Chapter 5a

1. The sweet soul of a shtetl

In the life of the townsfolk of Lubavitch, pride of place was occupied by the festivals of the year. Great and small alike — that is to say, from the most erudite to the most unsophisticated — were involved first in the preparations for each Yom-Tov and then in the Yom-Tov itself, with all their faculties and senses, minds and hearts, mouths and ears, hands and feet.

The tenor of life in the shtetlach — the provincial townships, as some people like to call them — was clearly distinguishable from that of the typical city. In the townlet, earnestness and truth were more in evidence. This is especially true when we are speaking of a bygone era, when in all circles these qualities were prized to quite a different degree. Even 40 or 50 years ago the little shtetl radiated its pristine aura. On the face of every small-town Jew one could clearly perceive our noble lineage of 3000 years, the lineage of the sons of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov.

True enough, the shtetl had to take the advice of our Sages — that one should not become overly familiar with those in power1 — very seriously indeed. In fact people lived in dread of “the sound of a rustling leaf.”2 If anyone caught sight of some government official walking down the street, his heart fluttered within him. On the other hand, though, there was delight and moral beauty to be sensed in the secure and placid lifestyle of the shtetl which in a certain measure was the result of people’s contentedness with whatever they had.

The humblest townlet could boast its own charitable institutions and voluntary mutual-aid societies — its Talmud Torah3 for teaching the young, its Bikkur Cholim4 society for visiting the sick, its Lechem LaEvyonim5 society for feeding the poor, its Malbish Arumim6 brotherhood for clothing the threadbare, its Gemilus Chessed7 fund for interest-free loans, its annual Moas Chittim8 appeal to provide matzos for the needy, and so on. And without exception, every single townsman had a share in each one of these causes by his frequent contributions of a kopek or a tzveier. It was a clean life, an expression of solid character traits.9

The Ein Yaakov that was studied around the shul table between Minchah and Maariv every evening at dusk, the Midrash and the Pirkei Avos that were taught in shul every Shabbos, — these were a wellspring of life-giving waters, a fount of noble middos, and a guidepost for all the simple townsfolk, letting people know for what reason they were living in this world.

What a spiritual delight it was in summer to observe how late on a Shabbos afternoon, after a few hours’ Torah study indoors, little groups of people would gather outside the various batei midrash. Over here Shmuel the Tailor is telling his cronies what R. Yaakov Leizer quoted from the Midrash about Korach’s claims against Aharon and Moshe Rabbeinu.10 Over there Avraham Donye the Butcher is repeating for a little knot of friends what he has just heard from R. Mendel the Melamed — how one day, in the times of the Mishnah, R. Yochanan asked his disciples which in their opinion was the most beautiful virtue that a man could choose to pursue.11

Over the generations, the public teaching of Ein Yaakov, Midrash and Pirkei Avos has furnished our people with countless multitudes of upright men and loyal Jews. Whether they were on their way to a nearby village — and many townsfolk used to do business with the surrounding villages — or whether they were standing at their stalls in the marketplace, they would ponder over what they had heard in the beis midrash the previous evening between Minchah and Maariv. It was with marked impatience that they would wait for Shabbos to come around, for then there would be a more relaxed opportunity to hear a new Torah thought, and perhaps an insightful anecdote about a tanna, or an amora, or a gaon.

In days gone by, every Torah thought, every story from Ein Yaakov, every passage from the Midrash, every narrative from the life of a tzaddik, found its due niche in every Jewish heart. The same is true of a vort from the teachings of Chassidus. By its very nature abstract, such a vort was certainly not easy for an unlettered person to grasp. It was nevertheless so potent that it infused vitality into his daily reading of the Psalms and into his observance of the mitzvos. And wherever one turned one could sense a deep-seated respect for the Torah scholar, and an all-encompassing love for the Torah itself.

2. A man is where his thoughts are

Thought and imagination can place a person in whatever time and location he chooses. If he so desires, by means of thought and imagination he can place himself in the past of decades ago, and experience it in his present time and location just as he experienced it then.

Our mentor the Baal Shem Tov says that “a man is where his will is.”12 For this reason one needs to exercise even greater vigilance with one’s thought than with one’s speech.13 Chassidus discusses at length the differences between the three faculties — thought, speech, and action — that are known as the garments of the soul.14 They are so called — levushim — not only because they are the faculties in which the soul is clothed, just as the body is clothed in garments, but because through them the soul manifests itself. When we say by way of parable that the body is a garment to the soul, we do not only mean that the soul is clothed in the body; we also mean that through this garment — the body — the soul reveals itself in its true essence: we see that its very being is life, and that its function is to give life. So it is with thought, speech, and action: through these three garments the soul manifests itself.

Of these three garments — machshavah, dibbur, and maaseh — the most subtle is thought. It is known as levush hameuchad, because it is constantly united with the soul. The outermost garment, the garment of action, is a levush hanifrad, a garment separate from the soul, and speech is levush hamechubar, a garment connected with the soul — though connected only intermittently, for, as it is written, “There is a time to remain silent, and a time to speak.”15 Thought, however, is a garment that is united with the soul constantly.

In the innermost garment, thought, the tension between good and evil is more critical than it is in the other garments — action and speech. An improper thought constitutes a blemish, as is made clear in the explanation that Chassidus gives of the statement in the Gemara that “the contemplation of sin is more reprehensible than is sin itself.”16

Not only do thought and imagination have the power to place a person in the distant past, to the point that here, in his present situation, he is enabled to experience things long since seen with the same sensations as he then experienced, but moreover, now that he is older and more experienced, with a certain lifetime behind him, he is able to view the same events more perceptively.

In my thoughts and my imagination I often relive sights which I first saw in Lubavitch at different times. Sometimes these were sights of lofty things — the Rebbe, my father, delivering a discourse of Chassidus; the variety of paths in avodah exemplified by the chassidim around me; chassidim sitting together at a farbrengen; or the way in which ordinary baalei batim and well-to-do guests would listen to the teaching of Chassidus. Sometimes these were sights of more modest subjects, such as the way in which the homespun folk of the shtetl conducted their lives day by day. But whichever sights I recall, I arrive at the fundamental conclusion that the light of Chassidus infuses life into whoever is in its range. This is true even of those who are not permeated by the life of Chassidus, but who are encompassed by its aura, in the manner of an or makkif. They too find that their performance of the mitzvos is invigorated by a unique vitality.

The plain baalei batim and common craftsmen who lived in Lubavitch were no doubt quite ordinary people, like all the Jews of all the Jewish townlets. The chassidisher atmosphere nevertheless left its clear impression on them, and as was the case in all such places, it was especially in evidence in the course of the preparations for each festival, and during the Yom-Tov itself.

3. Make your fellow Jews feel warm

In Lubavitch, each Yom-Tov had its own distinctive preludes and preparations, its customs, and its pious superadditions to customs. I am not referring to the hiddurim with which Jews throughout the world commonly enhance their observance of laws and customs, nor am I referring to the customs which are practiced by chassidim at large. I am speaking of a genre of distinctive customs that were popularly labeled in these terms: “This is what R. Yankel Zip used to do”; “This is how R. Yisrael der Lebediker (‘the lively guy’) used to do it.”

In the days when people used to be measured by their scholastic attainments, these two townsmen of Lubavitch would have been reckoned as ordinary people with a certain scholarly background. The field in which they shone was their deeds. In bygone years men of good deeds were not only more numerous, but of a different class: whatever they did was done in a spirit of innocent integrity.17 There were men of deeds who in that field were men of stature.

The saintly R. Yissachar Dov Kobilniker,18 the one-time maggid of Lubavitch, was one of the unassuming disciples of the Baal Shem Tov, and a teacher of the Alter Rebbe in his childhood. R. Yissachar Dov once related that when he first came to Lubavitch around the year 5485 (1725) as the new son-in-law of one of the local townsmen, he even then managed to make the acquaintance of R. Yisrael der Lebediker, by that time a man of ninety or more. And he recalled that whenever R. Yisrael would daven or memorize chapters from the Tanach or Mishnayos, he would do so with all the vigor of a lively young man.

R. Yisrael often used to say: “A mitzvah performed without kavanah,19 without due intent, is like a body without a soul. What kavanah should a person have in mind when he’s fulfilling a commandment? — That this mitzvah (commandment) comes from the metzaveh (Commander). Who is the Commander? — ‘I am the L-rd your G‑d Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt’;20 that is, the Creator, Who drags us all out of our various quagmires. So if I, Yisrolik Nobody,21 have been privileged to fulfill a commandment that proceeds from the One G‑d, I should be leaping and dancing out of sheer joy!”

Whenever R. Yisrael saw someone suffering from melancholy or simply in low spirits, he would not let him go until he had explained clearly that this state of affairs would never do. This explanation was normally given with gentle words. There were however times when he could speak quite sharply.

“Look here,” he might say to someone with a long face. “Why are you so upset because you’re poor or sick” (or, G‑d forbid, whatever other misfortune might have struck him)? “Tell me, do you deserve any better? You yourself know that you deserve all this. Don’t be a fool. Kiss the rod, accept it all lovingly — and your Father will surely give you a candy.”

Such were R. Yissachar Dov’s recollections of R. Yisrael der Lebediker.

R. Yisrael, in turn, used to relate that in Lubavitch there had once lived an ordinary individual by the name of R. Yaakov — no great scholar, but a man who had committed the entire Tanach to memory, letter perfect, and who was thoroughly familiar with the details of all the laws in Orach Chaim — right from the beginning of the section dealing with one’s rising in the morning until the last paragraph of the laws of the 14th and 15th of Adar Rishon. In summer he made stoves and in winter he made volikess, furlined boots. From these crafts he made a comfortable living, and in addition he owned a large garden that provided him with vegetables throughout the year. And while at work he would repeat to himself from memory entire chapters of Tanach and sections of Orach Chaim.

This R. Yaakov was generous, and in all respects a man of fine character. He once recalled that when he was newly married and had to support a family he went along to consult a certain person — known as R. Chaim der Zeier (“the sower”) — for advice on what kind of livelihood he should pursue. R. Chaim’s answer was simple enough: “Earn your living from crafts that will make your fellow Jews feel warm.”

And that was why he used to make stoves and volikess.

“R. Yaakov used to like giving children fruit from the trees that grew in his garden — apples, plums, cherries, and so forth — and teaching them which blessings to recite over them. Every afternoon he would gather together a number of people, pour them each a glass of kvass, and tell them of laws that were written in Orach Chaim. From all of this activity there came into being a number of customs and embellishments of customs that bore his name, R. Yankel Zip. And why was he nicknamed Zip, which means “a sieve?” — Because every law that he taught came out clear and clean as if it had been strained and refined through a fine zip.

Now R. Yisrael der Lebediker was a faithful disciple of R. Yaakov Zip. He had already received a number of well-trodden customs that he would hand on in the name of his teacher, and in the course of time these became enhanced by certain hiddurim of his own. So it was that the townsmen of Lubavitch had accumulated a number of minhagim that were the heritage of generations.

4. You could smell Elul in the air

In the 102 years that Lubavitch was the capital of the Rebbeim of Chabad,22 the township became the source-book for the spiritual lifestyle that Chassidus prompts, and for the customs that chassidim practice. This is true of the workaday life of the whole year, but especially so with regard to the festivals.

In Lubavitch, even though the Shabbos preceding the month of Elul — Shabbos Mevarchim — would still be a clear and sunny day, the air felt different. There was a smell of Elul in the air; you could feel the first stirrings of a teshuvah-breeze. Every person there was beginning to grow a little more deliberate, a little more thoughtful, and was allowing his weekday affairs to fade from his memory.

During the two midsummer months from Shavuos until Shabbos Nachamu — except for a certain break during the Three Weeks, which were days of real mourning, the laws of this period being punctiliously observed in all their details — people would sometimes take a little stroll across the marketplace between Minchah and Maariv. No one ever went out for a walk between Pesach and Shavuos, but from then on people took the opportunity of enjoying the pleasant summer weather.

From Shabbos Nachamu onwards, groups would begin to form for study sessions23 held after Maariv, in the spirit of the verse that says, “Arise, cry out in the night.”24 By the time Shabbos Mevarchim Elul came around one could already sense the atmosphere of Elul. Anxiously, people now awaited the first recitation of the chapter of Tehillim that begins, LeDavid: HaShem ori veyish’i — “By David: G‑d is my light and my salvation”;25 eagerly, they awaited the first blast of the shofar that would announce that the gates of the Month of Mercy had been thrown open.26

The stamp of Elul could already be detected27 in the Chassidus28 that the Rebbe delivered on Shabbos Mevarchim Elul, with its traditional opening phrase, Ani leDodi… “I am my Beloved’s, and my Beloved is mine,’29 and the initials of these words constitute the word ‘Elul’”; or with the phrase, Hashamayim kis’i — “Heaven is My throne”;30 or with the phrase, Re’eh, Anochi nosein lifneichem hayom— “Behold, I set before you this day....”31 Every day of Elul was quite unlike every other day of the year. Lying in bed at six o’clock in the morning, you could hear that the first daybreak-minyan32 in the beis midrash had already finished its morning davenen. You could hear the shofar. It woke you up to the fact that the world was now pervaded by Elul. You dress hastily, a trifle dissatisfied with yourself for having somehow slept in so late. Through your mind flits the recollection that this was the period that Moshe Rabbeinu spent on Mt. Sinai.33 These are propitious days, days in which you can accomplish more than usual. You tell yourself that you really should become a mensch: you cannot let these hours be lost on sleep.

By the time you arrive at the beis midrash you find quite a crowd already there. Some are reading Tehillim, some are studying Chassidus, some are reading Tikkunei Zohar,34 while others, whether standing or sitting, are at prayer.

5. It’s the Shabbos before the first Selichos!

In the entire framework of divine service defined by the teachings of Chabad, a most prominent place is occupied by davenen,35 that is, avodah shebalev36 — the service of the heart. In Lubavitch there were individuals known as baalei avodah, who used to daven for hours on end even on ordinary weekdays throughout the year, but during the month of Elul in its own distinctive manner.

As you entered the anteroom of the minyan37 you would be struck by the wondrous sight that met your eyes. Everyone you see is in a quiet state of profound concentration,38 cleaving raptly to his Maker,39 and neither hearing nor seeing whatever surrounds him. The first has been humming a meditative Chabad melody, and to the strains of that niggun he now reads the words, Baruch gozer umekayeim — “Blessed be He Who decrees and fulfills;”40 the second is pondering over the words, Chanun verachum — “Gracious and compassionate;”41 a third is saying, vechulam… meshabchim umefaarim — “And they all... praise and glorify;”42 a fourth, having arrived at the palpably rich entreaties43 of Ahavas Olam, breathes out its words one at a time. Nourished by the sap of sound comprehension, these words now sprout forth their meaning with such sweetness, with such a yearning to cleave, with such a sound of supplication, that you feel that every word is raising this worshiper a rung higher. He is growing nearer to his innermost point; he is about to attain his goal.

The motif of supplication that accompanies his reading of the words, Maher vehavei aleinu berachah veshalom — “Hasten, and bring upon us blessing and peace;”44 the soft quietude of the melody with which he makes his request, vesolicheinu meheirah komemiyus l’artzeinu — “Speedily lead us upright to our Land;” the confident rhythm with which he affirms, ki Keil poel yeshuos Atah — “For You are G‑d Who performs acts of deliverance;” the joyful voice with which he expresses his gratitude, vekeiravtanu Malkeinu leshimcha hagadol — “You have brought us near, O our King, to Your great Name”; — all these together give him the strength to say Shema Yisrael.

Every day brought you nearer to the Shabbos before Selichos. The Chassidus that was delivered that Shabbos was listened to with a special degree of concentration. On that Friday night people usually slept less than usual. Quite spontaneously you woke up early, a little restless, and you went to the mikveh before dawn.

Arriving there you found quite a number who had come before you, and all of them seemed to be in a hurry. You could see it on their faces: this Shabbos was different to all others. This was the Shabbos before Selichos.

All kinds of ideas are running around in your own head, too. One thought that suddenly presents itself is a clarion call: Lecha HaShem hatzedakah — “Righteousness belongs to You.”45 But more insistently than that, you are now reminded of the continuation of that verse: Velanu boshes hapanim— “And we are shamefaced.”46 With a contrite heart you immerse in the mikveh, asking yourself meanwhile whether this tevilah is a real immersion of teshuvah, accompanied by remorse over the past and a resolve for the future, or whether it is perhaps (G‑d forbid) an instance of tovel, vesheretz beyado — a person who immerses in the mikveh, but meanwhile still grasps a reptile in his hand.47

As you passed by the various minyanim — the beis midrash and Binyamin’s shtibl — you could hear large groups of people saying Tehillim.

The way people read their Tehillim on this Shabbos was also different to the way they read Tehillim throughout the year. The same people, to be sure — plain folk who used to get together early every morning to read Tehillim, joined on Shabbos by those whose livelihoods made them spend their weekdays in the surrounding villages and townships. But they too view this Shabbos as being different to every other Shabbos. Every one of them is occupied with himself. Emerging from the sounds of their Tehillim you can hear an inner voice that proceeds from the all-embracing chassidisher atmosphere.48

Having been at the mikveh you now went off to shul to commit the new maamar to memory. That would take a good few hours. What usually happened was that you would go in for the repetition of the maamar,49 then resume your memorizing, and daven; at about three o’clock you would eat the Shabbos midday meal.

At the table of my father, the Rebbe, the midday meal of the Shabbos preceding Selichos was much shorter than that of any other Shabbos. Generally speaking, meals in Lubavitch50 did not occupy much time, except that on occasion they would develop into a farbrengen, when a story might be told or a vort repeated.

The Shabbos meals in Lubavitch, then, followed a certain pattern. Indeed, Lubavitch had a pattern and an order in everything it did, an order that was defined by the fixed limitations of time and place. Thus it was that the midday meal of the Shabbos preceding Selichos was brief, for the scent of the imminent Days of Awe was all-pervasive.

6. The relish of rich memories

The avodah of making preparations for Shabbos and Yom-Tov, in particular for Pesach, was highly regarded by my father, and he often spoke in praise of those who took it seriously.

In Lubavitch, the preparations for Pesach were already underway by midsummer. There was a certain place some 30 viorsts away on the road leading to Dubrovna — the Cherbiner farm, an estate belonging to a paritz — where wheat was always harvested for shemurah matzah. Its long-term lease was held by a scholarly chassid, a man who was noble both in intellect and character. Chassidim, however, are never too particular about addressing people with honorific titles. So, regardless of the fact that this R. Zalman was master of the Talmud Bavli and very much at home in the Yerushalmi and the Turim, expert as well in the Zohar, the writings of the AriZal and all the works on Chabad Chassidus that had appeared in print, and a most generous philanthropist besides, he was addressed simply as Zalman Cherbiner — Zalman from Cherbin.

By the time I knew him he was already some 70 years old, and the dignity of his appearance was indescribable. The lines of his face suggested that here was both an active mind, and a likeable and easygoing kindliness. All in all, he stands as one of the most respected personalities in my album of childhood memories.

In addition to his being a worthy example of the wise countryfolk of long ago — men of truth and refined character — he was one of the revered chassidim of my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek, and one of the closest chassidim of my grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash. From his mouth I heard dozens of stories, stories that reflect the lives and characteristic lifestyles of many kinds of chassidim of the fourth and fifth generations51 of Chabad Chassidus.

When R. Zalman told a story, he relayed it punctiliously, with neither additions nor explanations. Before he began it, however, he would describe the place and time and circumstances in which the particular episode took place, so that his listener received a complete representation of the event. Listening to him telling a story, you felt that you were in that very environment of those chassidim of long ago; with your own eyes you could see my great-grandfather or my grandfather sitting with them.

Everyone has certain things that are engraved and chiseled in his memory and his heart, things that are unforgettable throughout a lifetime. Wherever he might be, to whatever land and whatever environment Divine Providence leads him in the stream of life, when he recalls such a thing this recollection drags him out of his unsanctified, workaday life and places him in that innocent, luminous childhood life from which it stems. Though standing now in the tumultuous din of his life of later years, he relives those clear and sunny days.

We are bidden to “remember the days of yore, ponder the years of each generation.”52 For chassidim this instruction has a distinctive meaning. Every chassidisher home is saturated with upright values, with the love of the Almighty, the love of the Torah, and the love of a fellow Jew. The home of every chassid, regardless of whether he was rich or poor, has always been “a meeting-place for Torah sages.”53

As to the continuation of the verse — “Ask your father and he will recount it to you”54 — among chassidim there used to be no need for such a command: fathers used to narrate of their own accord. They did not regard it as recounting a story. It was a vital element in their lives: the narration issued spontaneously55 – but in that narration there lay a life. Such a narration must remain engraved for a lifetime.

The verse goes on: “And your elders, and they will tell you.” How beautifully this was observed among chassidim. We have already mentioned on a number of occasions that the elder chassidim of bygone days saw themselves as being responsible for invigorating the lives of their younger colleagues.

To be sure, the chassidisher yungelait of bygone days had attentive ears, and an intense longing to hear a vort from an elder chassid. Whole days and nights were devoted to this, and once one had heard a vort, one repeated it on dozens of occasions. All in all, yungelait appreciated the value of an elder chassid, and in the “revealed rebuke”56 of his stern words of guidance one could detect his “hidden love” for his younger listener.

7. An infusion of spiritual life

One of my scores of childhood memories is the lustrous picture of a reunion that took place between a little group of elder chassidim on one of the nights of Chanukah in the year 5650 (1890)57 — my teacher the Rashbatz, R. Hendel,58 R. Aharon and R. Yekusiel from Dokshytz, and R. Zalman Cherbiner. They soon began to reminisce of years long past, when they had been young chassidim of my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek. All of a sudden R. Zalman stood up from his seat and began to sing the sublime melody to which my great-grandfather used to intone the Mussaf prayers on Rosh HaShanah. At this, the other elder chassidim stood up too, and sang with him.

Then they came to the stirring theme,59 so well known among chassidim, to which my great-grandfather used to sing the words, Ashrei ish… — “Happy is the man who does not forget You, the son of man who holds fast to You.”60 They were now in such a state of ecstasy that their faces were enflamed, and tears streamed down their cheeks. One could see that at this point these men were reliving those hallowed and luminous moments. There is not the slightest doubt that at that time each one of them felt that he was standing right near the Tzemach Tzedek, seeing and hearing the Rebbe as he was davenen.

Having had my great-grandfather’s beis midrash described to me many times before, I knew exactly what it looked like and where he stood while davenen. Thus it was that the voice and the facial expression of these five hoary chassidim made such an intense impression on me that I was swept along with their ecstasy. In my mind’s eye, I too witnessed the sight of my great-grandfather — wrapped in his tallis, dressed in his white garments, with a white yarmulke on his head — as he sang, Ashrei ish asher lo yishkachecha — “Happy is the man who does not forget You”; I too heard his voice of holy yearning, as he said, uven-adam yisametz bach — “the son of man who holds fast to You.”

Having been plentifully nourished with stories of how souls of tzaddikim had revealed themselves — whether in an apparent or a hidden manner — to their descendants and disciples, it was clear to me that my great-grandfather was certainly here. This thought both gladdened and terrified me. I was utterly enveloped in a sublime sensation that cannot be expressed in words, a sensation springing from the loftiest chambers of the heart61 of which no man can write.

At that time I experienced it with all the pure innocence of childhood. As I grew older and began to study Chassidus, and better grasped the meaning of the bond of a chassid and his Rebbe, I understood it well — that such an occurrence, chassidim cleaving in thought to a Rebbe, has the power to cause the Rebbe to come to his chassidim.

True enough, in today’s life of tumult it is hard to imagine and grasp how it is possible that cleaving in thought should have such a far-reaching effect, but in the pure and deliberate life that was lived in former years this was well understood, and experienced.

A unique reverence for these chassidim grew within me. With my own eyes I had seen how they possessed the mighty spiritual power of divesting themselves of their workaday lives and attaining such an ascent of the soul, such an aliyas haneshamah, that in their intense fervor they were able to be drawn into the distant past.

What a surge of life and spirit such a chassidisher farbrengen gives one! It burns away all the thorns of one’s fleshly life; it pours a dose of spiritual life62 into one’s daily existence, so that the temporal life of this material world is transmuted, refined and cleansed.

Such chassidisher farbrengens purify the atmosphere and create a luminous environment; they point out paths in one’s service of the Almighty; they set a young man firmly on a basis of truth; and they become forever engraved in his mind and heart.

Lush recollections of this kind are no doubt to be found among all those who stem from chassidim. Every chassidisher son, daughter and grandchild, in addition to his being animated by the blood, the brain and the spiritual sap of his chassidisher parents and forebears, carries within him memories of things seen and heard from them in his childhood.

8. “Is this a family celebration?”

At certain moments, such memories can spark off a cataclysm in one’s life, can protect one from harm, and set a whole family on the path of an authentically Jewish life.

In Petersburg there once lived a very wealthy man of about 45 or 50 who was born into a family of chassidim hailing from the Mohilev region. At the age of 14 he had already found his way somehow to the big city where he had succumbed to the pressures of the time and the place, until eventually he even desecrated Shabbos, ate treifah food, and so on. Nevertheless, since his roots had been in a family of prominent disciples of the Rebbeim of Chabad, when the portrait of the Alter Rebbe was first reproduced in print he commissioned a celebrated artist to make a large copy of it, together with a copy of the portrait of my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek. He paid the artist generously, and when the paintings were ready he placed them in the library that adjoined his study.

Years passed, and his business affairs prospered. He gave his children Jewish names at birth, but these were soon enough replaced by Russian ones. His extravagant household pursued all the pleasures and luxuries of This World with a passion and, predictably enough, his social circle was composed mainly of Christians, or of Jews who had long since forgotten their Jewish roots.

It so happened — through the workings of Divine Providence — that one day the urgency of a certain business matter involving a local chassid demanded that he go to see him personally at home. As he walked inside, he saw ample rooms filled with people sitting around set tables, and the whole household rollicking with joyful singing. A familiar sight, he thought, as he recalled his early childhood years in the home of his chassidic parents.

Seeing his guest arriving, the host immediately rose to welcome him, ushered him into his office, and they discussed their business affairs. He had known his guest’s parents, and had also heard how far this son of theirs had strayed.

When their discussion was over, the guest said: “Excuse me, but what is the celebration in there? Is it perhaps a family occasion, for which I could wish you Mazel Tov?”

“Yes,” replied the host, “it is indeed a family simchah. Right now we are conversing by telephone with our fathers and grandfathers in Gan Eden. And we were so glad to hear warm regards from there that we decided to celebrate this evening with a feast.”

The guest stood perplexed at this unintelligible explanation. Seeing his embarrassment the host continued: “You see, today is Yud-Tes Kislev!”63 (That much his guest remembered clearly.) “In Gan Eden, in the abode of the Alter Rebbe, there is a great deal of rejoicing. All the tzaddikim have assembled there in order to wish him Mazel Tov on his liberation and on the salvation that he brought about, through which tens of thousands of people have become chassidim. Our fathers and grandfathers who used to travel long distances to visit the Rebbeim of their respective generations are there too for the big celebration, and we, their children and grandchildren, are rejoicing together with them over this Yom-Tov which is both theirs and ours.”

9. Starting life afresh

Hearing these few but pregnant words, the magnate felt a violent urge to join those chassidim in their farbrengen — just for a little while. But then again, he felt himself to be so strange and remote from their lifestyle that he could not summon the strength to express his wish. In fact he felt ashamed of himself. How could he, who ate treifah food, and so on and so forth, join in with this pious brotherhood?

Reading these thoughts from his guest’s face, the host had the sensitivity to rise to the occasion unasked. Inviting the stranger to join the celebration for a moment, he added: “By the way, my friend, while you’re in there with us you’ll get regards from your father, and your grandfather, too....”

And the chassidic host saw to it that his guest should feel completely at home.

Now seasoned chassidim obviously do not have to be told what a seudas mitzvah among chassidim looks like, especially if we are talking about a seudah held in honor of Yud-Tes Kislev, which is now celebrated in all kinds of cities and townships around the world. But this seudas Yud-Tes Kislev was held in Petersburg itself, in the very place where the miracle occurred.64 Moreover, it took place over 40 years ago,65 when aged chassidim (including R. Yitzchak and R. Zalman Rubashov) who themselves had known the hoary elders — both among the chassidim and among the misnagdim — who were present at the time were still alive. It goes without saying, therefore, that this Yud-Tes Kislev feast was celebrated with an enthusiasm, with a holy joy, quite out of the ordinary.

An hour passed, two hours, three. The magnate even forgot that he had booked theater tickets for himself and some important officials of his acquaintance. He was drawn so deeply into the life of the chassidic brotherhood of that moment that for a while it seemed to him that he was back in his parents’ home. For this was all an echo of his childhood. He recalled the festive meal which was prepared every Yud-Tes Kislev in his grandfather’s little shul. He remembered too the seudah which his grandfather used to hold whenever he came home together with his friends after a visit to his Rebbe in far-off Lubavitch. His grandmother used to fuss happily over the preparations for that meal, and his mother and aunts all shared in helping for that joyous occasion. Lost recollections from long ago now sprang to life from when he was ten and twelve years old, and from his bar-mitzvah too. He recalled the chassidisher teacher of his boyhood; R. Baruch Asher the Melamed was his name.

After quite some hours had passed, he finally went home. A close friend of his told me in the year 5657 (1897), some five years after the event, that the first thing he did when he arrived there was to walk into his library, and daven the Maariv prayer with sobs that came from deep within him.

Within a few days he had bought new dishes and had made his kitchen utterly kosher, and was himself well on the way to becoming a new man.

The very teshuvah that can be brought about (G‑d forbid) through a pogrom or through a ruler or minister as severe as Haman can be sparked off by a chassidisher farbrengen, or by memories of a chassidisher home — but with kindness, and without suffering, G‑d forbid.

10. Awaiting the big day

With R. Zalman Cherbiner, the harvesting of wheat for the baking of shemurah matzah followed a fixed and traditional routine. The first step was a thorough examination of all his fields to see which would yield the finest grain. Then the day for the harvest was chosen according to three criteria — clear weather, a hot sun, and three dry days preceding it. The wheat was always reaped from twelve noon until two or two-thirty in the afternoon.

When the grain was almost ripe R. Zalman would pay a visit to Lubavitch to organize matters. Since no one could know in advance exactly which day would answer to all the requirements, he would come with a number of wagons in which he would take home the men who would be doing the reaping. In fact most of the work was done by R. Zalman and his family, together with other Jewish farmers who lived with their families on his estate. But for good measure these were always joined by several of the zitzers (“sitters”), the young men who studied full time in the Rebbe’s beis midrash. Together with them R. Zalman usually took home to the farm a number of the chassidim from other parts of the country who were visiting Lubavitch at that season. Sometimes they would all wait together at Cherbin for a week or ten days — until there came a day that answered the demands of all the above hiddurim.

As for R. Zalman, all of this constituted a veritable avodah — in fact, a time of threefold joy. First of all was the fact that it was time to reap wheat for the Rebbe’s shemurah matzah. Secondly, he gained on the side the mitzvah of providing hospitality to such a number of chassidim for several days, and this was not only a mitzvah that he particularly cherished, but also one in which he had the right touch. Thirdly, to crown all, he would soon be privileged to have as his guest the Rebbe himself, who always came in person to participate in the reaping. In his younger days this was my grandfather, and in later years — the period I remember — the visitor was my father. These visits gave him years’ worth of vigor.

From the day that R. Zalman set out from Lubavitch with his wagonloads of shluchei mitzvah until the great day came, people talked about the weather every single day. People were always gazing at the sky. (Was this a dry wind? Couldn’t you feel a touch of moisture in the air?) And the whole township was abuzz with dozens of earnest speculations as to the next day’s weather. Day by day everyone watched out for the special messenger from Cherbin who would bring word that this was indeed the day.

The ride to Cherbin with my father, which took up to two hours, with all of its surrounding experiences, made a deep impression on me. (Every incident I encountered at the time found in my child’s mind a parallel story in the Tanach or in the Aggados that I knew.) These are among the experiences that I recorded, in varying degrees of detail, in my childhood memoirs.

11. Those who reap in joy

The reaping and threshing were carried out in a spirit of great joyfulness — but tempered by a sober earnestness that could be seen on all faces. Every man there wore his gartl66 around his waist, every head was covered by both a yarmulke and a hat.67 Despite the heat, everything was done energetically, as if the workers were all accustomed to this kind of activity.

R. Zalman, with his ample patriarchal beard, and a countenance shining for sheer joy, was already advancing in years. But here he was, sickle in hand, darting in and out among the workers, as if he were the youngest man present. You could see that it was joy that was lifting him off the ground. His light shoes with their white socks flitted in the air as if they were spiritual beings, like the feet of Naftali68 on a G‑d-given mission, in a way that is possible only with a true servant of G‑d, an oved Elokim — with a man of whom it may be said that the very soles of his feet69 experienced the same intense joy that his brain did, and were animated by the same inner will70 that animated the desire of his heart in its performance of this avodah.

Some men reaped while others sang, and all around the sunny steppes their lusty song resounded. That entire vista basked in a resplendent holiness.71 At a little distance, all decked out in their Shabbos best, stood the women and children of the families who lived in Cherbin. Their faces all shone with an awareness that what they were witnessing that day was no common spectacle.

As soon as the reaping and threshing were over, some of the men went off with R. Zalman to bathe. He then put on his Shabbos clothes and led the Minchah prayers — but to the vigorous rhythms of the prayers of Simchas Torah. And in keeping with the festive mood of the day, they all omitted the penitential verses of Tachanun. R. Zalman reserved a special rollicking melody for the concluding passage — Aleinu. When he arrived at Oseh shalom, the very last sentence of the final Kaddish, you could tell that he was waiting eagerly for some pair of burly young stalwarts to honor a lighthearted old custom — to sneak up behind the congregant who has just finished leading the service, lock their arms suddenly around his waist, and deftly give him an unsolicited somersault72 in the air. If there were no volunteers, because of the reverence in which he was held, he would say Nu!73 so often, and delay the three backward steps of Oseh shalom for so long, that someone would simply have to oblige. Back on his feet, he would then join the rest of the worshipers in a lively dance. As they danced, he would sing the four verses that follow Aleinu at the top of his voice, stretching out the words to match the length of his tune. And he danced with such abandon that when he reached the very last couple of words of Ach tzaddikim he would somersault three times back and forth for sheer joy.

In a clearing between his fruit trees R. Zalman’s family always had prepared a long table covered with a rich assortment of dairy products for a festive meal, in the course of which my father would deliver a maamar. After a couple of hours at the table together it was evening, and time to recite for Maariv. My father would then retire to rest in a room that had been prepared for him, while the chassidim gathered again around the table in tranquil camaraderie, humming familiar melodies and exchanging favorite stories until daybreak.

In the morning we all found a minyan for Shacharis, and at about ten my father and certain others would return to Lubavitch. R. Zalman would not arrive there till late in the afternoon, bringing with him the rest of the chassidim, and the sack of wheat, which he would suspend from the ceiling on a special hook in a room that had been set aside for the purpose.

12. A promising student, but…

Years passed, R. Zalman passed away, and the wheat for my father’s shemurah matzah was now harvested from the farms in the Jewish colonies of the Kherson region. The estate chosen was sometimes that of a wealthy chassid called R. Nachman Dulitzki. The farm was nicknamed Nechayevke, and the work there was supervised by the late R. Zvi Sanin. From the year 5657 (1897), when the Tomchei Temimim Yeshivah was founded in Lubavitch, all the stages in the preparation of the shemurah matzah that follow the reaping and threshing were entrusted to the students of the yeshivah.

In the early years the wheat was ground in a water-mill. Every possible hiddur was undertaken to ensure that the flour would be unquestionably dry and fit for making shemurah. For example, only new millstones were used. But since this year the owners of the mill modernized their plant and introduced mechanized rollers,74 the chassidim set up their own handmill to grind the flour. The preparations for milling would start on Rosh Chodesh Adar, but not before the wheat had been sorted and examined three times over — this too according to a fixed routine.

When it came to producing matzas mitzvah, the matzah to be baked on erev Pesach, there was a distinct order of events to be followed, both with regard to the drawing of mayim shelanu, the water which was kept cool overnight in preparation for the baking, and with regard to the baking proper. The senior students of the yeshivah were now given earnest instructions as to each of the other stages as well, including the preliminary heating of the oven to ensure that it was absolutely kosher, and the precise arrangements for kneading and baking, and for supervising the entire process.

Now it once happened that a prospective student arrived at the yeshivah — an intelligent and erudite young man — and the board of examiners accepted him willingly. At the beginning of each academic year a list of all the newly-accepted students was always drawn up. As the executive director of the yeshivah75 I would present this list to my father, together with a comment on each student by the board of examiners, as well as by other confidential advisors.

My father interested himself in every single student, but in particular in this young man, whose talents showed promise. There was only one problem: the confidential comment pointed out a certain lack of refinement in the young man’s character, and this coarseness was reflected in his features.

After pondering the report at length, and rereading it, my father said: “We should accept him, but we’ll have to take him well in hand.”

As soon as the list of students was approved, at about the middle of Cheshvan,76 I structured a particularly demanding program for this young man. This I entrusted to the two mashgichim, one of whom was responsible for supervising the study of nigleh and the other for the study of Chassidus, with the request that they observe him with a close eye. And this is what happened throughout the winter semester.

13. Perspiring for a mitzvah

On Rosh Chodesh Teves that year my father left for abroad. When it was around Rosh Chodesh Adar77 and time to begin sorting the wheat to be used in baking, I received a letter from my father instructing me to entrust all the hard work in the preparation of the shemurah to that young man, and to write back, reporting how he performed his tasks. My father was not due to return to Lubavitch that year until several days before Pesach.

I obeyed my instructions religiously…..78 All the heaviest tasks were imposed on this student — sorting the wheat, setting up the handmill, grinding — to the point that for two solid weeks, day and night, I gave him not a moment’s rest. However, this was all organized in such a way that he would not detect that all his exertion came as the result of any particular directive.

In fact it was universally true of the students of the Tomchei Temimim Yeshivah in Lubavitch that they did not ask Why?, but willingly did what they were asked to do.

The yeshivah was built on four foundations: truth, love, loyalty and devotedness. The yeshivah regarded each of its students as its child. The brotherly love among the students was remarkable, and the loyalty and devotedness of the students to those who headed the yeshivah, and vice versa, was felt in the fullest sense of those words. And, indeed, only such norms of conduct could have yielded such students (May G‑d bless them!) as did the Tomchei Temimim Yeshivah.

The time came for the baking of shemurah, and of matzah for the whole household. Now too, though all of the students participated, I loaded this young man with the heaviest work. At this point my father arrived, and in addition to the reports that I had written him he made detailed inquiries about this young man’s progress.

When the time came to prepare for the baking of matzas mitzvah on the eve of Pesach, I honored him — in addition to this work — with the task of bedikas chametz in the shul,79 in the office, and in the yeshivah. The search for leaven in these three places was enough to keep him busy until two or three in the morning — and at seven he had to be on duty at the bakery in order to stoke the oven for one more kashering in preparation for the last batch of shemurah.

The labors of erev Pesach were finally completed, and by five in the afternoon the young men had returned from their immersion in the mikveh. I now called for this same student and told him that he was to diligently study the maamar based on the verse, Sheshes yamim tochal matzos — “Six days shall you eat matzos”80 — which appears in the Siddur of the Alter Rebbe.81 Having mastered that, he was to come to see me at seven the next morning, the first day of Pesach, when I would study this same maamar with him.

I knew that he was to be one of the monitors responsible for waiting on the students in the big study hall,82 and that his duties would occupy him until after the Seder was over — no doubt until two in the morning, without a free quarter-of-an-hour for study. But the whole intention of the exercise to which he had been subjected was to test to what extent the study of Chassidus mattered to him.

At seven o’clock he nevertheless appeared as arranged, with the intricacies of that discourse duly digested and ordered in his mind — relative, that is, to his grasp of Chassidus at the time.

Having studied with him until eight I reported on the episode to my father, who said with visible satisfaction: “We have, thank G‑d, planted a tree that will bear fruit. I hope that one day he will be able to benefit others. It will take a long time, but ultimately he will sprout forth with prolific branches bearing fruit, whose seed will in turn yield further fruit.”

On the last day of Pesach, at the students’ festive table83 in the big study hall, my father motioned to me and said: “Yosef Yitzchak! Just look what a powerful thing is perspiring for a mitzvah! Look — he has acquired different features altogether. The coarseness has vanished: what has now appeared is the face of a mensch...”

14. The yoke of making a living vs. the service of the heart

In the year 5650 (1890) my father wrote a letter of serious conceptual content84 to our relative R. Shneur,85 the son of R. Mordechai Dov Slonim of Hebron.86 In it my father sets forth the virtues of meditating on Chassidus87 as a prelude to prayer, when one is already wearing one’s tallis and tefillin. All in all, this letter constitutes a profound theoretical exposition of avodah.88

It remained in the hands of R. Shneur. He showed it to his father and another few chassidim, who copied it out in manuscript, but outside Eretz Yisrael no one knew of its existence.

The subjects discussed there demand intensive study: a farbrengen is not the place to discuss them, except for several major themes.

R. Shneur had come to visit Lubavitch for the first time in the year 5645 (1885), and had remained for some months as a resident scholar,89 his program of studies being mapped out by my father. In the winter of 5646 (late 1885)90 my father asked R. Shneur to accompany him to Yalta, and often studied Chassidus with him. After studying a printed text they would review its subject matter orally, my father meanwhile adding explanations.

With the approach of Pesach 5646 (1886) R. Shneur returned to Eretz Yisrael, and from this time there began an exchange of correspondence, R. Shneur asking for clarification of particular points in the teachings of Chassidus, and my father answering. In the course of several years this amounted to quite a number of letters, containing profound explanations of the haskalah of Chassidus, and directives in avodah. Together they constitute a veritable guide as to how the study of Chassidus and the practice of avodah should be approached; one of them is the letter mentioned above.

The fact is that it would be exceedingly worthwhile to assemble these letters,91 and so too the many other letters that I have (thank G‑d) in my possession. Each one of them is a treasure-house of subjects that infuse the life of a chassid with inner vitality.

In the course of the above-mentioned letter, for example, my father writes that meditating on concepts in Chassidus while one is wearing one’s tallis and tefillin has an effect on the way one lives one’s whole day after the prayers are over; such meditation during prayer, moreover, is of far greater worth than at any other time; and in this connection my father explains the theme of ki karov eilecha... beficha uvilvavcha — “For this thing is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart” — as discussed in ch. 17 of Tanya.

Not only does this letter expound the haskalah of avodah, but its every word breathes life. Its very script demands and pleads, showing the reader what his spiritual condition is at present, and telling him what it should be.

Among other things, this letter discusses hidden evil. That is to say, that one can find an individual who to all external appearances is G‑d-fearing, while in fact he is lined with deceit. Such a person is a veritable Lavan the Aramean.92 For outwardly he is all snow-white [his Heb. name ((לָבָן means “white”]; inwardly, however, he is a cheat93 [Heb.: the letters that spell רַמַּאי, transposed, spell אֲרָמִי — “the Aramean”].

This remark was not made out of any desire (G‑d forbid) to cause pain or to incriminate. On the contrary, it sprang from the compassion that was felt for the nature of such a person who can harbor so much foulness within him.

The same letter devotes an entire passage to discussing the yoke of earning a living,94 a burden with which both laymen and full-time scholars become preoccupied. The fact is that both categories of chassidim would like to engage in avodah shebalev95 — “the service of the heart” [i.e., davenen at length, the reading of the passages in the Siddur being interspersed with pauses for disciplined meditation from memory on related texts in Chassidus]. The only trouble is that people argue that first they must set up a means of making a livelihood96 — until eventually they find themselves caught up in the yoke of earning a living. In the course of this discussion, then, my father describes how the counsels of the Evil Inclination conspire to divert a person from the path of truth, blinding his eyes with numerous cares that constitute the yoke of making a living.

This brings to mind something we once spoke about97 — that the superfluous talk to be heard among businesspeople, that is, the abundance of pointless prattle that they utter, is a threshold leading to evil speech and gossip; it destroys a man’s spiritual stature utterly.

To return to the letter. My father there interprets — on the non-literal level of derush — a sentence from the Mishnah which speaks of a man at prayer: “Even if a snake is coiled around a person’s ankle, he should not interrupt [his prayers].”98 That is to say: In the era [that hears the approaching] footsteps of Mashiach,99 in the present generations which are so swamped by the worldly burdens of earning a living, this is the snake coiled around a person from within and without. And the remedy for this predicament is — not to interrupt one’s prayers.

Indeed, my father saw this “service of the heart” as the greatest remedy for all kinds of mortal ailments and blemishes. He perceived the avodah of prayer as the best and broadest highway leading up to the House of G‑d.

In this connection he used to say: “Our Sages teach us that tefilah bimkom korban — ‘The prayers compensate for sacrifices.’100 Just as there are various categories in the sacrificial service — the guilt-offering, the sin-offering, the burnt-offering, the peace-offering, the thanksgiving-offering, the meal-offering of the poor man and the meal-offering of the rich — so too are there distinct categories in the divine service of prayer, which replaces the sacrifices.”

15. Three word-portraits

The above-mentioned R. Mordechai Dov Slonim, grandson of the Mitteler Rebbe and father of R. Shneur, arrived in Lubavitch in time for Shavuos 5651 (1891), as too did many other mellow scholars of Chassidus, and brought with him a copy of the letter that my father had written to his son. In the course of the few weeks that he spent there, he became very friendly with three elder chassidim who were always to be found within the precincts of my father’s beis midrash101 — R. Chanoch Hendel Kurnitzer,102 R. Shmuel Baruch Varshever,103 and R. Meir Mordechai Borisover — and showed them his letter confidentially.

R. Shmuel Baruch was one of the outstanding maskilim of the time, a chassid of highly-developed sensibility and a profound scholar. He was a man of hoary old age. How old he was at the time I do not know: I fancy he did not know either. At any rate, whenever anyone asked him his age he would only say: “It’s high time to forget.”

He had first come to Lubavitch in the year that my grandfather104 was born — 5594 (1834) — and had not gone home until 5606 (1846). In 5610 (1850) he had come again, remaining until 5626 (1866), when after the passing of my great-grandfather105 he had again gone home. Finally, in 5632 (1872) he had returned to Lubavitch, where he stayed for the rest of his life.

He had a complete mastery of all the published works of Chassidus, almost to the point of having memorized them — such as Torah Or, Likkutei Torah, the Siddur of the Alter Rebbe, and the published works of the Mitteler Rebbe. He spoke sparingly, but when on occasion he offered an explanation of a concept, it was rich.

R. Meir Mordechai had been a longstanding disciple of the well-known chassid, R. Shmuel Borisover, under whom he had studied Chassidus for ten years. He was a scholar, expert in numerous tractates of the Gemara, and for twenty years he had been the melamed of small groups of children. In the year of which I speak — 5650 (1890) — he worked in Lubavitch as a cashier in the business of my uncle R. Zalman Aharon, and assiduously devoted all his other hours to the study of nigleh and Chassidus.

R. Chanoch Hendel was one of the select baalei avodah. He was no outstanding theoretician in the study of Chassidus — but his heart was all aflame, his character was refined beyond compare, and the extent to which he loved his fellow Jew is indescribable. All in all, he is one of those few elder chassidim who figure prominently in my childhood memories.

Now when these three chassidim saw this copy of R. Mordechai Dov’s letter they settled down to study it, first separately and then together. In fact for a few weeks they did nothing but study and discuss the contents of that letter. So it was that it became known in Lubavitch without my father’s knowledge.

16. Basking in the soul-talk of elder chassidim

In the month of Tammuz my father and my uncle R. Zalman Aharon returned from Luka,106 where they had gone to see about a match for their sister,107 my aunt and in-law Chayah Mushka. The chassan proposed was my uncle and in-law, R. Moshe HaKohen Horenstein.108 After a couple of weeks’ correspondence the two families came to an agreement about the shidduch, and fixed a time for celebrating the tena’im.

Among the elder chassidim who came to Lubavitch for the occasion were the emissary R. Gershon Dov [Pahrer],109 the emissary R. Shalom-R. Hillel’s, the scholarly R. Zalman Neimark of Nevl, the learned R. Yoel of Podobranka, the kabbalist R. Leib Hoffman, R. Monye [Menachem Manes] Monensohn, and R. Leib Chassidov. They soon caught wind of the above letter, and were all struck both by the haskalah expounded there and by its directives for the “service of the heart.”

After the tena’im, the betrothal agreement, had been sealed there was a festive meal that developed into a chassidisher farbrengen. (As I have related in detail on another occasion,110 my childhood life had by this time undergone a certain change.111 I was now drawn strongly to any quite ordinary farbrengen, especially if my father was among those present.) At this gathering a certain chassid — I would rather not mention his name — remarked that Chassidus is basically haskalah [i.e., intellective]; that seichel is always in place, not only before davenen and in the midst of davenen, but whenever a person is engrossed in intellectual effort, quite independently of davenen.

The speaker was a man of understanding, a man of scholarly achievement with an extensive knowledge of Chassidus, a man of high intellectual capacity and a profound thinker, a speaker of rare eloquence and a person of upstanding character — but not an oved. In fact he would generally daven together with the congregation, even on Shabbos.112

A weighty discussion ensued, in the course of which a number of the more serious thinkers present — such as R. Gershon Dov, R. Zalman Neimark, R. [Avraham] Abba Persohn, and R. Yoel of Podobranka — expressed the view that the mainstay of Chassidus is avodah. In support of their remarks, they each told a story that they had heard from elder chassidim they had known. R. Gershon Dov (who still had early recollections of R. Betzalel Ozaritcher) repeated traditions that he had received from the tzaddik R. Hillel [of Paritch] and R. Aizik Homiler; R. Abba Persohn relayed concepts that he had heard from his father-in-law’s father R. Velvel Vilenker and from R. Moshe Vilenker; and R. Yoel of Podobranka handed on words that he had heard from the mouth of R. Pesach Molostovker.

From their narratives the novel contribution of the Alter Rebbe to the teachings of Chassidus became apparent; likewise, the approach to avodah — that is, the relation between Chassidus and avodah — as perceived by R. Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk on the one hand, and the Maggid of Mezritch on the other. Moreover, their stories reflected the lives and aspirations of the great maskilim and baalei avodah of the four generations of the school of Chabad that had passed until that time.

Being then a child, and by nature always finding in my imagination a parallel to every experience, and now beholding at this farbrengen such an assemblage of hoary-headed chassidim, their countenances all dignified, convivial and holy, their words all uttered with such a tranquil deliberateness, — it seemed to me, as I recall, that the scene before me resembled the scene described to me by my melamed, R. Moshe Binyamin, of how the tzaddikim sit in the Garden of Eden, and bask in the radiance of the Divine Presence.113 Only in later years, as I grew older, did I begin to fully appreciate the value of such a farbrengen, for such a farbrengen truly exemplifies the teaching of our Sages: “Attendance on [men steeped in] Torah is [even] more praiseworthy than the study of Torah.”114

We once spoke of what my greatuncle, R. Baruch Shalom,115 transmitted from the mouth of the Alter Rebbe — of the lofty worth of a story,116 provided that the narrator hands down its language meticulously. And indeed, such narratives and such teachings quicken the very soul.

17. The limits of intellection

My father was very pleased with the stories that he had now heard at the table, for each of them had been handed down directly, mouth to mouth. In the meantime each of the elder chassidim present had taken another drop of mashke, and they now sang together.

Their melody came to an end, and my father said: “This very concept, that the mainstay of Chassidus is avodah, itself needs to be understood in the terms of haskalah. Chassidus is divine intellect.117 Chassidus is not only haskalah, mere intellection: it is divine intellect, the glory and the splendor of intellect; that is to say, the higher-than-intellect that is to be found in intellect. And it is this intellect-that-transcends-intellect that one’s physical brain must grasp. However, the physical brain can be enabled to comprehend divine intellect only by means of avodah, by laboring in the ‘service of the heart’ which is prayer — for prayer is the time and place at which the phrase veyichku li (‘They shall take unto Me’118 ) comes to life in the meaning which the Sages perceive there, namely, ‘They shall take Me,’ as if to say, ‘It is Me Whom you are taking.’119 The Essence of the Infinite One tells every man who serves Him through the avodah of prayer: ‘It is Me Whom you are taking!’

“However, in order that one’s prayer should be true avodah, so that one attains the level at which one is granted this permission (‘It is Me Whom you are taking’), there must first be the preparations intimated by the verse, ‘O wall of the Daughter of Zion, let tears run down like a river,’120 and by the verse, ‘My tears have been my bread day and night.’121 No matter how profound one’s haskalah may be, concepts comprehended through haskalah do not alone suffice — in the absence of tears, and in the absence of the perspiration generated by the actual practice of the mitzvos122 — to make one a servant of G‑d through the avodah of prayer.

“It is even possible,” my father continued, “that a person should study a subject of haskalah in Chassidus and understand it well, really and truly well, and indeed reach a point at which not only is the subject within him but he in turn is within the subject” (and here my father explained the terms makkif (‘encompassing’) and mukkaf (‘being encompassed’) as used in this sense in ch. 5 of Tanya). Moreover, with this subject in mind he prays his way through quite a fine Maariv123 and does his [Tikkun] Chatzos. Furthermore, when he lies down he cannot fall asleep because he is so closely bound to his subject — yet nevertheless, when (after all the due preparations of mikveh and meditation of Chassidus before davenen) he proceeds to daven,124 he contemplates the intellectual delight to be found in his subject, but its divine element he does not sense.

“Now this maskil is well aware of the clear difference between the perception of intellect and the perception of G‑dliness. Indeed, his absence of feeling for the divine element in his intellectually-perceived haskalah causes him no end of anguish. He pleads, he cries, he bemoans his plight — but to no avail. All the doors and gates are locked in his face. Once and for all, No! From Above they say to Him: ‘Do you want to be a maskil? So be a maskil. But divine light you won’t be given!’

“Do you know what this means?” My father turned to the chassidim at the table. “From Above they say to the maskilim: ‘When you come to appear before Me’125 — that is to say: ‘If you want to behold the Countenance of G‑d by means of your intellectual exercises, seeking by means of haskalah to sense the divine light, then out of here!’ As the verse continues: ‘Who asked this of you, to trample My courtyards?’126 That is to say ‘Who gave you the right to take hold of intellect divine, and to trample it with your earthy mortal intellect?’ And a later verse continues the rebuke: ‘Your new moons (chadashim) and your festivals (moadim) My soul hates.’127 That is to say [again on the non-literal level of derush]: ‘The chiddushim (the novellae in haskalah) that you so ingeniously propound, and that turn you into muadim (incorrigibly dangerous oxen, goring one another in scholarly combat in order to flaunt your prowess in the haskalah of Chassidus), — this My soul hates.’ And therefore, as the next verse goes on to say, ‘Even if you offer many prayers I will not hear.’”128

My father now concluded: “Davenen, the service of the heart, first requires a preparation. In addition to preparation through Kerias Shema as it is said before retiring at night,129 and Tikkun Chatzos, the prerequisite to prayer is a readying of the heart, and this can come about only by means of the perspiration generated by the ardent and practical performance of the commandments. Indeed, it is through this that one responds to the plea of the prophet in the following verse: ‘Bathe yourselves, cleanse yourselves!’130 One should bathe in sweat and cleanse oneself in tears — and then one can perceive the divine light that is to be found in the divine intellect of Chassidus.”

And with that my father rose from his place. Within an instant his listeners had all joined him — in a dance that made of many men, one man.