The Skulener Rebbe, Rav Yeshaya Yaakov Portugal ztz”l

Photos: Meir Haltovsky

His father understood that this neshamah would best grow and develop in freedom. And then in 2019, the Skulener Rebbe, Rav Yeshaya Yaakov Portugal, ztz”l, was plucked away from his unassuming life in Montreal to assume the mantle of leadership

There was a man who lived in Montreal, a thin man with a black beard and glasses who learned in kollel all day.

If you spoke to him, he would stoop forward in humility, bending toward you to let you know he was all yours, in the manner of the Amshinover Rebbe or Rav Asher Arieli.

You could see him walking the streets. If you happened to be driving, and you pulled over to offer him a ride, he might take the glasses out of his pocket, squinting through the car window and see who it was.

His face would light up when he saw that it was you — whoever you were, because you were a Yid, and that was reason enough for joy. If he accepted the ride, he would climb into the car and shower you with brachos, telling you just what a favor you were doing, making you feel like your car coming down the street at this moment was an act of kindness unequaled since the moment of creation.

Morning often saw him circulating in local shuls — “gein noch gelt,” collecting for a Yid facing hardship: different days, different Yidden, different tzaros.

It might be a Yerushalmi meshulach who just didn’t have a knack for collecting, a local Yid who was overwhelmed by chasunah expenses, or someone he had met the night before. On Rosh Chodesh, he would go from shul to shul, collecting for Chessed L’Avraham, the organization founded by his grandfather to provide for the spiritual needs of immigrants to Eretz Yisrael.

Hand outstretched, he would approach, accept the five-dollar bill with his glowing smile, and leave the giver with a hail of brachos.

One morning, I saw him come into the Dzibo beis medrash in the Uptown neighborhood just as davening ended. Most of the regulars knew exactly who the slim man with the radiant face was, but one Yid, eager to get to the last of the cheese Danishes and rapidly dwindling Old Williamsburg bottle, said, “I just gave you last week!”

It was uncomfortable. This wasn’t a random collector looking for lunch money, but a genuine tzaddik, son of a tzaddik, grandson of a tzaddik, collecting for a different cause than the one the previous week. (And who knows how many other causes there had been between the two?)

“Ahhh,” said the tzaddik with the outstretched hand as he flashed a grateful smile, “takkeh, indeed. Tizkeh l’mitzvos, you should be gebentsht.”

Then he continued his dance through shul, through life.

What a beautiful person.

Then, Rav Yisroel Avrohom Portugal, the Rebbe of Skulen, was niftar, and this Yid from Montreal was plucked from this existence, crowned as Skulener Rebbe in his father’s place.