Stories from the Life of Rabbi Shmuel

Late in the afternoon, the Rebbe emerged from his room and instructed that the circumcision commence. The only clue to his delay was the mysterious sentence that passed his lips, "Ay... the Polotzk burial society..."

The Rebbe asked for a chair, ordered the Raza to stand on it, and asked him, “Tell me, who’s taller now?”

"Master of the universe," muttered the secretary, "why does he exert himself so?! Every hour he needs a new change of clothes. Why does the Rebbe sweat so much?"

"Today, two people came to see me. From one, I derived great pleasure; from the other, only aggravation..."

The man was ashamed to admit that he was the sinner, he explained that a friend had committed the sins and was too embarrassed to appear before the Rebbe personally...

I went round to the door and knocked. After a rather long minute the door opened. I took in the scene: newspapers were laid out on the table, German papers, Russian papers. Of the kabalistic book not a trace.

"I know he is critically ill and the doctors have just about despaired of his life. For every Jewish family he helps, I promise him one month of life and health."

They would gather around the hot drink and warm their bones with pannes and chassidic philosophy.

"Sixty-two years have now passed," related Reb Pesach, "since I was privileged to hear from the Rebbe, your grandfather, that Shema is Yisrael..."

I returned to my compartment in a state of confusion. The last thing I had expected from the Rebbe was a business tip

The rebbe’s youngest son, Shmuel, who was seven years old at the time, wandered around the room, talking to the men who sat tearfully reading Tehillim as they waited to be received by his father . . .