What made the house such a magnet wasn’t just the almost tangible Torah in its air. It was the open hearts of Rav Chaim and Rebbetzin Batsheva

Photo: Shuki Lerer

It might be easiest to describe the house by what it lacks.

There is no telephone. No computer. In this house, no electric lights are used on Shabbos, only kerosene lamps.

There is no living room — only a seforim room, as Rebbetzin Batsheva Kanievsky would proudly state. Just about every bit of wall space in the main room is occupied by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A small aron kodesh stands next to the bookshelves and a utilitarian shtender near the table.

There is no dining room set here. Stackable plastic chairs are arranged around a plain wooden table.

There’s no island in the spare, neat kitchen. There isn’t even a proper stove. There are tiny patches of counter space aside each small sink and a small two-pot burner.

But the simple walls of 23 Rechov Rashbam managed to contain perhaps the most intense, sustained, and comprehensive Torah learning of a single individual in the modern era.

It was a home where children were raised. It was a beis medrash and a shul. It was the place where some of the most groundbreaking, complex seforim of our era were written and sold.  It was an address where public servants burdened by responsibility sought guidance and clarity.  It was a haven where people — searching people, broken people, desperate people — found succor and hope. It was the home of
Rav Chaim and the heartbeat of an entire nation.