Story
The Rebbe's Reach

Rabbi Yehudah Liebush Heber and his family were very close to the Rebbe and the Rebbetzin during World War II, when the couple lived anonymously in Paris.

“At the beginning of the war,” related Rabbi Heber, “I was deliberating whether to stay in Paris or to try to immigrate to the States. This was before the Nazi invasion of Paris, and no one could predict how devastating the future would be. I was financially secure in Paris and concerned about the uncertainty and difficulty of immigration.”

"You don't know what a Rebbe is," the Rebbe's son-in-law said to me. "The letter need not be delivered in order for the Rebbe to know the question. And the Rebbe's response need not arrive in order for you to receive your answer..." The Rebbe suggested that I consult with his father-in-law, the Previous Rebbe, who was living in Poland.

“I was very surprised by this advice. Contact with Warsaw was virtually impossible by phone or mail. 'Send a telegram,' the Rebbe suggested. This also seemed futile, because telegrams were not being delivered either.

“ ‘You have no idea,’ the Rebbe said, ‘what a Rebbe is. The letter and the telegram need not be delivered in order for the Rebbe to know the question. And the Rebbe’s response need not arrive in order for you to receive your answer.’

“I promptly sat down to phrase my question and proceeded to the Western Union office. ‘Sorry, there is absolutely no possibility of telegraphing Poland,’ said the clerk. ‘All the lines are down.’ I did not really expect otherwise, but I had done what I could.

“The next morning I awoke with a sudden clarity. Despite my previous hesitations, I suddenly felt very adamant about leaving Paris and immigrating to the States.”

Rabbi Heber arrived in the States in 1940, a few months before the Rebbe. His family maintained a close relationship with the Rebbe and the Rebbetzin for many years to follow.

(From To Know and To Care by Eli and Malka Touger)

“During the first years that I lived in Sydney, Australia,” related Rabbi Chaim Gutnick, “I was contacted by the Jewish community in Adelaide. The high holidays were approaching, and their shul had no Rabbi. The Chief Rabbi of Sydney sent them to me, but I could not see leaving my wife and four young children alone for the holidays.

"Rabbi Gutnick is a Lubavitcher. If the Rebbe tells him to go, he will go..." “The Shul committee asked the Chief Rabbi what to do. 'Listen,' he told them, 'Rabbi Gutnick is a Lubavitcher. Write a letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe stating that you need a Rabbi for the High Holidays. If the Rebbe tells Rabbi Gutnick to go, he will.'

“I soon received a special delivery letter from the Rebbe, expressing surprise that I did not consent, and advising me to spend the High Holidays in Adelaide. At the bottom of the letter, the Rebbe added, ‘While in Adelaide, concern yourself with the needs of Egyptian Jews living there.’

“I arrived in Adelaide the day before Rosh HaShanah and went to the shul. As I was surveying the sanctuary, a woman entered and asked me, ‘Where is the most sacred part of the synagogue?’ I was surprised by her question. I pointed to the Aron HaKodesh ('holy ark' containing the Torah scrolls).

“Before I could say another word, she rushed out, led a blind teenage girl straight to the Aron HaKodesh, and then departed. The girl kissed the curtains of the ark and burst out in tears. She remained there for several minutes; after which the woman came back and escorted her out.

"She’s one of the Egyptians," the secretary of the Jewish community said. "They don’t get along us..." “I described the entire baffling scene to the shul secretary. ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ the secretary said. She’s one of the Egyptians. They don’t get along with our community. Her parents don’t even come to shul on Rosh HaShanah, so she probably decided to visit before the holiday.’

“I tried to ignore the secretary’s degrading tone. All I could think of was the Rebbe’s words ‘concern yourself with the Egyptian Jews.’ I rushed out to find the girl, but she had disappeared.

“On Rosh HaShanah, I felt the gulf between the local community and the Egyptian Jews. I tried to befriend some Egyptian Jews, and asked about the blind girl.

After the holiday, she too tried to contact me. The phone in my room rang. ‘Hello, I’m Betty, the blind girl.’ But an abrupt click assured me that someone was determined to keep her from speaking to me.

“On the night before Yom Kippur, I was finally able to obtain her address and phone number. My calls were fruitless, for as soon as I identified myself, the line went dead. I would not give up. Despite the late hour, I took a taxi to her home. Her family was reluctant to allow me in. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘I have traveled a great distance, and I would like to speak with you.’

“The door opened, and I was invited to enter. Slowly, I developed their trust. After a while, the rest of the family left, and I gently asked Betty to tell me what was troubling her. In an emotional tone, she told her story:

“ ‘My family arrived in Australia last year. They sent me to the only school in this city for the blind, a Catholic school. The people in the school are very nice, and my parents were pleased, because I had been given a full scholarship. After five months, the local priest began lecturing me about Christianity. I ignored him until he told me bluntly that I must convert. At the same time, my parents received a letter from the school: Due to lack of space in our school, we are forced to turn away prospective students of our own faith. We will agree to provide free schooling for your daughter only if she converts to Christianity.

“ ‘One day, I overheard my agitated parents discuss the issue. They had reconciled themselves to the harsh reality that I must convert.

"Betty! What have you been up to? A Rabbi from Sydney is asking about you. How do you know him?" “ ‘Although I know very little about our religion, I know that I am Jewish. I know that there is a G-d and I decided to pray to Him for guidance. I also knew that the Jewish holy days were approaching. On the day before Rosh HaShanah, I told my mother that I did not feel well and could not go to school. When I was alone in the house, I knocked on the door of my Gentile neighbor.

“ ‘Tomorrow is the Jewish New Year,’ I told her. ‘My parents do not attend the synagogue so I would like to ask you a favor. Please take me to the synagogue today so I can pray. I will only stay for a few minutes.’ My neighbor agreed. In the synagogue, I cried and prayed to G-d to give me a sign. I returned home and waited.

“ ‘Guests joined us for the holiday dinner. One of them laughed at me: "Betty! What have you been up to lately? A Rabbi from Sydney came to Adelaide and he is asking about you. How do you know him?"

“ ‘I knew this was a G-d-given sign to me. I tried to call you, but my mother didn’t allow it. She was afraid that you would convince me not to convert and that I would have to leave school. But somehow, I knew that you would help me.’

“The girl’s parents then came in and tearfully and told me, ‘We really don’t want her to convert, but we have no choice. We are concerned about her welfare.’ I promised to do my best to help them.

“The Rebbe’s words echoed in my ears as I pondered what to do. I phoned the secretary of the Jewish community, told him the story, and asked him to come immediately.

“He was obviously startled by my request. 'Have you gone mad?' he gasped. 'It’s half past midnight!'

“ 'If you want a Rabbi for Yom Kippur, come here now,' I told him. 'Come in your pajamas if you must, but come.'

“He arrived in twenty minutes. I told him that the community must accept the responsibility for the girl’s tuition so that she would not be forced to convert. Without enthusiasm, yet with sincerity, he made the financial commitment.

“The girl continued writing to me over the years. She graduated high school with honors, went on to study in Jerusalem, married, and now leads an exemplary Jewish life in Israel.”

(From To Know and To Care by Eli and Malka Touger)

1:00 AM, on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan. The three of us were waiting for a cab. Finally, one pulled over and the driver said, "Where to, ladies?"

While we were driving, the driver, a man with a heavy accent, asked us, "Are you Jewish?" Reluctantly, we responded, "Yes."

It was then that I noticed the name on his ID card: William Guttman. Who was William Guttman, driving a cab through Manhattan on the night shift? Finally I asked him, as he had asked us, "Are you Jewish?"

"With a name like Guttman, what do you think?" The notion that we could have mistaken him for anything but a Jew seemed to stir up in him a distilled pride.

"Where are you from?" I asked, figuring Russia, or perhaps Morocco.

"Auschwitz."

William Guttman was a survivor. "My parents lived in Budapest. I was four years old when they took us. My mother worked in the Frau Lager (women’s concentration camp), and then they put her in the gas chamber. My father died in the labor camp. I never really knew my parents. I don't even know if I have brothers or sisters.

"This is who I am," he continued in a matter-of-fact manner. "I went to an orphanage after the war, and the Red Cross brought me to America. I had no family when I came. I married an Israeli woman, but we were not religious. I don’t wear a yarmulke, and I work seven days a week to help my son become a doctor. He finishes medical school in two months."

"You must be so proud of him."

"Yes. I’m not religious. But I have a lot of mazel (luck)."

I wondered, how does a Jew who survived Auschwitz think that he has mazel? He then asked us, "Are your parents Chasidim?"

The Chasidim of our families got lost somewhere between the shtetl and suburbia a long, long time ago. But, we told William Guttman, we ourselves were Lubavitchers.

"The Rebbe was from Hungary," he claimed. "Did you know?"We asked him if he had heard of Lubavitch. "Lubavitch, I know it well. I have a mazel’dike dollar from the Rebbe. He's the best Rebbe in the whole world. I went to him, he gave me a dollar and told me that I'll have mazel and my son will have hatzlocha (success). Everything since then is good. Everything for me since I spoke to the Rebbe is good. I wouldn’t give away my dollar, even if it was the last dollar I owned."

There was a deep sincerity, a power of conviction, in the broken English that he stammered.

"The Rebbe was from Hungary," he claimed. "Did you know?"

I was going to correct him and then thought better of it. The Rebbe was from Hungary to a Hungarian Jew. And from Brazil. And from Hong Kong. And from wherever the Jew whose eyes he looked into was from.

And again he repeated, "I’m not religious. And my wife is not religious," he continued. "But when the Rebbe was in the hospital, she called there every day to see how he was doing. When he passed away, we cried for three days.

"He is like a father to us…."

(From The Rebbe: an Appreciation by Israel Shmotkin)