets and formed connections with all the Who's Who in the world. They made life-changing decisions in their meetings. The shuls were overflowing with refugees; food was scarce despite the Joint's help. The brutal winter took its toll; many got sick and even died from the cold.

He learned despite everything, and his example obligated me all the years since then. I was exiled to Siberia along with eight other yeshiva bochurim. The strength of my self- sacrifice enabled all of us to remain bnei Torah. In his merit, "Yeshivas Siberia" was established at the end of the world, between still mountains of ice. It numbered only nine bochurim; Hashem Himself made the minyan.

Aryeh Leib was my teacher throughout the war. Your son taught me Rabbi Akiva's lesson on self-sacrifice. He taught how much one has to sacrifice for Torah; how much it is possible to rise above everything: above oneself; one's family; one's surroundings; and how it's possible to choose Life.

I assume that you already know that Aryeh Leib passed away. I heard that the lists were published around the world. That's how I heard that you survived.

It took me months to find you and to tell you that your son learned until his dying breath. He went to the Next World learning in hand. He was burnt alive while holding a Torah scroll.

Rav Yaakov Shlomo, let your mind rest. Your son didn't die empty-handed. He went onto the pyre like a real ben Torah. You can be proud of him. Hashem is happy with him.

The letters still float in the air. Here in the Mir Yeshiva in America, ten bochurim dedicate their morning learning to his memory. Torah continues. Rav Yaakov Shlomo, there is a future. It is called the Mir Yeshiva in America or Chevron in Jerusalem. Torah is eternal, and whoever learns Torah connects to eternity.

Chaim Yosef Mann, from Vilkovisk, Lithuania, currently residing in America.


8 September 1946 (12 Elul 1946), Refugee Camp Outside of Warsaw

"So you're leaving, Eidelman," asked Gorman from the bunk under the window, his voice laden with jealousy.

"Eidelman" didn't answer. His fingers folded the thin blanket and placed it in the corner. Someone else would inherit the bed and the blanket that bore witness to so many tears. Someone else would get the worn, rough wall full of names. Everyone who had ever passed through had written his name there, desperately hoping to find some relative. He had also written his name there with the camp director's pen. Now he could erase his name; his wife was dead, so were his children. And him? What about him? He was never alone. The Jewish People might be orphaned, bereft, afflicted, but never widowed.

"You'll probably arrive there around . . . around . . . " Menachem tapped his pen on the marked desk in his "office." "October first (17 Tishrei). You'll stop in London for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. You could already be in New York for Simchas Torah."

Rav Yaakov Shlomo signed the final documents before joining a group of immigrants to America. The group included two famous manufacturers, a well-known surgeon, five top business officials and seven baalei batim from Warsaw and the vicinity. Everyone was going to look for the future that wasn't theirs and would never be theirs.

Rav Yaakov Eidelman was going to learn Torah. Torah continued on in the Mir in America, also possibly in other places. Torah is eternal and it's impossible to erase eternity. Maybe it's possible to erase the names in the chain, but anyone who's bound to life, to Torah, can never die. They can burn the parchment; they can spread the dust over the Seven Seas; but the letters, the holy black letters of the Gemora, rise up to the Heavenly Court.

On Simchas Torah he would be with everyone and with Chaim Yosef Mann whom he could never compensate for giving him the gift of a son who died as a ben Torah. He would dance with the Torah scrolls that wandered with the hundreds of bochurim through Russia, Japan and China. He would dance with the Torah scrolls that weathered the war in isolated, bombarded Shanghai and survived. He would sing the Torah's praises in the well-known yeshiva melody together with the bochurim of the Mir. With the words of the Vilna Gaon.

"When Israel sits and toils in the joy of Torah, The Holy One, Blessed be He says to His hosts of angels, `Look at my dear children! They forget their own sorrow and occupy themselves with my joy!'"


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