Photos: Mattis Golberg, Flash 90, Mishpacha archives

Over the 100 years of his life,

Rav Gershon Edelstein accrued many roles and responsibilities, ultimately taking on the burden of leadership for the entire yeshivah world. But even as he dealt with Klal Yisrael’s thorniest dilemmas, he never abandoned his primary post as rebbi.

His was the story of quiet force, of influence without fanfare. It’s the story of a gadol hador who spent seven decades saying shiur to 17-year-olds – and whose words were so compelling, whose relationships so enduring, that alumni in their forties or fifties crowded into the room to keep learning. It’s the story of a man who demanded mastery of Shas from tender bochurim, but showed them, by personal example, how to achieve it with serenity.

And it’s the story of a leader whose knowledge of Torah was staggering – but never lost his ability to intuit the heart of a child.

One day at the end of 1943, Rav Shmuel Rozovsky, the prized student of Rav Shimon Shkop and brilliant maggid shiur, arrived in the dusty Israeli village of Ramat Hasharon. He knocked on the door of the local rav, Rav Tzvi Yehuda Edelstein, a noted talmid chacham and posek originally from the Russian town of Szumiacz near Smolensk.

Rav Rosovsky introduced himself and then got to business. Rav Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman was establishing a new yeshivah on a hill in Bnei Brak, he told Rav Edelstein, and had hired him to serve as rosh yeshivah. The yeshivah would be named Ponevezh after Rav Kahaneman’s original yeshivah in Europe, which was decimated by the Nazis, and he had high hopes for its future. He was looking for bochurim to serve as the kernel of the yeshivah. He knew the two sons of Rav Tzvi Yehuda, Gershon and Yaakov, as promising young Torah scholars, and the Chazon Ish had recommended that he bring them to the nascent yeshivah. Would Rav Tzvi Yehuda consider sending them?

At the time, the Edelstein boys were in their late teens, yet aside from a short stint in Lomza, they had never learned in a proper yeshivah. With the approval of both the Chazon Ish and the Brisker Rav, they had studied solely under their eminent father, achieving mastery, clarity, and great depth in Torah.

Now the time had come them to find their places in the nascent yeshivah world of Eretz Yisrael. Rav Tzvi Yehuda acquiesced; finally he’d found a fitting greenhouse where his special sons could blossom and grow.

He didn’t know it, but he had also provided the new institution with its future rosh yeshivah — and the Torah world of Eretz Yisrael with its eventual commander in chief.

Rav Gershon, who emerged as the father of the yeshivah world in Eretz Yisrael, with the Ponevezher Rav and Rav Dov Povarsky

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As the sole students of a dedicated father-turned-rebbi, Reb Gershon and Reb Yaakov Edelstein entered Ponevezh with a noted fluidity and coherence in their approach to limud Torah. For all those years, they had studied under one rebbi, moving from Chumash to Mishnah to Gemara under his tutelage.

Those years in Ramat Hasharon also equipped the brothers with something else that would serve them well: genuine ahavas Yisrael. There was just one shul in the village, where they joined their father for tefillos, sitting and listening to his daily Mishnayos shiur and interacting with the farmers and craftsmen and vendors.

When their father learned Maseches Kilayim in shul and discussed “arigah,” the weaving process, a local who’d had a knitting factory back in Poland and was familiar with the method was asked to explain it. The face of this Polish Jew shone as he helped the Rav clarify the complicated concept for the others.

Ponevezh was a thrilling new world for young Reb Gershon. Along with the shiurim, each one a revelation, there was also the influence and proximity of the Chazon Ish. The bochurim would often go to speak in learning with him, and it was the Chazon Ish who encouraged the older talmidim of Ponevezh to find time to speak with the younger ones. In a sense, it was that directive which shaped Reb Gershon.

From the outset, Reb Gershon was giving as well as taking, learning with typical hasmadah, but still very much the son of a community rav, with time and patience and heart for others.

And the Ponevezher Rav noticed.

The elder son of the Ramat Hasharon rav was asked to join the Ponevezh faculty in 1948 while still a bochur, delivering chaburos and shiurim. Months later, he married Rebbetzin Rochel — daughter of Rav Yehoshua Zelig Diskin, then the rav of Pardes Chana. When he left the world this week eight centuries later, he had added many titles and roles to his identity — yet still retained that primary post of first-year maggid shiur.

Many wonder how the rosh yeshivah of the vaunted Torah citadel of Bnei Brak, the final word of the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah, and the elder gadol of a generation found the tools to relate to the 17-year-olds of the 21st century. But those who attended his daily shiur describe an encounter that was at once exalted and down-to-earth, a rebbi who held close to a century of Torah learning within, yet waited patiently to hear curious teenagers’ questions and suggestions. Despite his titles and despite the heavy burden of authority he held, during that daily shiur he was simply their teacher.

The Personal Bond

Reb Gershon’s emergence as the father of the yeshivah world in Eretz Yisrael — as keynote speaker at so many gatherings of mechanchim, mekarvim, and activists, and as the guide to a younger generation of roshei yeshivah — had its roots in the multivolume collection called Shiurei Rav Gershon.

“To appreciate the role of his shiurim, you have to understand what goes into Reb Gershon’s shiur,” a veteran talmid says. “In virtually every chinuch address, he made the identical point — that it’s not enough to present a clear, perfect path through the sugya and be a talented baal masbir. If there’s no personal connection with the talmid, the shiur won’t have the maximum effect.”

Reb Gershon himself often reminded mechanchim of their responsibility to create that bond. “Ask them how they’re feeling, what’s doing at home, if they’re happy — find the way to connect with them.”

Students at his first-year shiur describe the moment of Rav Gershon’s entrance to the room as “rommemus” — it was palpable loftiness right there among them. Here was the gadol hador, the elder rosh yeshivah of the generation, come down from the mountain to deliver a daily Gemara shiur to 17-year-olds.

His shiurim, they say, were not theatrical. There was no lightning or thunder when he spoke; he was a measured and calculated person who rarely showed overflowing emotion. But they were masterpieces of clarity, with depth and chiddushim hiding in plain sight between the lines.

“He learned Shas in depth before he heard any vort,” one of Eretz Yisrael’s most popular maggidei shiur told Mishpacha. “He mastered the Ketzos and Rabi Akiva Eiger before being exposed to the more contemporary, ‘yeshivish’ Torah. He first went to yeshivah at 18, when he was fully developed as a talmid chacham, so there’s no ambiguity or vagueness in the way he sees the sugya — and that’s what he transmits to his talmidim.”

Along with the exceptional clarity of his shiurim, the warm feelings of affection for his students were undeniable. A master mechanech, Rav Gershon’s shiur was not a frontal lecture. He welcomed and encouraged the bochurim to pose questions, and didn’t answer immediately. He wanted everyone in the room to understand the question, to think it through — to feel the tension and unease — before coming to a resolution. When all the complexities were resolved, they all felt that joy of clarity together.

As Ponevezh grew, shiur alef was split into two, and Rav Gershon taught one group the first half of the year, switching to the second group in Adar. In recent years, there could be 150 boys in one shiur — and yet they noticed how his eyes roved the room as he spoke, gauging how well each boy comprehended his words.

When shiur had to be held in his home, all 150 of those boys crowded into the little apartment, squeezing into the kitchen and bedrooms, where every precious word was broadcast with a microphone. And Rav Gershon, ever the mechanech, arranged for a microphone to be given to the boys as well, so those with questions could be heard throughout the apartment. The bochurim remember, with affection and awe, the way the commander in chief of the Torah world waited patiently for the microphone to be passed among them.

“Too often,” the Rosh Yeshivah told a gathering of yeshivah heads a few years ago, “it’s the best talmidim and the worst talmidim who get the rebbi’s attention — the metzuyanim with their questions, and the challenging ones with disciplinary issues — but in truth, the majority of talmidim are somewhere in the middle, and they are no less deserving.”

Rav Gershon’s nephew, Rav Avraham Diskin, rosh yeshivas Ohr Shmuel in Jerusalem, relates that there was a bochur who learned in his yeshivah with tremendous hasmadah, and after a few years, he moved to Ponevezh. When Rav Diskin next visited his uncle, Rav Gershon said, “I noticed that this bochur’s hasmadah is not natural. I’m afraid that if he continues this way, he might experience some sort of deterioration.”

Half a year later, indeed, this boy collapsed and was unable to return to learning for several months. Rabbi Diskin recalls, “I was amazed at the fact that I knew the bochur for three years and it didn’t enter my mind that his hasmadah was not natural, while the Rosh Yeshivah barely knew him for a few months, as one of hundreds of bochurim in the shiur — and from the start, he noticed that something in his incredible diligence seemed forced.”

Rav Gershon’s quiet force and staying power wielded influence without fanfare but with steadfastness and consistency. Mechanchim and rebbes alike sought his agenda-free advice

Battle Cry

Upon the news of Rav Gershon’s passing this week, Rav Chaim Peretz Berman, a maggid shiur at Ponevezh, described the levayah of Rav Shach in 2001. Many of the maspidim spoke about the various battles that Rav Shach waged over his lifetime — be they spiritual, political, or strategic. When Rav Gershon stood up to speak, he focused on a different battle: the battle to encourage bochurim to learn a lot. To cover ground. To achieve mastery of large tracts of Torah.

That battle became Rav Gershon’s as well, and while the media may have covered his policy decision when it came to chareidi interactions with the government, within the Torah world he was known for the battle cry of “Know Shas!”

In that sense, he was working against the tide. In a world where many yeshivos focused on painstakingly peeling back the layers in one sugya, achieving depth at the expense of breadth, he made ambitious demands of the bochurim. He fully expected them to learn all of Shas. “A bochur must know Shas,” he said often, adding encouragingly, “and it’s not such a hard thing.” He urged them to utilize Friday and Shabbos to meet that goal.

Some masechtos in the yeshivah syllabus contain sugyos that are considered somehow “less critical” — focusing on topics not related to the main themes. Many maggidei shiur will gloss over these sugyos or move quickly past them. Rav Gershon never did that. “They are a part of the masechta,” he said. “And here, we learn everything.”

He learned quickly and thoroughly, and didn’t believe in getting delayed or distracted from the overall flow and pace. That was the path he set for his students as well: he made it very clear that he expected them to finish the yeshivah masechta. Be it after seder, over Friday and Shabbos, during their free time — the important thing was to finish.

Bochurim would ask, “If that means I’ll only learn Gemara and Rashi, without Tosafos, should I still do it?”

And he would answer, with a half-smile and twinkle in his eye, “Rashi was also a lamdan.”

It was crucial — and it was doable! — to know all of Shas, he kept urging them. Yet even as he made intense demands, he told the bochurim to conduct themselves with an attitude of calm and serenity. And his personal example melded those two seeming opposites. He set — and met — incredibly demanding personal goals in both learning and behavior, but never broadcast even the slightest sense of tension or pressure.

Even as he told the boys that could and should master all of Shas, he also reminded them of the recommendation to take a daily walk. “And when you walk,” he said, “don’t listen to a shiur.” They could listen to music, or even better, take the time to think, to hear their own inner voice.

That inner voice featured again when he said that along with the yeshivah syllabus, he believed that a bochur should learn “mah she’libo chafetz,” the area of Torah that his heart feels drawn to. He would often tell the story of a bochur who just didn’t connect to the iyun style of learning, and was drawn to halachah instead. Rav Gershon encouraged him to follow his inclination and he eventually became a respected posek.

While Rav Gershon enforced Rav Shach’s vision of Ponevezh as a place where mastery of Torah was paramount, he also was a living example of the primacy of mussar. In fact, talmidim say he mentioned it in every shiur. “A person who learns mussar will be in a state of aliyah, of growth,” he told them. “A father who learns mussar will see it influence the entire atmosphere in his home. Without mussar, there is no life.”

He’d often tell the students about a bochur who barely learned, yet made sure to attend mussar seder every day. “Why do you bother to come?” someone asked him. “Because this is what revives me, what gives me life,” the bochur said.

“This bochur,” Rav Gershon said, “in time became a mezakeh rabbim in both Torah and yiras Shamayim.”

He would mention names of specific sifrei mussar, but then, as was his habit, told the bochurim that each should pick the sefer that he felt most connected to. Because the end goal was that internal connection that could only come from personal choice.

To Feel a Child’s Heart

Yeshivah lore has it that when he was a young father, Rav Gershon’s evening meal consisted of the leftover crusts of his children’s sandwiches along with a glass of tea. Not because he sought to deprive himself, and not because he wanted to teach them a lesson. It’s because for him, the words of Pirkei Avos were real: as someone sustained fully by Torah, all the physical sustenance he needed was a dry crust of bread.

But he understood and accepted that other people needed more. His own personal standards of simplicity did not shut him off from intuiting and respecting others’ needs. That intuitive understanding made him an address for parents and educators seeking a guidebook for struggling teenagers immersed in the most hedonistic of pursuits. Somehow, in the Spartan home in Bnei Brak, in the man who subsisted on crusts of bread, they found a mentor who could understand the heart of the most wayward and materialistic of children.

There are countless stories of roshei yeshivah, maggidei shiur, and chinuch figures who came to seek the Rosh Yeshivah’s advice, and found him firmly opposed to expelling a bochur, embarrassing a bochur, or punishing him in a way that will shame him. Every other option must first be considered, and it’s never acceptable to give an order with the wave of a hand such as, “he’s not the right type,” “he’s a bad influence,” “throw him out of yeshivah.” Every case was discussed in context, very carefully, and sometimes drained him to the point of exhaustion.

In a meeting that became the talk of the day, Rabbi Avi Fishoff, who works with struggling children, brought a long list of questions to Rav Gershon. He felt Rav Gershon could direct him in his vital work after reading the words Rav Gershon wrote: “Yeled she’niskalkel, linhog imo b’kavod v’yedidus — we should treat a child who’s strayed with respect and friendship.” Everyone in this delicate field gained from the wisdom of this gadol at the helm of the yeshivah world who could intuit the hearts of Klal Yisrael’s estranged children.

When Rabbi Noach Paley, chairman of the Lev el Heneshama Organization for struggling youth, asked Rav Gershon how to relate to a young man who’s discarded the traditional yeshivah garb, Rav Gershon avoided recrimination or reproof. Instead, he said, “The importance of a yeshivish appearance needs to be explained to him.”

This reflected a major element in the Rosh Yeshivah’s approach to chinuch, one he repeated often at chinuch seminars. It is unfair, he explained, to say a talmid or talmidah doesn’t want to do something, or rejects an idea, if that concept was never properly explained to them. The onus of explanation rests on the parent or educator trying to transmit the idea, and with proper preparation and work — as the maggid shiur well knows — anything can be made clear.

And his incredible sensitivity toward other Jews and their pain was legendary.

A young man close to the Rosh Yeshivah was deliberating whether to move to a different area, and asked for advice. He prepared a list with 15 considerations for each side in his deliberations. At the bottom, he added a puzzling consideration: “I once stayed in that area and the neighbors claimed that my children made noise when they were playing in the yard.”

The Rosh Yeshivah read this, recoiled, and asked: “They made noise and it bothered the neighbors? Run and ask a rav before you even think about moving there!”

The young man asked a rav who ruled that there is no problem with children making the appropriate noise when playing. He went back to the Rosh Yeshivah with the rav’s ruling, but Reb Gershon again read the last piece, and recoiled once again. “It disturbs the neighbors! It bothers them… chalilah! Stay far away from them! Don’t cause pain to other Jews!”

One day, an avreich asked him a sensitive question. A teacher had been fired in one of the Chinuch Atzmai schools, and his wife had been asked to take her place.

“Chalilah!” the Rosh Yeshivah exclaimed. “Jewish blood is still bubbling in that classroom…”

“But the teacher was fired without any connection to my wife! She was fired before my wife was offered the job,” the avreich claimed.

“That is true,” the Rosh Yeshivah replied, “and they probably had no choice but to fire her… But an avreich like you, nu, you have to stay sensitive. Jewish blood was spilled there!”

Staying Power

For decades, Rav Gershon served as the baal tokeiah in Ponevezh, blowing strong and true notes despite his age. The Chazon Ish would go specially to hear his tekios, and the sounds of his tekios have inspired generations since, even as his strength has waned. The Rosh Yeshivah and gadol also helped young men who wished to learn how to blow shofar, transmitting the secrets of the trade, the wisdom of tekios.

“The Gemara says that blowing the shofar is a ‘wisdom not a skill,’ ” he would tell them. “When you know how to do it, there is no reason to exert yourself. It doesn’t have to feel heavy and difficult, but the opposite.”

It’s not the flashiest piece of advice, but Rav Gershon’s story had never been that of a charismatic speaker or sparkling, witty maggid shiur.

His was the story of a quiet force and staying power, of wielding influence without fanfare but with steadfastness and consistency. It’s the story of a gadol hador who spent seven decades saying shiur to 17-year-olds — and whose words were so compelling, whose relationships so enduring, that alumni in their forties or fifties crowded into the room to keep learning. It’s the story of a man who demanded mastery of Shas from tender bochurim — but showed them, by personal example, how to achieve it with serenity.

Several weeks ago, a contingent of bitter Leftists demonstrated against proposed budget increases to the yeshivah world. The location they chose was the Torah citadel of Ponevezh, and the focus of their ire was Rav Gershon.

Rav Gershon’s only response was to encourage learning.

This week, the real response took place, the true demonstration of our deepest values, as masses of faithful Jews headed to the same hill in Bnei Brak to pay tribute to the person who showed them — by his personal example and through his years of molding yeshivah students, yeshivos, and the yeshivah world — how Torah learning shapes raw matter into people of purpose, passion, and dignity.

How it can shape people, and sometimes it can even build angels who walk this Earth.

Rav Gershon enforced Rav Shach’s vision of Ponevezh as a place where mastery of Torah was paramount, and added a mussar twist

Yeshivah in a Chicken Coop

Rav Gershon’s early years

Rav Gershon Edelstein was born in the Russian town of Szumiacz near Smolensk, where his father, Rav Tzvi Yehudah Edelstein, served as av beis din. Yaakov and his brother Rav Gershon shlita — longtime rosh yeshivah of Ponevezh and one year his senior — spent their early years learning Torah with their father once the town came under Communist rule and all the chadarim were closed down. In 1932, after the death of their mother, Rebbetzin Miriam (daughter of Melstovka av beis din Rav Mordechai Shlomo Movshovitz), the young Rav Tzvi Yehudah, his two sons, daughter Pesia (Gershonovitz, a”h) and his mother managed to obtain passage on a ship from Odessa to Eretz Yisrael.

As they had not registered with any of the political movements at the time, they had to fend for themselves for a place to live, and although relatives who came to greet them at the Haifa port offered to share their own tiny apartment with the new arrivals, there was really no room for all of them — and so the family split up, with Pesia going to one relative and her grandmother to another.

Rav Tzvi Yehudah refused to part from his two sons, however, and searched for a place where the three could live together so that he could continue to teach them Torah. Nothing, he said, could compensate for learning with his sons.

Soon the small fragmented family found themselves a home — an empty chicken coop in the village of Ramat Hasharon. A few crates from the owner of a nearby orchard served as beds, chairs, and a table, but father and sons needed nothing more, as long as their days could be filled with learning Torah in freedom.

A short time later, Rav Tzvi Yehudah was asked to serve as the rav of Ramat Hasharon, but even once they settled into proper accommodations, the young brothers continued learning with their father — their exclusive spiritual guide and mentor. There were few religious families nearby aside for some who were elderly, and the only school was a government one — and so the brothers stayed home and continued learning from morning to night, daf after daf, perek after perek, masechta after masechta.

One morning when Rav Tzvi Yehudah came into shul, he noticed a new sefer on the table. The title was Chazon Ish — but how did a sefer of this gadol from Russia get to Ramat Hasharon? One of the mispallelim told the rav that he had brought it from nearby Bnei Brak. He noted that he had met the author, who had recently arrived in Eretz Yisrael, and purchased his sefer as a gesture to help out the humble talmid chacham newcomer with a few extra lirot.

The rav didn’t waste any time, wrote down the author’s address, and traveled to Bnei Brak with his sons to meet the gaon from Vilna. The Chazon Ish warmly welcomed the rav of Ramat Hasharon and spent time speaking in learning with his sons. Their knowledge and the standard of their learning astounded him, and he was shocked to hear that they had never stepped foot in a yeshivah, save for a short period of time when they learned in cheder in Russia.

“I feel that perhaps I am making a mistake,” Rav Tzvi Yehudah told the Chazon Ish. “Perhaps I’m preventing their growth in Torah by not sending them to yeshivah.”

But the Chazon Ish reassured Rav Edelstein that he was doing the right thing, and encouraged him to continue learning with his sons at home until they got older. Those days of their home beis medrash continued until Elul of 1942, when the bochurim, aged 17 and 16, went to learn in Yeshivas Lomza in Petach Tikva — the first time they’d ventured into a learning framework outside their home. It was Rav Gershon who petitioned their father for the change, and his winning argument was a question of hasmadah — he told his father that because of the rav’s many communal responsibilities including piskei halachah and hashgachah on shechitah, their learning was often interrupted. In yeshivah, they’d be able to learn round the clock.

The Chazon Ish agreed to the change, but told them, “You’ve already learned a derech halimud from your father. Just make sure not to ruin it in yeshivah.”

The rav who subsisted on crusts of bread nevertheless had an intuitive understanding of even the most materialistic-driven struggling teens

For the Next Hundred Years

By Gedalia Guttentag

“There are many individual stories to tell about Rav Gershon Edelstein, but the most important is his life story,” says Rabbi Tzvi Cohen, who for years spent hours each day with the Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah.

“For almost a century, he was involved in teaching the next generation. He was one of the greatest mechanchim of all times.”

What would be an exaggeration in any other context is a fair way to describe the unassuming gadlus of the Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah, who may have held a record for the sheer number of his talmidim and for his longevity on the front lines of the yeshivah world.

Propelled in his late teens by the Chazon Ish into the world of chinuch as a maggid shiur in Ponevezh for weaker bochurim, Rav Gershon Edelstein would spend the rest of his long life doing what he believed in most: teaching beginners in shiur alef, and molding the next generation.

With numerous bochurim in his daily shiur for close to eight decades, that meant tens of thousands of direct talmidim — meaning that Rav Gershon had an outsized, firsthand role in shaping the vast Torah world of today.

But the immense numbers didn’t diminish his sense of responsibility to them as a rebbi. He was caring, talmidim could ask him anything, and he was concerned for their material welfare and shidduchim.

Rav Gershon used his phenomenal memory for mishpachology — he was famed for remembering generations of a bochur’s antecedents to suggest and give information on shidduchim. When talmidim made a bar mitzvah, he would give the bochur a sefer with an inscription. On the few occasions when a gift wasn’t at hand, he would remember to give the sefer even years later.

“The fact that for over 80 years he taught bochurim with the same enthusiasm and freshness is miraculous,” says Rav Eliezer Roth, a talmid and mechutan of the Rosh Yeshivah.

“My father heard shiur from him, as did I, and my son as well recently. Reb Gershon had tremendous clarity — when he was in the beis medrash in the afternoon seder, he would answer a question from anywhere in Shas with total recall. And he retained the clarity, and total dedication to giving his daily shiur, until almost his last day.”

A master of education, the Rosh Yeshivah knew that the best tool in chinuch was to make Torah learning a two-way process. Every time he finished a section of the shiur, he would rap on the table and say “Nu — dibbuk chaveirim!” That was code for the intense discussion among the bochurim, with himself as the maggid shiur, that would bring clarity to the topic at hand.

Teaching Torah to the next generation was so paramount that even later in life, when he took on the leadership of vast sections of the chareidi world, the daily shiur came before any crisis.

“He davened Shacharis at 7 a.m., was sandek at a bris, then sat down to prepare the shiur at 9 a.m., and delivered it in the yeshivah from 12 until 1 p.m. — nothing could break that schedule,” recalls Rabbi Tzvi Cohen. “Not war, a Covid crisis, or simchah.”

That approach to balancing Torah and communal leadership was evident to Degel HaTorah MK Rabbi Uri Maklev first hand. As a talmid from Ponevezh and a chavrusa of Rav Edelstein’s sons, he’d developed a close relationship with the future leader of the Israeli yeshivah world, which continued as Maklev went on to represent the chareidi world in the Knesset.

“Just last week I was in his house to consult on the ongoing political difficulties, but his priorities were clear,” says Maklev. “Only once he’d finished learning late at night was he free to discuss matters. To see him was to understand what it means to keep learning sedorim at all costs.”

Noted for his combination of deep perspective and calm demeanor, Rav Edelstein brought those qualities to the political crises of the last few years involving Covid, then repeat elections, and the resurgence of the army draft issue.

“He was a wondrous man,” says Uri Maklev. “He had a very lucid, practical mind and he drew from his daas Torah to deliver very clear direction to us on public issues.”

The laser-like focus on learning Torah was something that the Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah labored to instill in his students — that, and an emphasis on developing good middos.

“Everyone wants to be happy,” he would say. “And people look to money and honor to deliver that. But it’s wrong — only Torah and good character traits will make a person happy.”

Those weren’t mere slogans to him; anyone who witnessed his gentle smile, the repose of his face, or the modest apartment he lived in, could see someone who’d pared back life to only the meaningful, essential elements — a gadol who lived his own teachings.

That was why, alongside the struggle to focus on Torah learning as the ultimate end of life itself, Rav Gershon hammered home, in shiur after shiur, the need to think of others.

“There was one man recently who needed to buy a house, and asked for a brachah to win the state lottery for cheap apartments,” says Rabbi Cohen. “The Rosh Yeshivah said to him, ‘If you win, that means another person loses — I’ll give you a brachah that you get a house without needing that program.”

Another major theme was vatranus — stepping aside for another. “My sister couldn’t find a shidduch, and came to Rav Edelstein for a brachah,” Rabbi Cohen recalls. “He told her that if she were to give her younger sisters permission to go on shidduchim first, that would be a zechus. Weeks later, both she and the younger sister were engaged.”

The incident, the Rosh Yeshivah said, was no mofes: “My life experience has shown simply that when people are mevater, they don’t lose.”

For the Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah who gave his life away to teach young talmidim, never seeking to rise higher because chinuch for beginners was the highest goal, the idea of focusing on himself was anathema.

“He spent a century focusing on the sugya at hand, never speaking about himself — just building the next 100 years.”

How did the elder gadol of the generation have the tools to relate to the teenagers nearly a century his junior? Because during the daily shiur – which he gave during COVID and up to a week before his petirah, he was simply their teacher

Reason for Refusal

We couldn’t publish the details of this story when it took place, but now, unfortunately, the time has come. The purity of Maran Rosh HaYeshivah’s character was incomprehensible. But we witnessed it firsthand.

Elul 5776.

The editors and managers of the Hebrew-language Yated Ne’eman sat across from the Rosh Yeshivah in confused amazement at his firm and resolute refusal of their predictable request. They had simply asked Rav Gershon, whose wisdom had guided the newspaper in recent years, to share a few words of brachah with their readers, in honor of Rosh Hashanah. But the Rosh Yeshivah did not agree to any of their suggestions. His instructions were unequivocal: There should be no mention of him, in any form, in any of the Yom Tov editions.

Eventually, the editors gave up and left. Shortly thereafter, one of the members of the Yated team who was close to Rav Gershon returned and asked, “Kevod Harav, what is the reason for this refusal? So many people can gain and learn from the divrei Torah we are asking for.”

Rav Gershon responded, “Six months ago, before Pesach, Mishpacha prepared an article about me. For various reasons, I asked them not to publish it, and they complied with my request. It would be really unpleasant for them to see that you did publish something about me.”

Keep in mind, Yated was Rav Gershon’s newspaper. Anyone would understand the difference, and wouldn’t think twice of the preferential treatment in this case. But no, Rav Gershon did not want to cause a trace of unpleasantness to anyone.

Now we can share the backstory. A beautiful cover story about Rav Gershon was indeed prepared for Mishpacha's Hebrew-language Pesach issue prior this encounter. Somehow, he found out about it two days before it was scheduled to go to print, and Rav Gershon himself called the chairman of the Hebrew edition’s rabbinic board, Rabbi Menachem Cohen shlita, with whom he had been acquainted since the early days of Ponevezh.

“This is Gershon Edelstein speaking. For personal reasons, I request that you do not publish the article.”

We obeyed, of course. What’s the question?

The Rosh Yeshivah apologized profusely for any inconvenience and even invited us to his home. On Lag B’omer 5776, we indeed went to see him, and despite his weakness, he welcomed us warmly and at length, discussing various matters at hand.

We thought that was the end of the story, and we had almost forgotten about it, until we heard of his refusal to appear in the Yated the following Elul. It was a firsthand demonstration of the middos the Rosh Yeshivah sought to instill in our generation.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 963)

The post 100 Years of Light first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: Family archives

Rav Uri Mandelbaum was a maggid shiur long before becoming menahel of the Philadelphia Yeshivah during our years, yet we were still his talmidim. Because his shiur was his middos, and the shiur room stretched beyond the yeshivah to include the entire city. But more than that, he was our safe haven in yeshivah, offering us unabated love with no strings attached, as if we were his own children

Back in the late ’70s, I was a talmid in the Philadelphia Yeshivah. Like all my friends, I was looking forward to Purim in yeshivah, when an unexpected snowstorm threatened to torpedo our plans. The “reid” circulating was that the roshei yeshivah were contemplating cancelling the yearly tradition of sending the bochurim out collecting tzedakah due to the danger associated with accumulating snow and slippery roads. We held our collective breath as Rav Elya Svei ztz”l and ybdlch”t Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky conferred at the amud in the beis medrash following Maariv, seeming to be purposely speaking loudly enough for those of us who were in close proximity to hear the debate. I clearly recall Rav Shmuel saying it was a siman min haShamayim that this Purim the bochurim should learn instead, whereas Rav Elya countered that “men darf mesameiach zein,” and perhaps an ad hoc mesibah could be arranged in yeshivah to supply the talmidim with an opportunity to celebrate safely. Soon after, the verdict was announced: There would be absolutely no collecting, and plans would be put into place to provide simchas Purim on our home turf.

One of my friends, who couldn’t imagine the possibility of a stay-at-home Leil Purim, approached me a short while later and confided in me that he had access to a car. He proposed that several of us clandestinely defy the edict and leave the yeshivah Purim night. Not wanting to appear weak, I agreed to come along and hoped for the best. What could happen already?

Here’s what could happen: Not too far out of the neighborhood, with the snow coming down with what seemed to be Siberian fury, the jalopy we were driving began to sputter and groan, and soon came to a complete stop. Nobody had bothered to check the gas gauge before we left, and sure as the landscape was completely white, we were out of gas.

In desperation, the only exit plan we could think of was to call Reb Uri. Rabbi Uri Mandelbaum (who asked that we call him “Reb Uri,”) was the yeshivah’s legendary menahel. While we knew full well that once the hanahalah found out what we’d done we’d be toast, we figured it was better than waiting around to be found by some inner-city hoodlums. We walked to the nearest pay phone (for those who don’t know what that is, ask an elder) and dialed, hoping against hope that he would be home.

“Where are you? I’ll be right there,” Reb Uri answered. In pretty short order, and after lots of silent prayer, Rebbi showed up with a container of the precious black gold, reminded us there was a mesibah in yeshivah, and wished us a freilichen Purim.

In his 55 years in Philly, from when Rav Aharon Kotler sent him to assist the roshei yeshivah, Reb Uri played a significant role in the yeshivah, first as a maggid shiur and then as the menahel. But perhaps, most importantly, he was also a friend. He was our safe haven in yeshivah, offering us unabated love with no strings attached, as if we were his own children. One of the most cherished pictures I own is one of Reb Uri sitting in our succah on a snowy day. He was spending Yom Tov with his son and family who happen to live across the street. My son, a Philadelphia talmid himself, was making a siyum on Chol Hamoed, and invited Reb Uri to participate. He came and offered divrei brachah, undoubtedly quoting Rav Leib Chasman, as was his custom. When I look at this picture it reminds me of the snow of a bygone Purim and the love that came along with it.

From the time Rav Aharon Kotler sent him to assist the Philadelphia roshei yeshivah, he was more than just a maggid shiur and then a menahel. He was the yeshivah, and the yeshivah was him

Before he became menahel, he was a maggid shiur. By the time I arrived in yeshivah he was already at the helm of the institution, no longer giving shiur, but we were still his talmidim. His shiur was his middos, and the shiur room was the entire yeshivah and city of Philadelphia (and beyond). He seemed to know the whole world and their relatives. It wasn’t a knack for Jewish geography that motivated him to create this mental registry, but his caring, and a sense that perhaps storing this information could help someone else down the road.

He knew exactly what tone of voice to use when pointing out something that needed correction, when asking assistance for a devar mitzvah, or when taking a bochur to task for skipping Mr. Ranft’s English class. Reb Uri was the English principal while I was in high school (there was nothing he couldn’t do), and I recall how bochurim would complain to him, either about the material being taught or the teacher himself. He always stayed so calm, reassuring you that everything would be taken care of. He had this knack of getting to the heart of a matter; more often than not he saw right through a bochur’s gripe and was able to point out where it was really coming from. He was also able to show the teacher’s side as well, giving fresh perspective to every conflict. You never walked away feeling put down or dismissed, even if you were dead wrong.

The role of mechanchim today is to reach their talmidim through “hagba’ah,” raising them, explained Rav Hutner. Reb Uri was the quintessential magbiah. I was once within earshot when he reprimanded one of his sons. He didn’t scream, or even raise his voice. You could tell he meant business, but it was equally clear that he wasn’t interested in punishment, only in propelling a nefesh to its greatest possible heights. Rav Yaakov Moshe Willner, who succeeded Reb Uri as menahel, expressed his incredulity at how Reb Uri was mechabed him, his successor, despite the vast age gap between them and the fact that Rav Willner had been his talmid many years earlier. But to Reb Uri, it was never a question. He was there to raise up those around him.

As a young high school bochur, I approached Reb Uri and told him I had absolutely no working knowledge of anything in Yoreh Dei’ah (What bochur does?) and that I felt like a total ignoramus in that area of Torah. Without blinking, he offered to learn with me bein hasedarim, a seder that not only broadened my horizons in learning, but gave me an unbreakable love and respect for the man who was already everything else in the yeshivah.

While his name may not have been familiar to the general public, he was hardly a nistar to other menahalim and roshei yeshivah who sought his guidance and keen assessment on every matter pertaining to proper management of a yeshivah, including governmental issues. I heard from one of Reb Uri’s sons that the yeshivah was once audited, and the individual conducting the audit asked the rosh yeshivah, Rav Shmuel Kamenetzky, who was in charge of various departments and functions. Rav Shmuel kept offering the same answer: “Rabbi Mandelbaum.” Incredulous, the auditor asked the Rosh Yeshivah how it was possible that one person held so many responsibilities. Rav Shmuel replied that obviously he simply hadn’t met Reb Uri yet.

Reb Uri’s influence extended beyond that scope of the yeshivah. Whether it was bikur cholim, taking care of families who needed to be in Philadelphia for medical care, or building the mikveh, Reb Uri could always be relied on. His caring was boundless. When I was already a parent of a Philly talmid, at one point I was between jobs, and our financial situation fluctuated accordingly. Reb Uri called me and insisted I lower our tuition payment. He wouldn’t allow us to resume our commitment until I was settled in my new job, and we were sure it wouldn’t cause hardship.

Rav Shmuel Birnbaum ztz”l, the Mirrer rosh yeshivah, had a beautiful insight about why the stones that were placed in the Choshen and Ephod were called avnei miluim, filler stones. There is nothing more precious, explained the Rosh Yeshivah, than filling in those spaces that are empty, either because they haven’t been filled yet, or even more so, because nobody wants to fill them.

The vort encapsulates who Reb Uri was. He did everything nobody else would have or could have done.

Reb Uri’s willingness to be there for anyone who needed him was noteworthy, but the yeshivah was always the axis around which his world rotated. An interaction I had with Reb Uri as a bochur highlighted that, but it’s only with the perspective of the years gone by that I appreciate its depth. By process of elimination, I was selected to be the valedictorian at our twelfth grade graduation. (The details aren’t relevant, but suffice it to say the appointment had nothing to do with merit or my proficiency in Shas or chemistry.) I approached Rav Shmuel and asked what the topic of my speech should be. His response was short and to the point: “Ask Reb Uri.”

I made a beeline to the menahel and Reb Uri, as if on cue, responded with the following mandate: “Make it clear that you learned in this yeshivah.” He then asked me to please come back to him with my speech and share it with him. There was indeed one line that he felt was inappropriate and smacked of kana’us unbecoming of a young man my age, and it was redacted from the speech.

It took me a few decades to truly appreciate what he was saying. When my son graduated from this same hallowed institution many years later, I was asked to speak as well, as was the common practice when a graduate had a parent in meleches hakodesh. When Reb Uri called to ask me if I would accept the invitation, I asked him what I should wear, my regular weekday short jacket and down hat, or my long rabbinical frock that was more distinguished, but would make me uncomfortable in front of my rebbeim who were going to be in attendance. Reb Uri responded, “We’re not asking you to come as Sheah Plotnik’s Tatte. You are being invited as an alumnus of the yeshivah, and you must dress accordingly.” I could hear his smile over the phone as we spoke for another few minutes and reminisced about my years back in yeshivah, and how I’d asked him his advice on what to say when I myself had graduated

It was only then that I came to appreciate that long-ago conversation. Reb Uri’s entire perspective on everything was through the prism of “the yeshivah.” What is appropriate for the yeshivah, what represents the yeshivah, how do people perceive the yeshivah, and on and on. His entire being was wrapped up in the yeshivah, and his greatest pride was its success. He took so much pride in talking about the yeshivah’s growth over the years.

I once commented to him how the fledgling yeshivah I was teaching in was small, and not at all impressive like Philly. With his trademark warmth and smile, Reb Uri was quick to reassure me that the Philadelphia Yeshivah hadn’t always looked like this either. “Do you think we used to have bochurim in the beis medrash on Erev Shabbos and bein hasedarim like today?” he asked. “Im yirtzeh Hashem, if you dedicate your kochos to your yeshivah, one day it will look exactly the same.” And he was right.

That was the secret of his success. He was the yeshivah and the yeshivah was him. He lived and breathed it, and we all saw that every minute of every day.

I merited to be in Eretz Yisrael shortly after Reb Uri’s levayah following his petirah on Tisha B’Av, and with the assistance of his sister who lives there, I was able to locate his kever and thank him for everything he did for all of us. I couldn’t leave Eretz Yisrael without doing that, and I thank Hashem for that opportunity. This was a man who personified what his great rebbi, Rav Aharon Kotler, would point out on the words we say in the Mussaf of Shemoneh Esreh of Rosh Hashanah, “ma’aseh ish u’fekudoso,” that Hashem pays attention to the actions of man and his appointed purpose. We were all put here for a purpose and need to fulfill it. Some convince themselves that their tafkid is to be a rosh yeshivah or at least a maggid shiur. Others, like Reb Uri, believed his tafkid was to do what needed to be done. And he did it.

We knew we could always count on Reb Uri. Because for him, each of us was like his very own child

Reb Uri himself once remarked how his purpose in life was simply to carry out the Will of Hashem. And when called upon to live the truth of that statement, he rose to the occasion. He suffered for over a decade from the ravages of ALS, but while his body was trapped, he never let the limitations affect his soul. In his later years, he taught generations of talmidim, not from the K’tzos HaChoshen, but by example. His transmission of divrei Torah to his family despite unimaginable difficulty, and his insistence on davening in the Yeshivah’s minyan despite all obstacles, will go down in history as an example of living out a purpose until its absolute end. His greatness in Torah, in avodah, and in chesed, are mechayev anyone who knew him. Akin to Hillel who used his meager portion of money to enable himself to learn, and about whom the Gemara says, “Hillel mechayev es ha’aniyim — Hillel obligates the poor people,” we can say with complete confidence, “Reb Uri mechayev es ha’assurim (those who are tied up).” And his eishes chayil and children are perhaps mechayev the entire world as well, as a model of devotion to and partnership in that greatness.

Family, friends, and talmidim were all beneficiaries of Reb Uri’s unlimited chesed and ayin tovah, and each has a unique perspective to share about his multifaceted personality, not unlike the precious stones that the Kohein Gadol wore on his heart and his shoulders, the quintessential avnei miluim. We are all feeling the void now. May Reb Uri be a meilitz yosher for his talmidim, his family, and everyone whose lives he filled with everything they needed.

Yehi zichro baruch.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 926)

The post Whatever Needed to Be Done  first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: Avraham Elbaz, Mattis Goldberg, Elchanan Kotler

Rechov Givat Moshe 2 in Jerusalem, where Rav Yitzchok Tovia Weiss ztz”l lived for close to two decades before his petirah last Shabbos at age 95, is located on the border between the sacred and the mundane, between the high-tech offices of Har Hotzvim and the neighboring citadels of Torah.

That said a lot about the rav who was known as a kanoi for everything holy, from the fierce protection of Shabbos to the battle for the protection of graves, to keeping the government’s hands out of chadarim and yeshivos.

But somehow, public officials made their way to his door as well, creating an unprecedented relationship between the Eidah leadership and the country’s power brokers. (He once visited with former public security minister Yitzhak Aharonovitch of the Yisrael Beiteinu party, and the two conversed in Yiddish, a language the minister knew well from his immigrant parents. He also held a meeting with former justice minister Yaakov Neeman a”h in rich Hungarian-Yiddish.)

When the Gaavad first arrived after living in Antwerp for 37 years, where he initially served as a yeshivah rebbi and later was appointed as a rav and a dayan for the local community, he was greeted by Rav Meshulam Dovid Soloveitchik of Brisk. “I’m giving you a piece of advice,” the longtime rosh yeshivah and son of the Brisker Rav told the newly-minted Gaavad. “Open a kollel and get chavrusas and set your learning seder in stone. Otherwise, the politics and strife of Yerushalayim will sweep you in.”

The Gaavad followed the advice, spending the first four and a half hours of his day surrounded by 50 diligent avreichim and a non-negotiable chavrusa. The sign hanging at the entrance to his beis medrash reads, “It is strictly forbidden to interrupt the Gaavad while he is learning.”

Just weeks ago, I was privileged to sit with the Gaavad for what I suspected would be a parting interview. He was already quite weak with an infection from which he never recovered, and it turned out to be more a mumbled brachah than a conversation. But that was okay, because we’d had several discussions in the past, and a few years back I was even his Shabbos guest, which was an opportunity to see what happens “off hours.”

The post Keeper of the Trust first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

On 22 Tammuz, Rav Shlomo Carlebach’s neshamah returned to the Olam HaEmes. When Rav Yaakov Drillman eulogized him, he called him, “Tzaddik ben tzaddik, talmid chacham ben talmid chacham, aristocrat ben aristocrat.” It had been 80 years since Rav Shlomo had been separated from his father, Rav Yosef Tzvi Carlebach, revered rav of Hamburg, but his legacy inspired his son until his last day.

Rav Yosef Tzvi began his tenure as rav in 1936, just a few short years before Europe went up in flames. He personally witnessed the crazed rioters dragging sifrei Torah from the aron kodesh of his shul and setting them aflame. When he tried to challenge them, they beat him mercilessly. Fully understanding the danger looming ahead, Rav Yosef Tzvi nevertheless chose to remain in Germany. The people needed a rav and he was determined to be there for his kehillah, even if that meant dying for the cause.

When the Nazis came for him, Rav Yosef turned to 16-year-old Shlomo and the two embraced. It was an expression of love that Rav Shlomo would carry forever.

Rav Shlomo survived the war, and arrived in America in 1947 after having endured the torture of multiple concentration camps. He was alone, orphaned, and penniless, but all he wanted was to go to yeshivah. It had been six years since he held a Gemara in his hands, but that didn’t deter him. He met with Rav Yitzchok Hutner, rosh yeshivah of Yeshivah Rabbeinu Chaim Berlin, who asked him to recite any mishnah, and that would constitute his farher. An incredible masmid, Rav Shlomo quickly made up for lost time.

Rav Shlomo carried himself with princely dignity, and, in 1953 was introduced to Maude Katzenstein, a daughter of one of the most prominent families in the Breuer’s kehillah of Washington Heights, Rav Yosef Breuer once noted the heightened level of tzniyus she observed at a young age and commented, “I see you’re on your way to becoming a Bais Yaakov girl!”

Rav Shlomo’s in-laws, who followed the Frankfurt mesorah of Torah im derech eretz, wanted him to enter a profession. Rav Shlomo completed an accounting course and practiced in the field for a year, until his wife redirected his path, insisting that he return to kollel.

He would later become a rebbi in Chaim Berlin’s  mesivta program, and also served for a number of years as a rebbi in Mesivta of Eastern Parkway until his rebbi, Rav Hutner, summoned him back to serve as mashgiach ruchani in Chaim Berlin. One of his talmidim from that tekufah, Rav Reuven Schepansky, noted talmid chacham, prolific mechaber seforim, and maggid shiur at the Mirrer Yeshivah, spoke of the both loving and demanding relationship Rav Shlomo had with his talmidim. He related that one year at the Purim seudah, Rav Shlomo called him over. Gesturing toward the seforim shrank, he said, “Reuven, everything you see here, all of the seforim, and the silver too — I am willing to give it all up for you to become the person that you are destined to become.”

It was Rav Shlomo who prevailed upon Rav Hutner to allow the publication of his ma’amarei Torah on the moadim, even committing to undertake the publication costs. Today Pachad Yitzchok is a staple in practically every beis medrash around the globe. Years later, Rav Shlomo authored and published his own set of seforim, Maskil L’Shlomo, which was quick to gain widespread acclaim in the Torah world. Later, in 2008, Reb Shlomo published a two-volume set entitled Ish Yehudi, a biography of his father, expanding upon an earlier biographical work his uncle, Rabbi Naftali Carlebach, had published almost 50 years earlier.

In his later years, Rav Carlebach settled in Lakewood. Up to his last days, he would give a Friday night shiur based on his sefer, and made the rounds to speak at various Lakewood mesivtas. Visitors would frequent his home seeking a brachah, a vort, or just the opportunity to be in the presence of an adam gadol, who displayed loving care to others combined with an unwavering insistence for kavod haTorah, a vintage Chaim Berlin trait.

A recollection he shared with Mishpacha early last year helps explain his relentless dedication to inspiring others. Rav Shlomo was once speaking to with Rav Shmuel Berenbaum when the Rosh Yeshivah referred to Rav Shlomo as the Mashgiach. When Rav Shlomo protested that he no longer held such a position, Rav Shmuel retorted, “You think being a mashgiach is a post? It’s an atzmiyus — it’s your essence!”

But in truth, this dedication to the klal was also a legacy, one that Rav Shlomo was determined to upkeep. When his father was inaugurated as rav of Hamburg, he pledged to his new community that “my house and my heart will be wide open to everyone. I will cry and laugh with you and bear all the anguish of your soul with you. I will regard the honor of having been called to this rabbinical position only as an obligation to relate toward everyone with simple menschlichkeit.”

In that final embrace, Rav Yosef Tzvi Carlebach transmitted this mission to his son. He too would spend a lifetime relating toward everyone with simple menschlichkeit — the type that only those who are far from simple are capable of imparting.

—Yehuda Esral and Mishpacha Staff

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 922)

The post His Father’s Footsteps first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

For most of the world, Rav Chaim Kanievsky was a scholar,  a master, a leader.

But for his children, he was Abba — a warm and loving father who was decidedly more elevated than the other fathers they knew, but always involved in their lives and visibly happier when his children were around his table.

Rav Chaim himself grew up in a tightly bound family. His father, Rav Yaakov Yisrael Kanievsky, was known as the Steipler Gaon. His mother, Rebbetzin Pesha Miriam, was a daughter of Rav Shmaryahu Yosef Karelitz, rav of Kosava, Belarus. She was also a sister of the Chazon Ish, Rav Avraham Yeshaya Karelitz.

Rebbetzin Pesha Miriam’s two sisters married Torah royalty as well: One brother-in-law was Rav Shmuel Greineman, father of Rav Chaim Greineman; another was Rav Nachum Meir Karelitz, the father of Rav Nissim.

Rav Chaim was born in Pinsk, but the family immigrated to Eretz Yisrael when he was a child and settled in Bnei Brak. Soon enough the Torah giants of the extended families became the prime forces shaping not only the Torah community of Bnei Brak, but the entire country.

All along, they maintained a tight familial bond.

While Rav Chaim’s father, the Steipler Gaon (top), and his uncle the Chazon Ish were personality opposites, they were the two most influential forces in his life

Rav Chaim’s parents lived in the same home as the Chazon Ish, and thus his childhood was dominated by two larger-than-life personalities: his father, the Steipler Gaon; and his uncle, the Chazon Ish. Both left indelible stamps on Rav Chaim.

The Chazon Ish was involved in Rav Chaim’s shidduchim and ultimately helped finalize his shidduch with Rebbetzin Batsheva Esther, the daughter of Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv. Until the end of his life, Rav Chaim was fiercely loyal to his uncle and brooked no deviation from his halachic standards.

Rav Chaim’s father, the Steipler Gaon, had a completely different personality from his son. While Rav Chaim was similar to his stoic uncle, the Steipler readily showed emotion and could be heard rebuking himself, “Yankele, what will become of you?” He fused analytical brilliance with chassidic warmth, and brought up his children with tales of tzaddikim.

Rav Chaim’s path to greatness seemed assured early on. He gained a name for his encyclopedic knowledge and superhuman diligence long before he turned 20.

The path to marriage, however, was not easy for Rav Chaim. The Chazon Ish had hoped to marry him off at the age of 17 or 18, but the shidduch offers trickled in slowly, since Rav Chaim was virtually the only yeshivah bochur in the litvish world at the time who grew a beard. In those years, it simply wasn’t an accepted practice. No girl — especially the more “open” Yerushalmi girls — would consider marrying a young man with a full beard.

Rav Chaim was already 24 when someone suggested young Batsheva Esther Elyashiv as a potential shidduch. She was daughter of Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv, and the great-granddaughter of the Leshem. Her maternal grandfather, the famed “Tzaddik of Yerushalayim,” Rav Aryeh Levin, strongly encouraged her to pursue the shidduch.

He had a powerful ability to discern talmidei chachamim from afar, and he told her, “Listen to me. This bochur is going to be the gadol hador. You should take him.”

The post All in the Family first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I

t wasn’t the first time that Gerrer Rosh Yeshivah Rav Shaul Alter visited the US and delivered his signature shiurim to top-tier yeshivos around the Tristate area. Last week’s visit though, in which the Rosh Yeshivah, together with his brother Rav Daniel Alter, were welcomed by various communities across the metro area, came on the heels of a new horizon: the Rosh Yeshivah’s opening of a network of mosdos, from cheder to yeshivah ketanah and through kollel. The crowds were fueled by the Torah the Rosh Yeshivah was sharing at every encounter to audiences of every stripe.

Photo: Tzemach Glenn

In his few days in the US, the Rosh Yeshivah, the second son of the Pnei Menachem zy”a (his siblings include Rav Yaakov Meir, Rav Yitzchok Dovid, Rav Yehuda Aryeh Leib z”l, Rav Moshe Betzalel z”l, Rav Daniel Chaim, and Rebbetzin Esther Lippel), delivered five public shiurim to packed batei medrash in Monsey, Lakewood, Manhattan’s West Side, Williamsburg, and Boro Park. It was a special treat for those who don’t hear him in person, yet read his printed Torah in a weekly compilation, distributed in 17 cities in Eretz Yisrael and around the Jewish world. In addition, it was an introduction for thousands of others who’d never been exposed to the Rosh Yeshivah before.

F

or the 10,000-plus crowd that crushed into a massive tent in Boro Park last Shabbos for tefillos and tishen, it was the highlight of a historic week.

The thousands in attendance already knew about Rav Shaul’s trademark anivus — he always sits at the tish, or any other time he’s in front of a large crowd, with closed eyes, in order to shield himself from the inherent gaavah that comes with being in front of huge, adoring throng. But some people noticed a conversation taking place at the head table in the middle of the tish. It was Rav Daniel on his right telling him, “The oilam wants you to vinch them l’chayim. Open your eyes, look at them, and bless them!” Then the Rosh Yeshivah turned to Rav Moshe Fogel, rav of Gur in Boro Park, who was on his left — Rav Fogel also encouraged him. “But,” the Rosh Yeshivah practically pleaded, “it’s not good for me.” (In fact, before he left Eretz Yisrael, Rav Shaul told his talmidim that they should daven for him. “For hatzlachah?” they asked. “Also,” the Rosh Yeshivah answered, “but daven for me that if the trip is a success, it won’t bring me to gaavah.”) Now, on the dais, Rav Fogel turned to him and said, “Don’t worry, you’re doing good for other Yidden — nothing will happen to you.”

The Rosh Yeshivah opened his eyes, bentshed the oilam l’chayim, and closed his eyes back.

Later, one of the balabatim who hosted Rav Shaul was blunt and asked him directly, “What does the Rosh Yeshivah make of the adulation of the crowds he’s getting here, people packing the rooms for his shiurim and running after his car in the street?”

Rav Shaul answered, “That’s why we repeat Dovid Hamelech’s words, “Al tevoeini regel gaavah” and “Hashem lo gava libi…” and I keep davening for that, and I asked the people to daven for me as well. But you know what, there can never be too many tefillos like that, so since I’m here and you asked, here’s a pen and paper — I’m writing my name and my mother's name down and you can daven for me too.”

At the end of an hours-long Shalosh Seudos/Motzaei Shabbos tish (the “Shabbos” photographs were taken after the zeman), as the Rosh Yeshivah finished speaking and the crowd — an overflowing tent on 18th Avenue and thousands more spilling into the streets — stood up to dance, an announcement was broadcast over the loudspeaker notifying the crowd of a meeting spot for lost children. But the seemingly straightforward message — “fathers who are looking for their children and children who are looking for their fathers…” touched a deep spot within the Rosh Yeshivah, who smiled broadly and nodded, using those simple words as a mashal of Klal Yisrael looking for their Father.

Photo: Tzemach Glenn

At one of the places where Rav Shaul was being hosted, a father brought his five-year-old son to give “shalom” and receive a brachah from the Rosh Yeshivah. While waiting in line, the little boy spotted something much more tempting and important: a tray of cake. When the father’s turn came, the son was happily absorbed in his cake, and while the people around nudged him to put the treat down, the Rosh Yeshivah advocated for the little fellow. “Let him be,” Rav Shaul said. “What more could he ask for? For him, he got the biggest brachah…”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 885)

The post Closed Eyes, Open Heart first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

He was known as the Hodhazer Rav, for the town in the Hungarian Oberland where he served as dayan and rosh yeshivah. After Rav Ezriel Yehudah Leibowitz arrived in the US, he was called to lead the Vienner kehillah in Williamsburg where he founded the kehillah’s flagship yeshivah, Nachlas Yaakov, serving as guide and mentor to that first generation of American-born children, transmitting the majesty and truth of the Chasam Sofer’s path.

The ability to see and appreciate potential in each talmid was evident even as a young man, when Rav Leibowitz led the yeshivah in Hodhaz before the war. Following the mesorah of the Chasam Sofer, he discouraged chassidic customs and pursuits that took talmidim away from the beis medrash, but there was one talmid for whom he made an exception. Seeing that the bochur was in a different realm of purity, the Hodhazer Rav gave this talmid his own key to the mikveh, so that he could immerse on his own schedule. The talmid, who would eventually become the Tosher Rebbe ztz”l, would remember the wisdom of his Rosh Yeshivah.

For 33 years, from 1958 until his passing in 1991, Rav Ezriel Yehuda Leibowitz led the American Vienner kehillah, forming a bond of love with hundreds of families. He and his rebbetzin would never be blessed with children of their own — but this year coming upon the first day of Rosh Hashanah, his 30th yahrtzeit, children and grandchildren of that special kehillah remember a man they looked to as a father.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 876)

The post Living Higher: To See and Appreciate Potential first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: Mishpacha archives; Illustration: Menachem Weinreb

Despite all the events of this past year, for many of us who were privileged to have a connection to the Sadigura Rebbe, the Ateres Yisrael, Rav Yisrael Moshe Friedman ztz”l, hardly a day has gone by without a thought, a krechtz, or a memory. Whether the kesher was long term or more recent, the void left by his petirah last year on 20 Av is empty and very painful.

We all knew the Rebbe’s health was terribly poor, yet we could never, ever have imagined such a situation. Through the hardest and most painful times, the Rebbe always remained positive and upbeat, exuding joy and confidence to all. Perhaps that is why, of all the emotions swirling in our hearts, a feeling of longing and love is stronger than sorrow.

How is it possible that even people who had just recently gotten to know the Rebbe were able to develop a connection with him as deep as with a family member?

I myself was very fortunate to have such a kesher with him, for many years. Through a very strange hashgachah, I was zocheh to spend a lot of time in the Rebbe’s presence over the last year and a half of his life.

I was born into a family of Sadigura chassidim. My great-great-grandfather, Rav Gedaliah Schorr ztz”l, was very closely connected to Sadigura in Europe, an inheritance passed down to his son, Rav Avraham Schorr ztz”l, and then to the next generation, including my grandfather Rav Aaron. (The Knesses Mordechai zy”a, the Ateres Yisrael’s grandfather — who led a very large chassidus Hy”d before the Holocaust — is known to have said that he was left with just a few chassidim after the war, among them my great-uncle Rav Gedaliah Schorr and the Skulener Rebbe, Rav Eliezer Zusia Portugal ztz”l.)

Having heard expressions from elder chassidim that it is possible to connect to a Rebbe and enjoy an ahavah like that of a father toward a son, a grandfather toward a grandchild — I must be honest, I was skeptical.

But after the Rebbe’s passing, I quickly realized how very true it is. I may not have understood at the time the depth of the connection that we had, but after the petirah, it became quite clear. I will share a story to try to illustrate.

In the summer of 2001, I traveled to Eretz Yisrael to learn in the yeshivah of Rav Meshulam Dovid Soloveitchik ztz”l. My first Shabbos in Yerushalayim, just before Rosh Chodesh Elul, I stayed with my sister in Ezras Torah. I recalled hearing that the Ikvei Abirim ztz”l, who was then the Sadigura Rebbe (father of the Ateres Yisrael), traveled from his home in Tel Aviv to the kloiz on Shmuel Hanavi Street every Shabbos Mevarechim.

I had met the Ikvei Abirim on his previous infrequent visits to the US for family simchahs, but only briefly. I decided to try my luck and arrived in the kloiz in the middle of Shalosh Seudos. There probably were about 100 or 150 at the Rebbe’s tish, and I made my way quietly onto the parentshes. Not wanting to interrupt the proceedings, I did not take the opportunity to give shalom to the Rebbe. Although I did not recognize most of the people there, I was still comfortable and felt that I naturally belonged there.

At Havdalah following Maariv, I heard one of the gabbaim asking on the Rebbe’s behalf if there was a Schorr in the room. I was in complete shock. I didn’t think the Rebbe had even seen me, let alone recognized me. Yet in his heart he had sensed the presence of a Schorr einekel in the room. This experience I will never forget — “nafsho keshurah b’nafsho.”

My personal relationship with the Ateres Yisrael ztz”l began later. I had seen him many times over the years, in his capacity then as the rav of the Golders Green kehillah, but never had any real personal interactions with him. In January 2008, my dear mother, Mrs. Georgie Schorr a”h, was sadly niftar. After a long, hard battle with the machlah, we lost our queen. Our family was devastated. My father, siblings and I were sitting shivah together in our parents’ home in Brooklyn.

Amid all the very special support from our extended family, friends, and community, we received a totally unexpected visit, a complete surprise to us all, that will always remain in our hearts. In walked the Sadigura Rav, having made the long journey across the Atlantic as a special messenger of his father, the Rebbe, who couldn’t make the trip from his home in Tel Aviv.

(I cry as I recount the warmth of this gesture. During the shivah, the Ikvei Abirim called from Tel Aviv and spoke to each of us separately, apologizing for not coming in person to be menachem avel. He explained that travel was difficult for him and he was sending his personal shaliach, his beloved son from London.)

Now, in all honesty, although we are a nice family from New York, and yes, for many years, loyal chassidim who had always kept a close kesher, as far as I know, we were not among the biggest supporters of the Sadigura chassidus. For whom does a Rebbe usually make such a trip?

The answer is very simple. For family. The Rebbe came specially by himself to be menachem avel his family. He arrived with all of the warmth and personality we would come to know much better as time went on. His visit made a real impact. He really knew how to relate to all of us and comfort our family. That visit was my first opportunity to see and feel the greatness of this very special tzaddik in a personal way.

When the Ateres Yisrael was sitting shivah for his father in January 2013, my father and brother Yanky traveled to Bnei Brak to be menachem avel. I sent along a letter of nichum to the new Rebbe, but doubted if it would mean much among the throngs coming to see him. My father met the Rebbe briefly and gave him my letter.

Having greeted hundreds of people in the first few days after the devastating news of his father’s petirah, what exactly could he have been expected to say about my silly letter?

He took it from my father and said, “A letter from Gedaliah is special to me, I will put it in the inside pocket of my beketshe to read later.”

How did he have the state of mind to think that through? He could have simply added it to the pile of other letters and said thank you very much. Because he loved us so much, he knew how to make a father and son feel good, with a few words. Brilliance in giving chizuk!

What was his secret to building these close relationships with all of those around him? People from all different backgrounds, some who only recently met him, were able to feel his warmth and passion.

The Rebbe always preached that a Yid must be full of simchas hachayim. His focus on positivity and growth through emunah and bitachon always had a simchahdig feel. That positivity is what we were able to connect to. Just seeing him would give a person a boost of energy and sense of purpose. The Rebbe was always there to cheer you on and make you feel like you were special and dear to him. His love for each person was palpable. Ah, just thinking of it makes one cry.

I moved to Los Angeles in the summer of 2013 to join my father-in-law, Rabbi Boruch Yehuda Gradon, at Kollel Merkaz HaTorah. At the end of February 2019, the Rebbe became ill and decided to come to Los Angeles for treatment. For the next year and a half, I had the privilege of spending Shabbosos and special occasions with the Rebbe. It was the first time in my life that I lived together with the Rebbe in the same city. Every time I went to see him, each Shalosh Seudos and tefillah, I cherished the opportunity of being able to bask in his presence.

I recall the first time I went to see him in L.A., the first Shabbos after he arrived. His son Rav Mordechai Shalom Yosef called me on Friday afternoon just before Shabbos to let me know that they were staying at the home of Mrs. Chavie Hertz in Beverly Hills, about a 25-minute walk from my home, and that I could join them for minyanim if I wanted. I immediately went over for Minchah and Kabbalas Shabbos.

The Rebbe smiling, greeted me, “Are you surprised by this visitor?”

Always a personal comment, always making you feel like you were the most dear to him.

The Rebbe stayed in Beverly Hills until Pesach, when he traveled to Lakewood. After Pesach he returned to L.A., settling in the home of Rabbi and Mrs. Shmuel Einhorn in Hancock Park, where he stayed until Tammuz 2020. The Einhorns opened their home to the Rebbe such that he was able to conduct a mini hoif, with a full schedule of minyanim, tishen, and visitors.

There were numerous times that the Rebbe was undergoing tremendous pain and yissurim. But throughout the rest of his stay, before he returned to Eretz Yisrael for what would be the final time, he always remained upbeat, full of confidence, simchahdig and malchusdig.

How is it that almost a year has gone by and we still feel it so much? How can it be that a day still doesn’t pass without thoughts of the Rebbe?

For a chassid mourning his Rebbe, the pain and sorrow is still very raw and fresh. The petirah plunged us all into a state of terrible shock, but the memories still give us strength and chizuk. His smile shines bright and his majesty stands tall. Baruch Hashem, the chassidus is flourishing beautifully with the new Rebbe shlita and continues to follow in his ways.

We know he would be smiling and cheering us on. We miss him. We will never forget him.

V’ahavasecha al tasir mimenu. Zechuso yagein aleinu.

Rabbi Gedaliah Schorr, an alumnus of Rav Dovid Solovetchik’s yeshivah and BMG, is currently at Kollel Merkaz HaTorah in Los Angeles.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 872)

The post His Majesty Still Stands Tall first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Rabbi Naftali Miller, National Director of Development for Agudath Israel, is also a founder of Chasdei Lev, charged with overseeing this chesed superpower. The logistics are intricate and complex, and pre-Yom Tov planning meetings for a massive food distribution are already in full swing.

Last week, during an intense videoconferencing call between vendors and the organizers of the distribution, a vendor was struggling to talk over her crying baby in the background. Rabbi Miller gently suggested that the vendor pause her presentation and tend to the baby — the others could wait.

As she gratefully went to attend to the child, Rabbi Miller shared a story with the others joining the Zoom meeting.

As a young couple, he and his wife had the opportunity to drive their revered grandfather, Torah Vodaath Rosh Yeshivah Rav Avrohom Pam, home from a wedding. During the ride, the Millers’ baby started crying, and Rav Pam suggested that they pull over to give the toddler a bottle. Rabbi Miller protested that the baby could wait until they got home — but Rav Pam politely and firmly insisted that they pull over to tend to the baby’s needs, which took priority.

Rabbi Miller’s recollection was in fact a fitting commemoration for Rav Pam’s 20th yahrtzeit on 27 Av, as we remember the concern and care of this humble gadol for even the youngest and most vulnerable among us.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 872)

The post Living Higher first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: AEGedolimphotos.com, Family archives via COLlive   

There are those who use the eloquence of words to reach others, each phrase and expression hitting with the force of a hammer’s blow.

Others use silence, a quiet, burning intensity creating its own sort of impact.

And there is a third sort, the rare individual who uses both — not silent, but also not a speaker. Words are chosen carefully, taken seriously — tools, perhaps, but not the goal. It’s not the oratory or rhetoric that inspires the listener, but the person himself.

That’s how Rav Yitzchok Feigelstock, who passed away last week at age 95, reached generations of students — stamping them with the unique imprint of a Long Beach talmid.

Back in time to Vienna of the 1930s. Reb Avrohom Feigelstock was a respected figure — a learned businessman who gave regular shiurim and was devoted to the Torah of his sons for whom he hired private melamdim. His wife, Gittel, was a great-granddaughter of the Chasam Sofer, the leading light of Austrian Jewry.

As the Nazi threat increased and it became clear that they would have to escape, the family split up: Yosef Yitzchok, not long after his bar mitzvah, ended up in Uruguay.

The next generation of roshei yeshivah was being cultivated in the yeshivos of Eretz Yisrael or in America, hearing chaburos and arguing in learning, but this bochur was in South America with no rebbi, chavrusa, or friend, utterly alone.

Not just alone, but lonely.

At a different time, Rav Yitzchok would occasionally do something out of character and speak about himself. It was a rarity, but at the Shabbos sheva brachos of his daughter to the son of his dear friend Rav Elya Svei, he allowed himself a brief moment of public introspection.

He reflected on his personal journey and Hakadosh Baruch Hu’s boundless chesed. The talmidim, unused to hearing their rebbi speak about himself, were spellbound. But then Rav Yitzchok did something even more unusual.

“I don’t know if I have any zechusim, but if I have a single zechus, a source of merit that allowed me to experience so many chassadim, it might have been this.”

Rav Yitzchok spoke about those years in Uruguay and said that while he wasn’t the only Jewish teenager there, he was the only one who didn’t join in any of the youth groups. These mixed-gender groups gave the young people a social dynamic, company, acceptance, something to belong to. But the Viennese bochur had a sense that he didn’t belong there, and so he stayed away.

“Perhaps,” he said, “this was the zechus that stood by me.”

He eventually came to America, joining his two brothers. Moshe was already in Beis Medrash Elyon and Hershel was in Lubavitch. (Rav Moshe Feigelstock, who passed away in 2015, would become rosh yeshivah of Yeshiva Tiferes Elimelech, and Rav Hershel, who passed away in 2020, would  become principal of Yeshiva Tomchei Temimim Lubavitch in Montreal, Canada.) Moshe felt that his brother would do well in Torah Vodaath, and though Yitzchok had learned with his father until his bar mitzvah, he didn’t come into the yeshivah as a prodigy.

He had spent years on the run, and hadn’t attended a formal cheder since he’d been a young boy.

But Rav Gedalia Schorr saw something in the young man, and he encouraged him.

They learned together, they walked together, they often spoke — and in time, Rav Schorr paid his talmid the ultimate compliment.

He suggested that Yitzchok Feigelstock go learn under his own rebbi, Rav Aharon Kotler.

“It was a neis that the Rosh Yeshivah accepted me — I wasn’t on the level,” Rav Yitzchok would later say.

Perhaps it was a miracle. Part of that greater miracle called the rebirth of Torah in America and the miracle of the children born on these shores who would themselves take part in that rebirth, so many of them talmidim of this one-time immigrant.

The post Sacred Stamp first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.