Title: “Dos Yiddishe Hartz”

Location: New York City

Time: May 1998

Writers’ Note

Last week’s For The Record, titled “The Finnish False Messiah,” included excerpts from an article written by the Yiddish journalist Mordechai Strigler. We received an email from a reader who asked if we had ever delved into Strigler’s background, because his story would surely be of interest. Additionally, we were pointed to an exceptional tribute to Strigler following his 1998 death, penned by Reb Yosef Friedenson, the noted editor of Agudath Israel of America’s Yiddish magazine, Dos Yiddishe Vort. We found it extremely moving and decided to share it with our readers this week in full.

(Our additions appear in a different font.)

At the Fresh Grave of a “Worldly” Writer

By Yosef Friedenson

I imagine that not a single one of our readers will, upon reading the title of this article, refrain from raising their eyebrows and wonder: Since when does Dos Yiddishe Vort write obituaries about prominent secular writers?

I have a response for this.

First and foremost, this relates to a personal feeling. We were friends, “companions in suffering,” or “brothers in adversity,” during our time in Buchenwald. There, he strengthened me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude — hakaras hatov, a core Jewish value. He earned my acknowledgment and, as is customary among Jews, a few words of praise.

But what relevance does this have to Dos Yiddishe Vort? After all, Dos Yiddishe Vort doesn’t belong to its editor, but to the Orthodox community. Did he merit recognition from this community?

My answer is that, despite all reservations about secular writers, Mordechai Strigler, of blessed memory, had many merits, some of which were public and worthy of acknowledgment. Moreover, I want to emphasize that when I use the term “secular” in relation to him, I do so with quotation marks, because his “secularism” never entirely overtook him. To some degree, a spark always remained from his younger years, when he studied in Novardok and Kletzk. While he unfortunately drifted far from Kletzk, Kletzk never entirely left him. This, too, is a merit in my eyes.

Moreover, my experiences with Mordechai Strigler carry a moral lesson from which one can learn something valuable.

The post “Dos Yiddishe Hartz” first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: The Finnish False Messiah

Location: Paris, France

Document: The Jewish Frontier

Time: 1951

Numerous false messiahs have cropped up throughout history. Some, like the Christian messiah, Shabtai Zvi, and Jacob Frank, had a significant and often damaging impact; others made for curious historical footnotes rather than causing widespread upheaval. Jewish hope for the final redemption became especially acute following times of crisis.

The Roman persecution in the second century fanned hopes for the ultimately failed messiah of Shimon Bar Kochva. Following the expulsion from Spain and Portugal at the end of the 15th century, David Hareuveni and Shlomo Molcho turned up on the scene promising redemption. And in the wake of the desolation of the 1648-49 Chmielnicki massacres, the infamous Shabtai Zvi wreaked havoc on the Jewish world desperate for a better future.

It was only natural that following the Holocaust, the greatest destruction in Jewish history, messianic yearnings would once again surface. Many survivors described liberation as a moment of mixed emotion, after they had fantasized through the years of horror that the end of the war would bring the arrival of Mashiach.

A prominent chassidic survivor from Hungary named Reb Chaim Alter Roth submitted this testimony:

The entire time in the camps, a desperate hope pulsated within us, that immediately tomorrow the Geulah would arrive. My father would often wistfully remark, “Mashiach Tzidkeinu will come to Auschwitz.” We thought that with that revelation, all would instantly become clear with the Geulah. We would clearly see and understand why we had suffered so much, and we would finally gain an insight into the purpose of all of our misery and pain.

But it was even more difficult when the day of liberation came. It was referred to as “liberation,” but I’m not sure why. Instead of experiencing redemption, we instead internalized the total destruction all around us. The world continued on its usual course, nothing had changed, the hester panim continued on as before….

That tangible sense of disappointment was fertile ground for messianic tension. Though there’s much to expound on the diverse postwar reactions to the stirrings of redemption, it’s worth focusing on a more obscure and rather bizarre expression of a false messiah who appeared on the Jewish scene very briefly and rather quietly.

IN 1945, while residing in Paris as the editor of the Yiddish newspaper Unser Vort, Yiddish journalist Mordechai Shtrigler became aware of a curious figure. One Shabbos afternoon, Shtrigler was invited to deliver a lecture on the topic of false messiahs throughout history. In the front row of the audience sat an elegantly dressed Jewish man, accompanied by a sad-looking and clearly physically unwell woman. Shtrigler noticed that the man’s eyes occasionally flashed with anger at what he said.

After the speech, the man approached Shtrigler and launched into an attack on his lecture:

So you wanted to prove that all those who claimed to be messiahs were liars or deluded persons? Eh? Reason dictates such a conclusion, you say. Maybe you don’t believe that a true Messiah will ever come at all.

Well, I want to ask you something. See this girl? This is my sister. The Germans robbed her of her parents, her sisters, her bridegroom. All of them are dead. She hid in a damp basement for years, and now she is crippled. Maybe you know why this is so? I tell you, they were all innocent victims. What? You know it. Well, then, will it remain this way forever? Will this wrong never be made right?

I tell you it will be made right. One must come — yes, the Messiah — who will make all things right. Otherwise the world has no right to go on for even half a minute. I must get back my innocently murdered parents and she, my sister, must get back her groom, just as he was before. This is how it will be. The Messiah will make everything right again. Nothing that was in the past will be missing. Only He can give meaning to the world.

Shtrigler now understood the circumstances (or he thought he did) and began to pity the poor woman. Even as a survivor himself of Majdanek and Buchenwald, there was little he could say or do that would help console her. Her tragic plight had just one solution — the coming of Mashiach — and because of her fragile state, she had seen his lecture on the fraudulent messiahs in history as getting in the way of her ironclad beliefs.

Shtrigler goes on to describe the sad sight:

Tears flooded the sick girl’s eyes, and because of them, it became pointless to answer the man.

Anything I might have said in reply would have been a dagger aimed at the heart of the girl’s hopes. What she needed was a detailed description of the Messiah’s appearance, how he would restore color to her face and straighten her deformed shoulder. She needed to hear how a mighty hand would restore the life of her groom from the scattered ashes and bring him back to her, whole and alive.

Suddenly, the entire conversation changed as her brother leaned over to Shtrigler and whispered: “He [the Messiah] has already arrived. I even know where he is. You want to know where? He is in Finland now, in Finland.”

Sometime later, Shtrigler received a pamphlet titled, “My Annunciation of the Complete Redemption and Concerning the Coming of the Messiah of G-d,” authored by the self-proclaimed Messiah from Finland, whose name was given as Ze’ev Mordecai (Ulf) Karmi (1912–1969). The pamphlet contained writing that was strange and clumsy, but showed sparks of intelligence.

Shtrigler later discovered that Karmi (born Kantarowitz) was presenting himself as a pious young rabbi, and had been invited by the French government to catalog biblical literature at the Sorbonne. He began sending out bulletins hinting at his divine mission. His disciples spread tales of his miraculous powers — how famous scientists left his presence astonished, how people fell into trances upon seeing him and shouted that they saw G-d on earth, how he cured a dying man with a touch and a word.

Shtrigler’s curiosity was piqued. When one of Karmi’s followers called to ask if he’d like to meet the Messiah, Shtrigler agreed, though the meeting could only take place once Karmi had examined Shtrigler’s soul from afar to determine if he was deserving. Finally, a note arrived in Karmi’s own hand agreeing to an audience.

In a darkened private apartment, Karmi made his entrance — a tall man dressed in neat black rabbinical garb, with a carefully trimmed beard framing his pale face. He sat in profound silence.

After some coaxing, Karmi began to share his story:

He was born in Finland. There, he managed to study Hebrew, and as he grew up, he was overcome with the urge to study the Torah. So he went to the yeshivah of Telz, and then to the one in Mir.

That was in the 1920s. He studied much. He probed the morality [mussar] books. He was ordained a rabbi. He mentioned the names of some of the outstanding rabbinical scholars of that time whom he had met personally because the fame of his piety had gotten around, and there was curiosity to see a yeshivah student from remote Finland.

Later, he studied in the universities of Helsinki, Stockholm, and Copenhagen. He obtained a number of doctorate degrees. He studied several subjects simultaneously. There was no satiating his hunger for knowledge.

Then the war broke out. He was a citizen of Finland. His brother was a high-ranking officer in the Finnish army. It was a comical situation, during World War II, when German soldiers fighting on the Finnish front had to take orders from Karmi’s brother, the Jew. Hitlerites had to salute him.

Oh, that was something to see.

He must have noticed on my face an expression of distaste for the humor of the situation.

He hastened to explain. What could the few hundred Jewish soldiers do? They were citizens of Finland, a country that had never known discrimination or anti-Semitism. Even when German units were stationed in the country, the Finnish government did not permit them to show their hatred in any way. Karmi served as a chaplain in the Finnish army. Yes, it was a satisfaction to have German soldiers salute Jewish officers, helpless in their rage. There was healing in such a sight. What? I did not agree?

Well, I should have seen it with my own eyes.

Though, of course, there was another side to the picture — the stories of Nazi atrocities in other countries and the impotence to do anything about them.

Karmi’s brother, the officer, was killed in battle. After the war, Karmi took a post as a Hebrew teacher in Finland. His salary was fair, and he could have organized his life very satisfactorily indeed.

What was he lacking in prosperous Finland?

Nothing at all. He enjoyed the respect of all his acquaintances and even commenced work on a great book. He could have lived so peacefully that there would have been no story to tell. And then something happened.

After the war, while working as a Hebrew teacher in Finland, Karmi said that G-d had appeared to him and given him a divine mission, but he would need “thousands of young prophets also capable of seeing G-d” to fulfill it. He taught prophecy to his students, Christian and Jewish, and claimed that some attained direct revelations. But this led to his persecution and exile, first to Denmark and Sweden, then to France.

In France, Karmi said, G-d appeared to him and instructed him to set up a school of prophecy and convert the world to the true faith only he understood. Biblical figures visited him (as well as the so-called prophets of other religions). He claimed to have influenced world leaders telepathically to allow for the creation of the State of Israel. He offered to make Shtrigler a prophet too, if only he would believe in him.

When Shtrigler tried to counter Karmi’s assertions with basic Talmudic and rabbinic sources, Karmi dismissed them, saying, “There was a time when I, too, sought truth in books. Now I need them no longer. I draw on the original source. I see to the very bottom of things.”

He departed abruptly, leaving Shtrigler perplexed.

Shtrigler walked away from the meeting confused. He realized that Karmi was an intelligent man, but clearly suffered from a mental illness. But his motivations eluded the author. He seemed to crave neither wealth nor honor. Under normal conditions, Shtrigler mused, what might such a man have accomplished? Earlier, Shtrigler had suggested Karmi go to Israel, where he could be useful; Karmi replied “I am there whenever I have to be there, whenever I want to be there.”

Shtrigler concluded that here was a soul who had simply lost its way, a tragedy not just for Karmi but for the entire Jewish People, following the great tragedy of the Holocaust. Lost souls, post trauma, and messianic yearnings, were all woven together during this challenging time of rehabilitation.

Finnish Jews in the Fuhrer’s Forces

The Jewish community in Finland traces its origins to when the country was incorporated into the Czarist Russian Empire. Jewish veterans of the Czarist military, such as Cantonists from the time of Czar Nicholas I, were permitted to reside outside the Pale of Settlement following their departure from the military. Some of these former Russian Jewish soldiers settled in Finland and established a Jewish community there.

At least two shuls were constructed, and Rav Yisrael Salanter’s close student Rav Naftali Amsterdam even served as rabbi of this unique community for a time. During World War II, Finland was an ally of Nazi Germany in the war against the Soviet Union. But Finland didn’t strip its Jews of any rights, and a few hundred Jews served in the Finnish military during the war, some even as officers.

These were the only Jews during World War II who served on the side of the Nazis. It was an incredibly ironic situation, in which Finnish Jews were proudly serving their country to regain territory taken by the Soviet Union, yet they were serving side by side with the German army that was carrying out the Final Solution in Europe. Perhaps the greatest historical irony of all was that these Finnish Jewish soldiers were descendants of Jewish soldiers who had been drafted into the Czarist military a century earlier.

Divine Delusions in the City of Gold

The ancient stones and spiritual intensity of Yerushalayim have long drawn seekers of meaning and transcendence. For a rare few, this sanctity overwhelms, leading to Jerusalem syndrome — a psychological phenomenon with visitors who, swept up in the city’s holiness, believe they are on divine missions. Clad in flowing robes and quoting scripture, they wander the Old City imagining themselves as prophets or biblical figures.

Most cases are brief, lasting no more than a week, though some reveal deeper mental health struggles. Between 1980 and 1993, Jerusalem’s Kfar Shaul Mental Health Center treated about 1,200 such visitors.

“If you’re in L.A. and you think you’re Napoleon, you don’t have a burning desire to go to Paris and start a war,” explained Dr. Yair Barel, an expert on the syndrome. “But if you’re in L.A. and you think you’re the Messiah, you definitely have a need to come to Jerusalem.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post The Finnish False Messiah first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: Cholent Is Its Name

Location: New York

Document: Advertisements in the Yiddish Press

Time: 1930s

Every Friday, my mother used to send me to the baker to have him cook the cholent that she always prepared for the Sabbath. I loved eating the special dish, traditionally prepared to eat on the Jewish Sabbath, the day of rest when no cooking was allowed. She would make the cholent with a great deal of care and attention, using beans and potatoes and brown eggs and vegetables. When we had the money, she would add meat.

You could always tell our financial situation that week by the quality of the meat she bought for the cholent. If times were comparatively prosperous, she would get a good piece of beef from the butcher, a large chunk. But most of the time, it was scraggly pieces, which were all she could afford. Sometimes, when the situation was very bad, there was no meat at all. I could tell by the look on her face how much meat there would be in the cholent when she handed me the dish to take to the baker.

There were many weeks when she looked miserable. She hated seeing us go hungry, and she was always ready to give us her share because, like every Jewish mother in the neighborhood, she gladly sacrificed herself for the children.

Even as a little boy, I remember swearing to myself that when I grew up, I’d be very rich, and I’d make sure that for the rest of her days, my mother had only the best. In my childish mind I saw us all having a cholent with lots of meat every Friday night for the rest of our lives, a Sabbath dish with the best beef in the world. That was what I dreamed for the future, and I have a feeling that my desire to be rich, to have the best of everything, stems from those Fridays when I saw my mother’s face as she handed me the cholent dish.

—Meyer Lansky

From the times of Chazal, Jews kept the cherished custom of serving a hot dish as part of the Shabbos day repast. The reasons for this were halachic in origin. Unlike the Sadducees or the later Karaites, Rabbinic Jews believing in Torah shebe’al peh understood that utilizing heat on Shabbos is permitted provided that the fire was kindled before Shabbos. As a demonstration of loyalty to Rabbinic Judaism, the custom arose in the early centuries following the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash to include a hot dish in the Shabbos daytime meal. But the ingredients of that dish would take on many permutations over the millennia, developing new variations across the diaspora.

What likely began as something very similar to the Middle Eastern dish harissa, basically ground wheat mixed with meat and local seasoning, eventually evolved as it migrated to other domains. During Spain’s golden age, Sephardic chefs added chickpeas and beans to their hamin. Centuries later, conversos preparing hamin did so at risk to their lives, and officers of the Inquisition knew to search for it in their homes. It became a symbol of underground Judaism on the Iberian Peninsula in the centuries following the expulsion edict of 1492.

Meanwhile, Sephardic culinary customs migrated north through Provence into France. The Ashkenazi Jewish community slowly adopted hamin in the 12th century and referred to it by the Old French word for warm, chalt. As the Shabbos delicacy migrated further east to the German lands of Bohemia and Moravia and later to Poland, the word evolved into “cholent.”

The discovery of the New World and the introduction of foods and grains from there would have a decisive impact on the recipe for cholent. Beans and, of course, potatoes, emerged as the staple ingredients of cholent from the 16th century. Beef was generally a constant component, although in some regions of central Europe, goose was preferred.

Throughout most of history, in the shtetls of Europe, in the mellahs of Morocco, in the Old Yishuv of Yerushalayim, Jews did not own individual ovens. This posed a challenge to keeping the cholent hot on Shabbos. This was famously solved by having the townspeople deposit all their cholent pots with the town bakery. For a small fee, the baker would keep his oven hot for all of Shabbos. Every cholent pot had to have a unique design or color to make it easily recognizable, which led to artistic creativity with cholent pots throughout history.

Keeping the cholent hot at the bakery solved one problem but created another. Many shtetls lacked an eiruv to enable families to carry their cholent home on Shabbos morning. According to some survivor testimonies, this challenge was solved in a rather creative fashion. Young children from each family were designated as the cholent delivery service. The young children would go to the bakery, identify their family pot, and carry it home for their family to enjoy.

Cholent Creativity in Shaarei Chesed

Following the construction of Jerusalem’s Shaarei Chesed neighborhood in 1909, a communal oven was built in the back of the central Gra shul. The chimney of this original oven can be viewed even today.

The oven was administered by a colorful character named Chaim der Beker (“the baker”). His name was actually Chaim Levi, and he was a Yemenite Jew who didn’t even live in Shaarei Chesed. But in his capacity as the neighborhood baker, he spoke fluent Yiddish. He arranged a unique payment method for his cholent services. If he thought that a particular balabusta’s cholent was tasty, he’d demand payment in the form of maaser from the cholent itself. But if he thought it was lousy, then he required payment in cash.

One Shabbos, the Shaarei Chesed eiruv broke. A cholent crisis was declared, and the solution was a communal meal. The entire neighborhood encamped in the alleyway behind the Gra shul next to the oven and enjoyed their cholent together.

Cholent Innovation in America

In 1936, a Chicago engineer named Irving Naxon (born Nachumsohn), inspired by his Vilna-born mother and her stories of preparing cholent in her hometown, invented the Naxon Beanery. This electric slow cooker was designed to mimic the steady, all-night cooking process used in communal ovens.

The Rival Company purchased Naxon’s business and patent in 1970, rebranding the device as the Crock-Pot, which would soon become a fixture in kitchens worldwide. Today, over 80% of American households own a slow cooker, which, ironically, is said to have contributed to healthier eating habits — a likely unintended impact of Naxon’s innovation.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)

The post Cholent Is Its Name first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: What Is a Yeshivah?

Location: Cleveland, Ohio

Document Interview with Rav Mottel Katz

Time: 1950s

I commented recently about a new craze in America — the belief that it’s impossible to get any job, even as a chimney sweep, without a college degree. To this I add: granted the bnei hayeshivah won’t become chimney sweeps. But they will become talmidei chachamim and gedolei Torah!

Our entire purpose in life is achieving gadlus in Torah and yiras Shamayim. If a person fails to achieve this, he remains as pitiful as a chimney sweep. This is our attitude, and for this purpose we should exert ourselves with all our strength — that we should raise gedolei Torah. It is only through toiling in Torah that a person can cleave to his Creator.

—Rav Mottel Katz (Shiurei Daas)

 Internal disputes over the place of mussar in the yeshivah curriculum led to Rav Yosef Leib Bloch leaving the Telshe Yeshivah of his father-in-law, Rav Eliezer Gordon, in 1902. He was later appointed rabbi of nearby Shadova, where he opened his own yeshivah. One of his prime students there was Rav Chaim Mordechai (Mottel) Katz (1894–1964), born in Shadova to Rav Yaakov, a respected maggid shiur; his mother, Rochel Leah, came from distinguished lineage through her father, Rav Shmuel Yosef Havsha.

When Rav Yosef Leib returned to Telshe after his father-in-law passed away in 1910, he agreed not to bring his Shadova talmidim with him, so as not to dilute the Telshe Yeshivah’s unique atmosphere. So a young Mottel Katz traveled to Slabodka, where he joined Rav Boruch Ber Leibowitz’s Knesses Beis Yitzchak yeshivah. He later moved on to Telshe, remaining there until the outbreak of World War I, when he joined the Volozhin Yeshivah for two years, receiving semichah from its rosh yeshivah Rav Refael Shapiro. During this period, he was also privileged to forge a relationship with Rav Shlomo Polachek, the Meitscheter Illui, who particularly appreciated Rav Mottel’s grasp of the distinct derech halimud of each yeshivah.

Even as his parents and several siblings emigrated to South Africa, the young Mottel showed his dedication to Torah by staying behind.

Following World War I, he returned to Telshe in newly independent Lithuania, where he married Perel Leah, the daughter of his rosh yeshivah, Rav Yosef Leib Bloch. Rav Mottel then formally joined the faculty of the burgeoning institutional network that his father-in-law was building. His first position was as head of the Telshe Mechinah, a preparatory school for younger students, where he served as maggid shiur for the senior talmidim. He also served on the administration of the Yavneh School for girls, the first of its kind.

In 1924, he was appointed to the helm of the kollel in Telshe. Rav Mottel’s talents had begun to attract notice in the wider Jewish sphere, and he was tapped to serve as head of Zeirei Agudas Yisrael and participated in multiple Knessios Gedolos.

The year 1929 brought multiple personal tragedies: the passing of his revered father-in-law Rav Yosef Leib, of his father in South Africa, and the losses of his wife Perel Leah and his young son Shmuel. Despite these devastating blows, Rav Mottel maintained his countless responsibilities while increasing his involvement in communal affairs. He remarried in 1931; his second wife, Chaya Kravitz, was daughter of Rav Moshe Kravitz, the rav of Piyura, and Rav Yosef Leib’s brother-in-law. Together they merited seven more children.

Lithuania was forcibly incorporated into the Soviet Union in 1940, and the Communist regime began closing religious institutions. Rav Mottel and his brother-in-law Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch were dispatched to the United States to try to arrange for the resettlement of the yeshivah there.

Reb Aharon Bentzion Shurin recalled a fall evening in 1940 when he was among a group of European-born Telshe alumni who greeted the roshei yeshivah at Penn Station:

These two roshei yeshivah of Telshe succeeded in reaching American shores following significant challenges and tribulations. They arrived exhausted, but full of hope. They declared at that first meeting of Telshe Yeshivah alumni in America that despite the fact they couldn’t know the ultimate fate of Telshe Yeshivah back in the alte heim, they still hoped to continue the great tradition of Telshe Yeshivah here in America.

Over the course of 1941 the terrible news arrived of the destruction of Lithuanian Jewry, the annihilation of Telshe, and the loss of Rav Katz’s entire family — his wife and ten children. We can only imagine how the Telshe rosh yeshivah felt at that moment. One must be possessed of an iron will and strength of the spirit in order to continue living in the face of such devastation. He seemingly felt that Hashem’s hashgachah had sent him to America to rebuild Telshe Yeshivah, and that sense of mission must have strengthened him and encouraged him to persevere against all odds.

If not for that sense of mission, how is it even possible to comprehend the superhuman spirit that moved Rav Mottel Katz and his brother-in-law Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch to initiate their plans to reestablish the great Telshe Yeshivah in America?

Despite this unimaginable personal tragedy, Rav Mottel and Rav Eliyahu Meir demonstrated remarkable resilience by rebuilding Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland. In October 1942, they opened the yeshivah with just a handful of students. Their efforts extended to founding the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland in 1943, and Yavneh for girls in 1946.

Under their joint leadership, the Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland grew steadily, becoming a beacon of Torah learning in America. When Rav Eliyahu Meir passed away in 1955, Rav Mottel continued as sole rosh yeshivah. In 1957, he oversaw the yeshivah’s move from downtown Cleveland to a spacious campus in Wickliffe, Ohio. This move allowed for increased enrollment and improved facilities. In 1960, Rav Mottel established a branch of Telshe in Chicago.

Throughout his leadership, Rav Mottel maintained the high standards and unique derech halimud that had characterized Telshe in Europe. He was known for his ability to connect with American-born students while imparting the depth and breadth of the “Telsher Derech.”

In a tribute to Rav Mottel, Rav Reuven Feinstein, who studied in Telshe during his formative years, expounded upon the malchus (majesty) of Telshe:

Malchus, we must realize, is not only about majesty and regality. True malchus entails leadership and a deep sense of achrayus, the ability to perceive what the moment calls for and summoning the kochos hanefesh to follow through with it. It was during those years of Telshe’s growth and expansion, when Rav Mottel was the sole rosh yeshivah, that his personification of malchus truly came to the fore and was most perceptible.

Even in the face of adversity, such as a devastating fire in the yeshivah dormitories in 1963, Rav Mottel’s leadership remained steadfast. He immediately launched a rebuilding campaign, raising significant funds to ensure the yeshivah’s continued growth.

Rav Mottel’s impact extended beyond the walls of Telshe. He served as a member of the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah of Agudath Israel, contributing his wisdom to broader Jewish communal issues. His leadership in Cleveland helped establish the city as a major Torah community.

Go West, Young Men

Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch and Rav Mottel Katz didn’t reestablish Telshe in New York or any other location on the East Coast. They endeavored to spread Torah in an area of the country where it was most needed, and decided to explore the frontier and establish their yeshivah in Cleveland. Later Rav Mottel would expand upon the Telshe “manifest destiny,” and open another branch in the Midwest with the Telshe Yeshivah of Chicago. As Rabbi Berel Wein recalls in his memoirs:

In early 1960, I received a phone call from Rabbi Mordechai Katz, head of Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland, to please come to Cleveland to discuss an important matter with him. I had no idea what he wanted, but I went anyway.…

Rabbi Katz wanted to establish a branch of Telshe Yeshivah in Chicago in the fall, and asked for my help. He told me to expect the usual opposition to anything new in an established Jewish community; but he was convinced that Telshe Yeshivah could and would succeed in Chicago. The yeshivah would be headed by my brother-in-law [Rav Avraham Chaim Levin] and Rabbi Chaim Shmelczer. The first students would be a group of twelve young men whom he would send from Cleveland.…

The Telshe Yeshivah in Chicago has since become an important fixture on the American yeshivah landscape.

In the Face of Sorrow

Despite the unimaginable loss of his family, Rav Mottel dedicated his entire being to rebuilding the yeshivah and creating a new life in America. Publicly, he maintained a composed and stoic demeanor, focusing on his mission to perpetuate Torah learning and the legacy of Telshe.

However, one day, a student passing by Rav Mottel’s office witnessed an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. The rosh yeshivah was overcome with grief, weeping uncontrollably. Concerned, the student entered the room to see what had caused such anguish.

Rav Mottel explained: “Every day, I sit here and picture the faces of my wife and each of my precious children who were taken from me. Today, for the first time, I could no longer remember how my youngest child looked.”

The 11th of  Kislev will mark the 60th yahrtzeit of Rav Chaim Mordechai Katz.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1040)

The post What Is a Yeshivah? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: The Jew Who Banked on Japan

Location: Empire of Japan

Document: Japan Times

Time: March 1906

The decades from 1880 to 1920 were a pivotal time in Jewish history. In the United States, the post–Civil War economic boom gave rise to a Jewish upper class who had immigrated from Germany in the mid-19th century. The 1880s saw the start of a massive influx of Eastern European Jews, primarily from the Russian Empire, which continued without abate until the US government curtailed immigration in 1924.

The wave of immigration from Eastern Europe would transform the American Jewish community. Millions of immigrants, largely bewildered and impoverished, faced new challenges in acclimating into American society, finding gainful employment, and retaining their Jewish identity and practices. Modern anti-Semitism was on the rise, both in the United States and internationally, and the plight of Jews suffering under the brutal czarist regime emerged as a central concern. At the same time, the rise of Jewish nationalism, especially in the form of the nascent Zionist movement, generated a sense of political upheaval.

The great 19th-century European Jewish philanthropists — Sir Moses Montefiore, Baron Maurice de Hirsch, Baron Horace Günzburg, and the first generation of the Rothschild banking family — would be eclipsed by an American Jewish philanthropist named Jacob Schiff (1847–1920), whose leadership on the Jewish scene in America and the world in general would be remembered as the “Schiff era.” He became the address for every major and minor issue of his day, and duly dispensed his phenomenal wealth for a host of causes.

His most famous and ambitious project was his financing of the Empire of Japan during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-05. The czarist Russian Empire had been looking to expand its sphere of influence in the Far East, and to that end was seeking a warm water port in the region, as the waters around Vladivostok froze during the winter. The Empire of Japan was a rising power and was looking to expand its sphere of influence in Korea and Manchuria.

War broke out between the two with Japan’s surprise attack on Russia’s Port Arthur in Manchuria in February 1904. Czar Nicholas’s antiquated imperial navy sustained a series of defeats, and his Far East fleet faced complete collapse by the time Japan declared victory in 1905. Japan’s victory in the Russo-Japanese War had far-reaching consequences for the balance of power in the region and for world history in the coming decades. It was the first time a non-European power had defeated a major European power in direct military conflict, marking the rise of Japan as a major power. Russia’s crippled naval capabilities would have a decisive impact during World War I. The battle also led directly to the Naval Mutiny, which developed into the ill-fated 1905 Russian Revolution.

Japan’s historic victory was due in no small part to the financial backing of Jacob Schiff. In April 1904, Schiff approached Takahashi Korekiyo, vice president of the Bank of Japan, with an unexpected offer to arrange the substantial financing Japan needed to expand and modernize its navy. As the acting head of the Wall Street investment bank Kuhn, Loeb, and Company, Schiff extended a groundbreaking $200 million loan (equivalent to approximately $5.3 billion in 2024) to the Empire of Japan.

This was the first-ever Wall Street loan to Japan, and its unprecedented size — covering nearly half of Japan’s war expenses — drew international attention. While Schiff’s decision was partly rooted in financial calculations — he believed Japan’s limited gold reserves would not hinder a well-supported nationalistic war effort — he was also convinced that Japan, as the underdog, had a clear path to victory.

But the primary motivating factor in Schiff’s loan to Japan was not so much his superior business acumen but rather his sense of responsibility to the Jewish People. By the early 1900s, Jacob Schiff had been focused on the plight of Russian Jewry for more than two decades. Though he mainly assisted millions of Russian Jewish immigrants pouring onto American shores through a variety of means, he remained deeply involved with the Jews left behind under the czarist regime. He drew attention to the pogroms suffered by Jews in Russia in the 1880s, and increased his efforts after being greatly shaken by the 1903 Kishinev Pogrom. By assisting Japan against Russia, he hoped to weaken the brutal czarist regime, and perhaps even topple it through revolution, ultimately freeing the suffering Jews of Russia.

The immediate short-term beneficiaries of this wartime loan, obviously, were the Japanese, who emerged victorious in the war. Their powerful navy would dominate the Pacific high seas for decades.

In the longer term, however, the Jewish People benefited as well. They got a temporary reprieve with the failed 1905 revolution. By 1917, the Russian nation had had enough of repressive czarist rule. The February Revolution finally freed Russia and its Jews from the yoke of the anti-Semitic czar. Although the brutal Bolshevik Revolution followed in October, the collapse of the old order was mostly beneficial for Russian Jewry. In addition, nearly 40 years later there would be a fascinating butterfly effect for Polish Jewish refugees in Japan during World War II.

After the Russo-Japanese War, Emperor Meiji honored Schiff in Tokyo with the prestigious Order of the Rising Sun. Schiff’s celebration by Japan’s political, military, and business elite demonstrated the perceived power and influence of Jewish financiers in international politics. This lay the groundwork for Japan’s emerging complex attitudes toward Jews, which mixed a belief that Jewish financiers influenced global affairs with common stereotypes of Jews.

This perception led to an intriguing dichotomy in Japanese policy during the 1930s and 1940s. Some leaders developed ideas about leveraging supposed Jewish economic power to Japan’s advantage, leading to proposals like the “Fugu Plan” to attract Jewish refugees to Japanese-controlled territories in hopes of gaining access to presumed Jewish financial networks and American influence.

The memory of Schiff’s crucial support during the war with Russia would later help save thousands of Jewish lives, when Japanese diplomat Chiune Sugihara, stationed in Kaunas, Lithuania, issued over 2,000 transit visas to Jewish refugees. These refugees found temporary safety in Kobe, Japan, where the Japanese government, influenced by the positive associations with Jewish financial power dating back to Schiff’s assistance, extended what were initially ten-day transit visas into nearly yearlong stays. The refugees were treated with tolerance and respect, before ultimately being “transferred” to Shanghai in the months leading up to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

Clinging to Tradition

Jacob Schiff was a descendant of the distinguished Schiff rabbinical family that traced its lineage in Frankfurt back to 1370, and he was born into that city’s Hirschian separatist community. There is a common misconception that Jacob Schiff completely abandoned Orthodoxy upon arrival in America in 1865 and joined the Reform movement, which dominated the German-Jewish “Uptown” community in New York.

However, Schiff’s dedication to the tradition of his youth was evident in numerous ways. His strict adherence to shemiras Shabbos impressed even his business associates. A notable example occurred in 1887 when he received an invitation from the president of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad for an inspection tour. Rather than simply declining, Schiff took the opportunity to explain his religious principles, writing that he would be happy to join if arrangements could be made to avoid traveling on Shabbos.

This was typical of his approach — never flaunting his observance, but never hesitating to make it known when necessary. He steadfastly refused to write letters, examine business mail, or even allow market quotations to be read to him on the Sabbath. He always walked to synagogue on Shabbos, regardless of weather or convenience.

His longtime friend and biographer, Dr. Cyrus Adler, wrote:

The depth of Schiff’s religious commitment extended well beyond Sabbath observance. Every morning, without fail, he would don his tallis and tefillin. He maintained strict kosher dietary practices and said grace after meals. His respect for synagogue sanctity was so profound that he opposed collecting funds in the synagogue even on the Day of Atonement, maintaining this position even in the face of pressing disasters that might have warranted an exception. When invited to attend an annual meeting of a Jewish philanthropic organization scheduled for a Saturday, he responded with a thoughtful critique of the practice, agreeing to attend only if he could receive assurance that no written records would be kept during the holy day.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1039)

The post The Jew Who Banked on Japan first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: Holy Dirt

Location: Jerusalem

Document: Brooklyn Times Union

Time: 1904

This is the first rule. Make it well known among them that no one has any permission to export dirt of Eretz Yisrael under any circumstances, on behalf of any community or individual, in any country under our jurisdiction, unless they obtain express permission from us to do so. Anyone who fails to comply with this measure and is caught exporting dirt of Eretz Yisrael without our permission will be sanctioned by us and not receive a single prutah of chalukah funds from us.

It is your responsibility to adhere strictly to this regulation, as well as to enforce it by ensuring that no member of your community violates this measure. You must warn everyone of the consequences that will be sustained for engaging in this practice. And you must duly inform us of the names of anyone who henceforth engages in this activity in order for us to implement the punitive measures against that individual as enumerated above.

—The Organization of Pekidim and Amarkalim on behalf of Eretz Hakodesh in Amsterdam, in a letter dated 6 Iyar 1852 to the administrators of Kollel Hod (Holland and Deutschland) in Jerusalem.

Fundraising to support Torah scholars in the Old Yishuv differed both from the time-honored ideal of that cause and from ordinary philanthropic support for the poor. Because the recipients were both talmidei chachamim and poor, financial assistance to the Old Yishuv wasn’t understood by the providers as being limited to the realm of philanthropy. It was rather understood as an act of reciprocity. Members of the Old Yishuv were provided with material needs by the Jewish communities of the Diaspora, while the holy scholars provided spiritual goods in return.

The members of Old Yishuv society saw themselves, and were in turn viewed by others, as an avant-garde representing the Jewish People in the Holy Land. By not engaging in material pursuits and instead focusing exclusively on Torah and avodah in Eretz Yisrael; praying on behalf of the klal at holy sites and graves of tzaddikim; performing the mitzvos exclusive to Eretz Yisrael; being sheltered from the social changes sweeping through 19th-century Diaspora Jewish life, and thus serving as a last enclave of holiness unaffected by modernity and its challenges, these beneficiaries facilitated a relationship between giver and receiver that constituted a functional transaction of goods, rather than purely an act of tzedakah for the needy.

The problem with this economic model was that while the giver provided material goods that were quantifiable and tangible, the spiritual goods they received in return were more abstract. As a result, the shadarim (Old Yishuv fundraisers) ran the risk of appearing as generic schnorrers, rather than representing a spiritual elite and partaking in a two-way transaction.

To overcome this challenge, the Old Yishuv developed a souvenir industry in the 19th century that supplemented the spiritual goods with symbolic relics that expressed the transaction in a more tangible fashion. Certificates of recognition for donors, all sorts of Judaica artifacts, artwork from Eretz Yisrael, and a host of other souvenirs were given to donors around the world. Obtaining relics from the Holy Land was a common practice among Christian pilgrims and communities for centuries, and it likely influenced the Jewish community in the 19th century. An entire industry developed around these items, and aside from presenting gifts to donors, entrepreneurs initiated a growing trade in the export and sale of Holy Land souvenirs across the Diaspora.

One of the most highly prized commodities from Eretz Yisrael for millennia — but which rose in prominence in the 19th century — was dirt from Eretz Yisrael. This soil was desired for burial in chutz l’Aretz. For many centuries, a handful or more of dirt from Eretz Yisrael was thrown in the grave during burial. In the 19th century, it emerged as a common gift for donors to the Old Yishuv, who then utilized it for their own burial or for their loved ones. The Eretz Yisrael dirt industry became quite commercialized over the 19th century. Generally, local communal chevra kaddishas would order large quantities of dirt through the fundraising apparatus of the Old Yishuv. Individuals in each community would in turn purchase the dirt from the chevra kaddisha for burials.

Sometimes the dirt wasn’t used for burial. Sir Moses and Lady Judith Montefiore built a shul at their Ramsgate estate, and at the cornerstone laying ceremony, the couple spread dirt from Eretz Yisrael in the spot where the aron kodesh was to be dedicated. There is evidence of other shuls engaging in this practice, and there were even instances where stones were imported from Jerusalem to serve as the cornerstone for a shul in Europe.

The powerful organization of the Pekidim and Amarkalim on behalf of Eretz Hakodesh in Amsterdam, with the legendary Rav Tzvi Hirsh Lehren at its helm, had for decades maintained a strict monopoly on the Eretz Yisrael dirt trade. They demanded that they be the sole importers and proprietors, set the prices, and oversee the distribution of the profits. Rav Tzvi Hirsh Lehren even related that he’d personally check the valises of his shadarim who arrived from Eretz Yisrael to Amsterdam, in order to ensure that they weren’t smuggling any dirt without his organization’s knowledge.

In 1853, another Amsterdam native named Rav Yehuda Leib Schaap successfully broke the monopoly heretofore the exclusive domain of the Pekidim and Amarkalim organization. As an aspect of his ongoing dispute with the organization, he imported several crates of Eretz Yisrael dirt, sold them wholesale at a fraction of the cost, and essentially broke the market. Thus commenced a significant wholesale trade war over Eretz Yisrael dirt at competitive prices.

The Vaad of the Pekidim and Amarkalim in Amsterdam viewed this development as not only a loss of revenue for their organization, but also as commercialization of a holy product, which was now being marketed as a cheap commodity.

In a letter to the Sephardic kollel in Tzfas in 1854, it was noted, “The love of the Land of Israel is lessened by the day. When everyone recognizes that dirt from the Holy Land is cheap, and that it’s traded just as any other product on the market, it loses value in their eyes. The kavod for Eretz Yisrael is lost as a result.”

Celebrity Dirt

A year prior to his passing in 1854 in New Orleans, a non-Jewish acquaintance of Judah Touro brought dirt from the Holy Land, which Touro requested that he be buried with. When Sir Moses Montefiore buried his wife Lady Judith at their Ramsgate estate, the coffin was covered with dirt from Eretz Yisrael, which had been imported expressly for this purpose, as it was lowered into the ground. To complete the connection his wife had with the Land of Israel, he had a mausoleum constructed over her grave that resembled Kever Rachel.

Holy Snuff

The dirt and stone industry was a concretization of the pasuk in Tehillim often used in fundraising drives for the Old Yishuv: “Ki ratzu avadecha es avaneha v’es afarah yechonenu — For Your servants have desired her stones, and her dust has found favor with them.” In a letter of appreciation for his activities on behalf of the kollel from Rav Yaakov Leib Levi of Kollel Warsaw in Yerushalayim, to Rav Eliyahu Guttmacher of Graiditz, he writes as follows:

“And therefore I’m including a modest gift with this letter, and since it is carved from a stone of the Holy City, it is beloved to Hashem’s people, as it says, ki ratzu avadecha es avaneha. I am therefore sending you a tobacco snuff box, which everyone utilizes constantly, and will therefore be useful for you, despite it being a small gift.”

This column is largely based on an essay by Dr. Yochai Ben Gedaliah.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1038)

The post Holy Dirt first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: No Prayer Goes Unanswered

Location: Jerusalem, Israel

Document: Jerusalem Post

Time: October 14, 1994

My husband asked that it be stated at Nachshon’s funeral, to please tell all our people that G-d did listen to our prayers and that He collected all our tears. My husband’s greatest concern when burying his son was that there would be a crisis in faith. And so he asked that it be told to everyone that just as a father would always like to say yes to all of his children’s requests, sometimes he had to say no, though the child might not understand why. So our Father in Heaven heard our prayers, and though we don’t understand why, His answer was no.

—Esther Wachsman, mother of Nachshon Wachsman Hy”d

When the Oslo Accords went into effect in the last months of 1994, Palestinian extremists attempted to stop the peace process. Hamas, which actively wanted to prevent any possibility of peace between Israel and the Palestinians, carried out a series of suicide bombings and deadly terror attacks to try to convince the Israeli public of the futility of peace. Hamas terrorists also wanted to free the founder of their organization, Ahmed Yassin, along with hundreds of other terrorists, from Israeli prisons. To that end, they invested great effort into abducting an IDF soldier who could be used as a bargaining chip. Sadly, they found one: Nachshon Wachsman.

Nachshon’s mother Esther was born in a DP camp in Germany in 1947 to survivor parents who had lost their entire families in the Holocaust. Having grown up in Brooklyn, she moved to Israel in 1969 and studied history at Hebrew University, specializing in Holocaust studies. It was there that she met her husband, Yehuda Wachsman, who was born in Romania in 1947 and immigrated to Israel when he was 11.

Settling in Jerusalem’s Ramot neighborhood, they raised a family of seven sons. The first two were appropriately named for ancestors martyred in the Holocaust. The third son was born on Shevii shel Pesach, the anniversary of Kri’as Yam Suf, inspiring hope for a better future. Named for the Biblical Nachshon ben Aminadav, who was the first to jump into the Yam Suf, he attended a yeshivah in Jerusalem before following his older brothers into the elite Golani combat unit of the IDF.

On Friday, October 7, 1994, when Nachshon was 19, he returned home for a week break, but was called back on Motzaei Shabbos for a one-day training maneuver in northern Israel. Promising his parents that he’d return the following night, he headed north, completed his exercise, and started his return trip. He was last seen on Sunday night, October 9, at the Bnei Atarot junction, one of the busiest highway intersections in the center of the country, not far from Ben Gurion Airport.

He was apparently hitchhiking his way back to Jerusalem when a car stopped to offer a ride. The disguised Hamas terrorists wore yarmulkes, had a siddur and Chumash on display on the dashboard, and were playing popular Jewish music loudly from their cassette player. Seeing no reason for concern, Nachshon accepted the proffered ride, and his abductors immediately proceeded to a prearranged hideout in a Palestinian village named Bir Nabala, only a ten-minute drive from his parents’ home in Ramot.

His proximity was initially unknown to the Israeli security establishment, who mistakenly believed he was being held in the Gaza Strip, which was promptly sealed off. Hamas delivered an ultimatum with a video of Nachshon being held hostage. They demanded that a prisoner exchange take place by Friday at 8 p.m., or Nachshon would be shot.

Because Nachshon was a dual citizen of Israel and the United States, an international outcry ensued, spearheaded by his parents. President Bill Clinton and Prime Minister Itzhak Rabin were contacted, and Yehuda and Esther Wachsman appeared in the media, trying to do everything possible to win their son’s release. When Rabin threatened Arafat with a termination of the entire Oslo Accords if he wouldn’t cooperate with locating the terrorists, Arafat complied by arresting Hamas militants and even calling the Wachsman home to assure them that he was doing everything possible to return their son.

In addition to their political, diplomatic, and media efforts, the Wachsmans moved heaven and earth in the spiritual realm as well, uniting Jewish people worldwide to pray for Nachshon’s release.

And we appealed to our brethren — to the Jewish people throughout the world — and asked them to pray for our son. The Chief Rabbi of Israel designated three chapters of Psalms to be said every day, and people everywhere, including schoolchildren who had never prayed before, did so for the sake of one precious Jewish soul. I asked women throughout the world to light an extra Sabbath candle for my son.

From about 30,000 letters that poured into our home, I learned of thousands of women who had never lit Sabbath candles, who did so for the sake of our son — who had become a symbol of everyone’s son, brother, friend. On Thursday night, twenty-four hours before the ultimatum, a prayer vigil was held at the Western Wall and, at the same hour, prayer vigils were held throughout the world in synagogues, schools, community centers, street squares....

At the Western Wall, 50,000 people arrived, with almost no notice — chassidim in black frock coats and long side curls swayed and prayed and cried, side by side with young boys in torn   jeans and ponytails and earrings. There was total unity and solidarity of purpose among us — religious and secular, left wing and right wing, Sephardi and Ashkenazi, old and young, rich and poor — an occurrence unprecedented in our sadly fragmented society.

When Israeli intelligence discovered that Nachshon was being held in a West Bank village under Israeli jurisdiction, a military operation was authorized to free him. Just as the ultimatum ran out on Friday night at 8 p.m., elite IDF commandos stormed the compound. Upon encountering a steel door that needed to be blown up in order to proceed, the element of surprise was lost, and the terrorists shot Nachshon in the throat and chest. Captain Nir Poraz was also killed during the failed rescue mission.

Itzhak Rabin publicly took sole responsibility for the botched rescue attempt, and visited the family during the shivah. He continued to call Nachshon’s parents every Motzaei Shabbos and Erev Yom Tov until his own assassination a year later.

Throngs of mourners attended the funeral on Motzaei Shabbos. The innocent 19-year-old boy had become a symbol of a nation experiencing both hope and tragedy. But his parents taught another lesson that resonates until this very day. Faith, even when the desired outcome remains elusive, brings the Jewish People together. And those multitudes of prayers and Shabbos candles kindled served a cosmic purpose, although the results are beyond human comprehension.

Belated Revenge

The Hamas terrorist who kidnapped Nachshon Waxman, Zacharia Najib, was detained and imprisoned in Israel. In June 2006, Hamas abducted Gilad Shalit, the first Israeli soldier taken alive since Nachshon Waxman. In the prisoner exchange that released Shalit in October 2011, Yehuda Wachsman approved the release of Zacharia Najib to secure Shalit’s release. Najib was finally eliminated in an air strike in the Al-Shifa Hospital area in 2024. The senior Hamas terrorist who masterminded the Nachshon Wachsman kidnapping was Mohammed Deif, and he was also eliminated in an airstrike in Khan Yunis in July 2024.

Nobel (No) Peace Prize

In a cruel twist of irony, on October 14, 1994, the day Nachshon Wachsman was murdered by Hamas terrorists, the Nobel Prize Committee announced that the Nobel Peace Prize — issued in Oslo of all places, and not in Stockholm, where the prizes in the sciences are distributed — would be presented collectively to Itzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres, and Yasser Arafat, for their respective roles in the Oslo Accords.

In the Nobel committee’s statement, they naively declared: “By concluding the Oslo Accords, and subsequently following them up, Arafat, Peres, and Rabin have made substantial contributions to a historic process through which peace and cooperation can replace war and hate.… It is the Committee’s hope that the award will serve as an encouragement to all the Israelis and Palestinians who are endeavoring to establish lasting peace in the region.”

Wishful thinking. A few hours after this announcement, Nachshon Wachsman was murdered in cold blood by Hamas terrorists. Hashem yikom damo.

The 9th of Cheshvan marked the 30th yahrtzeit of Nachshon Wachsman Hy”d.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1037)

The post No Prayer Goes Unanswered first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I would like to share the story of the “petek,” which I found in 1922.…

That year, I failed to fast on 17 Tammuz. As a result, I fell into a deep depression, feeling crushed inside. I was filled with such immense pain that I thought I would lose my mind.…

When I attended yeshivah on Sunday, the talmidim, who were all opposed to Breslov, mocked me and declared, “This is the end of all Breslov chassidim, in the end they all lose their minds and go insane.”

I suffered greatly from their taunting. I davened to Hashem to relieve me from my depression.… I resolved to go to my room and choose at random a sefer from my bookshelf, open it to a random page, and the Torah on that page would restore my soul. Though the words of Rabbeinu Nachman enliven the soul, it failed to restore my spirits, and my depressive state remained.

When I was about to return the sefer to the shelf, I noticed that there was a thin piece of paper with writing on it. At first, I paid no attention to this, but when I started to read it and realized that it was a letter from Rabbeinu Hakadosh [Rebbe Nachman]. Upon this discovery, I immediately experienced a complete recovery. I was filled with such happiness and rejoicing that I began to sing and dance in my room.…

That is the story of the “petek,” which I found in a miraculous fashion.

—Rabbi Yisrael Ber Odesser

The 1837 earthquake in the Galilee devastated the local Jewish communities, and recovery took decades. Only by the end of the 19th century was Jewish life again flourishing in Teveria, home to a strong chassidic community since the end of the previous century.

Several chassidic courts had established outposts in Teveria, most prominently Karlin and Slonim. A prominent Breslov chassid named Rav Yisrael Halperin, known as Rav Yisrael Karduner for his city of origin, arrived in Eretz Yisrael in 1903 and alternated between Tzfas, Meron, and Teveria. In Eretz Yisrael, as in Europe, Breslovers were a tiny minority of the chassidic community, often facing opposition and even hostility for their practices and beliefs. Rav Yisrael Karduner disseminated the Torah of Rebbe Nachman among the youth he encountered, and influenced some to adopt the ideals and ways of Breslov chassidus.

His closest protege was a young Teveria native from a family of Karliner chassidim named Yisrael Ber Odesser (c. 1888–1994). Eventually Odesser fully adopted the teachings of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov and moved into his mentor’s home. He imbibed the teachings of the Breslov elders in Yerushalayim as well. In 1922, while he was still associated with Teveria’s Ohr Torah yeshivah, adjacent to the kever of Rabi Meir Baal Haneis, he claimed to have discovered a mysterious note, or “petek” (as it later became known). He believed it had been written by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, niftar 112 years prior.

The original note, which was either destroyed or stolen from Rabbi Odesser’s daughter’s home in 2001, contained an inspirational message from Rebbe Nachman and mystical hints regarding the redemption, including the famous phrase, “My fire will burn until the arrival of Mashiach.” The most distinctive feature of this note was the way Rebbe Nachman’s name appeared, spelled out in a kabbalistic acrostic: “Na Nach Nachma Nachman mei’Uman.”

The authenticity of the petek has been hotly disputed. Many in the establishment Breslov community assert that a classmate in the Ohr Torah yeshivah played an innocent prank to try to lift the spirits of the downtrodden Odesser, in the wake of the aforementioned Shivah Asar B’Tammuz debacle. The followers of Rabbi Odesser, or “the Saba,” as he was affectionately known, contend that the document was an authentic revelation from Rebbe Nachman of Breslov to his student generations later.

Whatever the truth regarding the petek itself, Rabbi Yisrael Odesser kept its very existence a closely guarded secret for more than 60 years, revealing it only to his children. This changed in the early 1980s when the Saba was a resident of a Raanana old age home, and was discovered by a group of immigrants from France who had recently adopted religious observance. Inspired by the wise, elderly Breslover chassid, these baalei teshuvah gravitated to him, and he soon divulged the existence of his special petek. By the end of the decade, the Na Nach movement emerged, gaining adherents, and spreading their message of joy through such means as bumper stickers, billboards, highway graffiti, and of course, music.

Rabbi Odesser never explained why he had kept the petek secret for so many decades, nor why he ultimately decided to disclose its existence to a group of French baalei teshuvah. But when he passed away in 1994, likely at the extremely old age of 106, a new movement was just beginning. Over the ensuing years the Na Nach movement became a fixture, and the legacy of the Saba, the “Baal Hapetek,” Rabbi Yisrael Ber Odesser, continues to have an influence within Breslov and beyond.

Rosh Hashanah in Israel?

Rabbi Odesser embarked on a controversial project toward the end of his life that didn’t materialize: transferring Rebbe Nachman’s remains from Uman, Ukraine, to Israel. In addition to publicly opposing his entire approach and leadership, the Breslov rabbinical establishment also opposed this attempted transfer, citing Rebbe Nachman’s desire to be buried in Uman in close proximity to a mass grave of Jews who had been killed al Kiddush Hashem.

Incredibly, Rabbi Odesser was successful in convincing Israeli president Chaim Herzog to formally submit a request to exhume and transfer the kever to Leonid Kravchuk, the first president of independent Ukraine. Even more astounding, Kravchuk seemingly acquiesced to this request, and it wasn’t carried out only because of the protest raised by the mainstream Breslov community against transferring the tzaddik.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1036)

The post The Miracle Petek first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: For the Bochurim, by the Bochurim

Location: Grodno, Poland

Document: Yiddishe Togblatt

Time: 1922

This Sunday, 9 Cheshvan will mark the 85th yahrtzeit of Rav Shimon Shkop. The authors hope to present a more complete profile of Rav Shimon in the future.

Appeal For The Grodno Yeshiva

Letter from the esteemed Rabbi, the Gaon Rav Shimon Yehuda Shkop of Grodno:

A significant number of my friends who studied with me in the yeshivos of Telz, Maltch, and Brynsk now find themselves in the United States. As it is now very difficult for me to sustain the Shaar HaTorah Yeshivah, which I now lead in Grodno and which is in great need, I turn to you to support it. This support will not only sustain the yeshivah but will also be an expression of gratitude toward me. Please, each of you, contribute according to your ability.

I have appointed my brother-in-law, Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Olshwang of Chicago, to serve as the contact for all donations. Any contributions to support the yeshivah can be sent directly to him, and he will ensure they reach us.

With a broken heart due to the dire situation of our holy Torah and with hope for the rebuilding of Zion and Jerusalem,

Shimon Yehuda HaKohein Shkop, rosh mesivta of the Shaar HaTorah Yeshivah, Grodno.

Rabbi Olshwang is the rabbi of the Mishnah U’Gemara Society. He can be found either in the Mishnah U’Gemara synagogue or at his residence, 717 West Roosevelt Road.

When the German army captured Grodno during World War I, a group of refugee yeshivah students remained in this historic Jewish city. Amid the wartime mayhem, Yeshivah Shaar HaTorah emerged through the determination of the students themselves. In 1916, with no rosh yeshivah or formal institution, a group of them formed a committee, gathering resources and laying the groundwork for a new Torah center in Grodno. They secured a building, arranged funding, and created the structure of an established yeshivah.

The Yesod V’Shoresh Ha’avodah beis medrash, established in honor of the esteemed Rav Alexander Ziskind, rav of Grodno and author of the foundational sefer by that name, hosted the yeshivah during the early years. Local lay leaders led by Reb Reuven Soloveitchik rallied around the cause, offering wisdom and encouragement. Rabbi Dr. David Winter, a German army chaplain stationed in Grodno, was instrumental in securing financial support from Ezra, a Jewish-German organization that assisted with monthly expenses. Talmidim recalled Dr. Winter’s warmth and hands-on approach during those challenging times.

Rav Alter Shmuelevitz, the son-in-law of the Alter of Novardok, Rav Yosef Yoizel Horowitz, had relocated to Grodno during the war from his residence in Shtutshin (Szczuczyn). At the request of the bochurim, he began to deliver shiurim. Among the students was his 13-year-old son Chaim. Shortly afterward, Rabbi Yosef Leib Nenedik was hired as mashgiach, having previously served in that role in Lomza, Radin, and Brynsk.

After the end of the war, Grodno became part of Poland, and life resumed its normal patterns. However, the situation of the Shaar HaTorah yeshivah was desperate. Rav Alter Shmuelevitz left Grodno and returned home to Shtutshin, where he passed away in 1918, leaving the yeshivah bereft. The economic situation began to deteriorate. The Ezra Association stopped its monthly payments following the German withdrawal from the city, and the Joint Distribution Committee was not yet providing funding.

It was the rav of Ponevezh, Rav Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman, who recommended Rav Shimon Shkop, the brilliant mechanech and rosh yeshivah of Brynsk to lead Shaar HaTorah. Rav Shimon had already made an indelible mark in the Torah world with his shiurim at Telshe, where he had redefined the derech halimud with clarity and incisiveness. He was a leader with the ability to build minds and souls.

A delegation led by Rav Yosef Leib traveled to Vilna to petition Rav Shimon. Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzenski took up the cause, convinced that Rav Shimon was uniquely suited to not just save the Grodno Yeshivah but shepherd it into a new era. Rav Chaim Ozer described the devastation of Torah institutions from the war and the vision of Shaar HaTorah as a central beacon that could restore Grodno’s — and Poland’s — position as a world center of Torah.

With a heavy heart and a sense of duty that transcended personal attachment to his community in Brynsk, Rav Shimon accepted, albeit with one condition: His entire focus would be on Torah and the talmidim, while the financial affairs of the yeshivah would remain in the hands of the committee. It was a concession that Rav Chaim Ozer and the delegation readily accepted.

When Rav Shimon arrived in Grodno in 1920, the yeshivah’s transformation was immediate. The brilliance of his derech halimud, coupled with his humility and love for his students, led to a growth in both quantity and quality of the student body. Shaar HaTorah was now a premier Torah center, and Rav Shimon, its illustrious rosh yeshivah, was a symbol of the resilience and revival of Torah in a world shattered by war.

Yet shortly after he arrived in Grodno, the local community still struggled to keep the yeshivah financially solvent. Rav Shimon therefore penned the above letter to his former students in New York, hoping they would come to the yeshivah’s assistance.

The Warmest Winter

Rabbi Dr. David Alexander Winter was a German-born rabbi whose career began with his studies at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gymnasium in Cologne, followed by a year at the yeshivah in Halberstadt. He then attended the University of Berlin, where he studied philosophy, and the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary, receiving ordination in 1904 and earning his doctorate in 1906.

During World War I, Winter served as a field rabbi for the German Army’s 12th and 10th Armies, and in the process helped support reeling Lithuanian yeshivos. He subsequently served as the last prewar rabbi of the Jewish community in Lübeck (1921–1938), succeeding Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach and his son Rav Yosef Tzvi, who also helped rebuild yeshivos in Lithuania during World War I.

A Regiment of Relentless Study

Though founded by students, the yeshivah’s rigor and discipline were uncompromising. A vaad of students governed in its early days. Yosef Begun, who would go on to be known as one of the giants of the Lithuanian Torah world was chosen as its leader. Under his guidance, the Vaad established a demanding learning schedule. Each talmid committed to learning 11 dapim of Gemara weekly — six focused on breadth and five on depth. Exams took place biweekly, administered by an Examining Committee chosen from among the students. To maintain high standards, the Examining Committee was regularly evaluated by a group known as the “Examiners of the Examiners.”

The writings of Rav Zelik Epstein and Professor Benzion Klibansky were utilized in the preparation of this article.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1035)

The post For the Bochurim, By the Bochurim first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: A Great Name

Location: Minsk, Russian Empire

Document: Ha-Tsfira

Time: January 1896

AS one of the largest and most prestigious communities in the Pale of Settlement, Minsk enjoyed a rich history of Jewish life, yeshivos, and batei medrash, along with a slew of prominent rabbinical leaders. When Rabbi Dovid Tevle (Rubin), the rav of Minsk, author of Nachlas Dovid, and a famed student of Rav Chaim of Volozhin, passed away in 1861, it was a challenge to find a suitable replacement for such an esteemed figure in one of the most important rabbinical positions in all of Russia.

In the interim, several figures served informally as community rabbi, among them the deceased’s son-in-law Rav Moshe Yehuda Leib Hindin, who until then had served as a dayan on the Minsk beis din. Only after 20 years, in 1882, was an official chief rabbi of Minsk finally installed: Rav Yerucham Yehuda Leib Perlman (1835–1896). One of the most outstanding Torah leaders of the late 19th century, he was to be known to posterity as the Minsker Gadol.

Yerucham Yehuda Leib Perlman, born into a modest home in Brisk, displayed exceptional brilliance even as a young teenager. It didn’t take long for Rav Yaakov Meir Padwa, renowned author of Mekor Mayim Chaim and rav of Brisk, to take notice of his sharp intellect and profound knowledge. Recognizing his potential, Rav Padwa guided the young prodigy, knowing that with the right direction, he could one day become a Torah giant.

Yerucham Leib married Rav Padwa’s daughter at just 13 and soon journeyed to Kovno. There, his genius caught the attention of Rav Yitzchok Avigdor, the rav of Kovno. So impressed was Rav Yitzchok Avigdor that he secured the support of a prominent lay leader, Rav Yaakov Moshe Karpas, who welcomed Yerucham Leib into his home, ensuring all his needs were met. Over the next two years, Yerucham Leib’s reputation as a Torah scholar spread throughout the region.

He began his rabbinic career in Seltso in 1863, followed by a distinguished 13-year tenure as rav of Pruzhany. In each role, he demonstrated his deep commitment to Torah, humility, and an uncompromising approach to halachah. In 1882, he was called upon to serve as the chief rabbi of Minsk, where he restored the city’s rabbinic authority to its former glory.

Various interpretations have been offered as to the origins of the honorific “Minsker Gadol,” which deviated from the standard titles of chief rabbi or mara d’asra. Rav Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Teomim, the Aderes, recorded in his autobiography Seder Eliyahu two possible explanations for the Minsker Gadol’s title. As winds of change swept through the Pale during the closing decades of the 19th century, progressive elements within the Minsk Jewish communal leadership endeavored to appoint a more liberal rabbi. Conservatives demanded that a true gadol be appointed, as per the longstanding tradition of Minsk. When the side promoting the appointment of a gadol won out and Rav Perlman was duly hired, the victory was eternalized in his appellation; the Minsker Gadol was the rabbi, and not a more liberal appointee.

The Aderes submitted another rumor that the Minsker Gadol had actually chosen the moniker for himself. Until the early 19th century, all rabbis of Minsk had historically been referred to by the formal title of “rav of Minsk.” Upon the passing of Rav Yisrael Mirkis in 1813, this title was officially discontinued, and subsequent rabbis were recognized by the title “mara d’asra of Minsk,” which was considered a somewhat lesser designation. This was done because the Jewish community of Minsk owed a financial debt that obligated them not to appoint a “rav of Minsk” until it was paid. By renaming the official post “mara d’asra,” they could circumvent the obligation. According to this rumor, Rav Yerucham Yehuda Leib Perlman disliked the title mara d’asra, and asked to be called the Minsker Gadol.

A third reason is offered in the official biography of the Minsker Gadol written several years after his passing. One of the lay leaders of Minsk visited the new rabbi shortly after his appointment, and upon leaving, he remarked, “This is an adam gadol!” Somehow this nickname of “Gadol” stuck. The likely background for this story is the 22-year vacancy in the seat of the chief rabbi, with the long shadow of Rav Dovid Tevle, the Nachlas Dovid, hovering over Minsk. The Nachlas Dovid was one of the most famous and respected rabbis in the world, and the Minsk community was quite proud of his legacy. He was viewed by many as irreplaceable, and any successor would have to fill his large shoes.

When it became evident to the residents of Minsk just how great their new rabbi Rav Yerucham Yehuda Leib Perlman truly was, they were satisfied that he was a worthy successor to the great Nachlas Dovid. To highlight the new rabbi’s position, he was bestowed the title Minsker Gadol.

Mussar Pr(opponent)

While residing at the home of Rav Yaakov Moshe Karpas in Kovno, he often came into contact with the great founder of the Mussar movement, Rav Yisrael Salanter, who also received support from his host. While Rav Yerucham Leib initially rejected Mussar as unnecessary–as he believed that only pure Torah study could cure the generation’s woes, he eventually came to appreciate Rav Yisroel and his accomplishments. In The Minsker Gadol, the author describes the story of their departure:

When Rav Yerucham Leib resolved to leave Kovno, he went to see Rav Yisrael Salanter to pay his respects.

“Rebbi, bless me,” he requested.

In response, the founder of the Mussar movement replied, “I am not your rebbi, for we are distinct from one another both in nature and ideology. I deal with the broad public, and, as a result, I cannot always deal with individuals. But I see that you have no desire to concern yourself with communal matters, and you concentrate on the individual with the aim of perfecting your own soul.

“My prayer for myself is that my communal spirit not overwhelm my concern for the individual, and for you I pray that your spirit of individualism will lead you to such perfection and brilliance that you will be able to serve as a shining example and role model for the general community.

“As you well know, the Torah is interpreted on occasion by reference to the principle of klal and prat, a general rule followed by a detail to explain it; on occasion, the general rule is dependent on the detail, and sometimes the detail is dependent on the general rule to appreciate the principle involved. So, in fact, there is no major distinction between us. Each of us should pursue his path in accordance with his talents and wisdom, so long as neither departs from the course he has set for himself. And now, Rav Yerucham Leib, I ask you to give me a blessing.”

The young man responded by citing the well-known Talmudic saying (Taanis 5b), “Tree, tree, with what can I bless you?”

“If I bless you that you should have Torah and wisdom — behold, these you already possess in abundance. And if I bless you that you should have mussar and upright traits, behold, you are the master of these virtues. And if I bless you that you have riches and honor, behold, you abjure these things and despise them intensely. So instead, I bless you that your students shall be like you, that they not be marked with jealousy or hatred of any person, and that you never be embarrassed or disgraced by them either in this world or the World to Come.”

Upon hearing these words, Rav Yisrael sighed deeply and kissed him goodbye.

Great Progeny

The Minsker Gadol had a large family, with many descendants serving in prominent diverse roles in subsequent generations. One of his sons-in-law was the last rabbi of Kovno, Rav Avraham Dov Ber Kahana-Shapiro, the Devar Avraham. The Minsker Gadol was succeeded in the Minsk rabbinate by another son-in-law, Rav Eliezer Rabinowitz, who served in that capacity until his passing in 1924.

A prominent public leader of Russian Jewry, Rav Eliezer Rabinowitz represented the Russian rabbinate at various conferences, including the Bad Homburg conference of 1909, which led to the establishment of Agudas Yisrael, and the 1910 rabbinical conference in St. Petersburg. During World War I, he personally assumed responsibility for the throngs of refugees streaming into Minsk due to the advancing front. He continued to serve as rabbi of Minsk during the Bolshevik Revolution and the early years of the Soviet Union.

Rav Eliezer Rabinowitz was succeeded by his son-in-law Rav Menachem Mendel Gluskin. Despite his conviction in a show trial by the Yevsektsia and subsequent arrest by the NKVD, he served as the rabbi of Minsk through the darkest years of the Communist era. Following his banishment from his home, he relocated to Leningrad, where he served as a largely underground rabbi until his passing in 1936.

This article was published in conjunction with the recent release of the English biographical work titled The Minsker Gadol (Feldheim). Based on an original biography written by his close associate, Reb Meir Halpern, in 1913, it has now been translated into English for the first time by the Minsker Gadol’s descendant, Rabbi Shlomo Slonim. The research of Reb Nosson Kamenetsky was also integral in preparing this article.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1034)

The post A Great Name first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.