81. On Yud-Tes Kislev 5663 (1902), my father said that the Alter Rebbe in this world below resembled the Adam HaElyon in the supernal worlds Above: those elements which in the soul of a particular individual are obscured from view, are revealed when in the comprehensive soul [i.e., the neshamah klalis, of a tzaddik who is spiritually connected to the souls of his contemporaries].1The various faculties that comprise the souls of ordinary individuals do derive ultimately from the Ten Sefiros of Atzilus – but this lineage is obscured from view, whereas in the above-described type of comprehensive soul it is manifest. This is why every movement of the [Alter] Rebbe was the way it was – because it paralleled the dynamics of the World Above.2 Every movement of the [Alter] Rebbe was ordered and precisely directed in conformance with the Kabbalah.
That which my father said of the Alter Rebbe I observed in my father. Every movement was not only ordered, but moreover precisely directed in conformity with the Kabbalah.Furthermore, everything sprang from an inwardly vigorous spirit of utter self-dedication,3 nothing whatever being outwardly discernible.
My father-in-law, the revered R. Avraham,4 once made the following remark about my father to the renowned chassid, R. Asher Grossman [of Nikolayev]: “The very first step he takes in his daily divine service is a step of self-sacrifice. Twenty-five years ago, in 5641 (1881), my uncle the Rebbe Maharash told me: ‘His truth and his self-sacrifice are two pillars of light. The level to which truth and self-sacrifice can bring a person is beyond anyone’s grasp, especially if we are speaking of the truth and self-sacrifice of a comprehensive soul.’ And with that I knew that he [the Rebbe Rashab] would be the successor.”
Whoever was privileged to hear my father saying the morning blessings must certainly have had a thought of repentance; for him that day must have been quite out of the ordinary.
As my father pronounced the blessing over the washing of the hands [in the morning] he used to raise his hands as far as his head, though no higher than his peyos, unlike his custom during the washing of hands before a meal. In fact there were three differences. When my father said the blessing of al netilas yadayim in the morning: (a) his hands were already dried; (b) he raised them as high as his peyos; (c) he held his hands apart. When it came to the same blessing before a meal: (a) he pronounced it as he wrang his hands, after washing them and before drying them; (b) he raised them only as high as his heart; (c) his hands were clasped together.
Whenever my father recited a blessing, not only did one clearly hear its words with all their vocalization fully pronounced, but one heard their meaning too; the very way they were uttered made one understand their meaning. Moreover, one could hear the pauses indicated by the punctuation, which would arouse one to perceive the inner significance of the meaning of the words.
For example, in one of the morning blessings, my father would begin: אֱלֹקַי – “My G‑d,” intoning it as if it were marked with a zakef gadol,5and then he would pause. He would continue: נְשָׁמָה שֶׁנָּתַתָּ בִּי טְהוֹרָה הִיא – “The soul that You have set within me is pure,” and again he would pause. He would proceed: אַתָּה בְרָאתָהּ – “You created it,” and he would pause once more. And as he said these words, one could clearly hear what was meant by the utterance, “My G‑d,” what was meant by “pure,” and what was meant by “You created it.”
82. Some of the chassidim of my grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash, were men with a scholarly understanding of Chassidus, men who took their avodah seriously; the majority, however, were ordinary householders,6 and some were villagers.7 My grandfather used to refer to some of these villagers as “my ahavah-and-yirah-guys.”8
[Accordingly,] my grandfather used to deliver chassidic discourses in a style that could be understood even by these simple folk, yet within each such maamar there lies such profundity that any amount of explanation leaves still more unexplained. In the middle of delivering a certain maamar on Naso, for example, my grandfather once made a pregnant remark that was picked up by the innermost point of the hearts of his listeners; it shook them up and aroused them inwardly. The remark was as follows: “People complain that they are bothered by extraneous thoughts in the course of their prayer and their Torah study. People should realize: What is the point of the ‘many thoughts in the heart of man,’9 when in the final analysis ‘it is the counsel of G‑d that endures’?”
This maamar, of medium length, has been handed down to us in two versions, one by my father and one by a chassid called R. Yaakov Mordechai. My father’s gives the wording of the original text, unexplained; R. Yaakov Mordechai’s version incorporates a few explanatory notes. I heard the maamar repeated by two chassidim renowned both as maskilim and ovdim – the late R. Zeev Dov Kozhevnikov and the late R. David Zvi Chein. Both added explanatory material to the original maamar, whose every word served them as a lifegiving wellspring. But when I heard its basic content as included by my father in one of his maamarim, I understood that all the lengthy expositions of the above two learned chassidim were a mere summary of the full richness hidden in that maamar.
My grandfather’s chassidim, irrespective of whether they were maskilim and ovdim or businessmen and villagers, were manifestly bound to him in a way that was somehow different to the bond that characterized the chassidim of his father, the Tzemach Tzedek, or the chassidim of his brothers.10
All of my grandfather’s chassidim counted the very words that they heard from his mouth, regardless of whether they were at a level at which they could grasp a maamar; those who were not at such a level used to repeat several words of whatever maamar they heard. In the winter of 5652 (1892) I heard a closely-argued discussion of one of my grandfather’s maamarim between two scholarly chassidim, the late R. Shneur Zalman Zlatopolski and the late R. Yehudah Leib Hoffman, the Kabbalist. They had heard that maamar on the Shabbos of Parshas Toldos in the year 5637 (1876), some fifteen years earlier. Yet they both spoke so excitedly (“This is what the Rebbe meant!” “No, no; this is what the Rebbe meant!”), each citing evidence for his interpretation, and the maamar was so fresh and so very much alive in their minds, that you would think they had just heard it that very day.
83. With the chassidim of the Alter Rebbe and the Mitteler Rebbe, and to a degree with the chassidim of my great-grandfather (the Tzemach Tzedek) and my grandfather (the Rebbe Maharash), even the most pedestrian of pedestrian weekdays11 was a time for a fine, lively davenen that welled from a responsive heart.12 On Shabbos especially, people used to focus on their davenen, each according to his standing. Indeed, some of the rank-and-file chassidim who themselves prayed with the congregation13 – and on Shabbos communal prayers were conducted at a more leisurely pace than during the week – used to stay on to listen to the chassidim of stature at their [measured and meditative] prayers.
During the first ten years of my father’s leadership,14 5643-5652 (1883-1892), when he was not out of town he prayed in the shul, davening at length on weekdays too. Nevertheless, the davenen of the average chassid of that time was at no extraordinary level of avodah. The chassidim who came to Lubavitch would listen with relish to the maamarim [that my father delivered] and would review them industriously, but the avodah of prayer was little cultivated, becoming prominent only from the year 5653 (1893). Indeed, only from the year 5660 (1899) was it nurtured into full flower as “the service of the heart”- when my father first issued his Kuntreis HaTefillah15(“A Treatise on Prayer”).16
84. In each of the generations of our forebears, the Rebbe of the time had his own approach to receiving chassidim at yechidus.
My grandfather (the Rebbe Maharash) used to say that the main difficulty with yechidus is the constant “dressing and undressing” – apart from the fact that in order to receive people at yechidus one needs to have Divine inspiration17 at least of the kind of which one is unaware.
Divine inspiration can assume either of two forms: (a) a form in which one knows and feels that it is ruach hakodesh, this being experienced at any of many possible levels; (b) a form in which the inspiration is neither known nor felt. It is at least this level of ruach hakodesh that one has to have in order to give answers at yechidus.
In addition, clothing oneself in order to momentarily become the person whom one is facing, disrobing in order to no longer be that person, and then clothing oneself in the next person, is an exertion of the soul.
The approach of my grandfather (the Rebbe Maharash) to yechidus was different from that of my great-grandfather (the Tzemach Tzedek). As soon as he read the note that was handed to him, my grandfather would reply with a piece of advice and a blessing, as well as a few chosen words that directed his listener as to how to organize his endeavors in avodah18and refine his character.19
For every one of his chassidim, no matter how mundane he was, my grandfather had a brief teaching to offer him at yechidus. And that inspirational vort that the chassid heard served him throughout his lifetime as a pillar of fire.
85. I once knew a man20 called R. Pesach who was a chassid of my grandfather’s. His father, R. Yisrael, was a storekeeper in Hlusk, and a chassid of my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek.
This R. Pesach was certainly no Torah scholar, nor for that matter was he schooled in worldly matters, but when he married into a family from Homil21 he made a comfortable living by buying various kinds of merchandise there and selling it on commission to the storekeepers in the hamlets round about.
Just before Rosh HaShanah of the year 5627 (1866),22 he joined a group of chassidim which was led by a chassid of renown by the name of R. Mordechai Yoel, and together they made the journey to Lubavitch in order to spend the Days of Awe with my grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash. When his turn came for yechidus, he handed the Rebbe a kvitl in which he mentioned that he made his livelihood by driving his wagon from town to town.
The Rebbe blessed him warmly and said: “You can always fulfill the words of the prophet, שְׂאוּ מָרוֹם עֵינֵיכֶם – ‘Raise your eyes heavenward [and behold Who created these].’”23 And then he added: “Shema is Yisrael.”
R. Pesach went straight from the Rebbe’s study to find R. Mordechai Yoel, and asked him to explain what the Rebbe meant.
“Every synagogue,” began R. Mordechai Yoel, “is built with large windows,24 not only to admit light, but also to enable people to look out at the sky. For the heavens, we read, are reminiscent of the Throne of Glory,25 and looking skyward inspires a man with the awe of Heaven.26 And this is what the Rebbe told you. Since you spend much of your time on the road, and see the sky not only when you are seated in shul, you are thus able at all times to fulfill the instruction of the prophet, שְׂאוּ מָרוֹם עֵינֵיכֶם – ‘Raise your eyes heavenward, and behold Who created these.’ Now the word שְׁמַע is made up of the initial letters of the first three words of this verse, and when a person says the Shema with every fiber of his being, he is elevated thereby to the level of Yisrael.”
R. Mordechai Yoel went on to distinguish between the significance of the name Yaakov and the name Yisrael.27 [For Yaakov denotes a Jew when he is at the stage at which his service of G‑d is that of a servant, motivated by awe; the name Yisrael is reserved for someone who serves like a son – for the Jew who has reached the stage at which his service is prompted as well by his love of the Creator.]
“And that,” R. Mordechai Yoel concluded, “is what the Rebbe meant when he said ‘Shema is Yisrael’: through experiencing Shema in the sense of ‘raising your eyes heavenward,’ one can become worthy of being called a Yisrael.”
R. Pesach used to visit Lubavitch every two or three years, but I met him there for the first time on the eve of Rosh HaShanah 5652 (1891).28 As we walked together to the shul at the Ohel,29he told me in detail all about that first yechidus that he had had with my grandfather on the fourth of Tishrei, 5627 (1866), between Minchah and Maariv.
He concluded with these words: “When R. Mordechai Yoel explained what the Rebbe had told me I felt my heart lighting up, and from then on I yearned to understand things. My neighbor, a chassid whom we knew as Hirschel the Watchmaker, taught me every so often, so that within a few years I was able to study several lines for myself out of Tanya, Torah Or or Likkutei Torah. The Rebbe’s words at yechidus put me on my feet!”
I was then too young to understand – and certainly to feel – his relived experience as he recalled that meeting, but I was richly aware of his liveliness, his deep-seated pleasure. Their intensity, after the passage of no less than twenty-five years, amazed me.
Now, as I leaf through the notes that I recorded of incidents that took place fifty-two years ago, including the notes of that erev Rosh HaShanah, I clearly recall (thank G‑d) the image of the shul at the Ohel, and clearly recall seeing all the people who were there at the time, both those whose names I knew and those whose names I did not know.
As the years rolled by, R. Pesach became a rich man and moved to Lodz, where he dealt in manufactured goods. Then in 5688 (1928), when he was about ninety years old, he again told me what he had heard from the mouth of my grandfather at his first yechidus – and still with the same relived delight, as if this encounter had taken place the day before.
This time he concluded his recollection as follows: “From the time I stopped working on commission and first set out to try my own fortune on the road, I have always sought lodgings with large windows, and I always take a seat near a window, so that I will always be able to fulfill those words: שְׂאוּ מָרוֹם עֵינֵיכֶם – ‘Raise your eyes heavenward.’ Over sixty-two years have now passed since I was privileged to hear from the Rebbe, your grandfather, that Shema is Yisrael. Throughout all those years, whenever I have said Shema Yisrael, at whatever point in the prayers – whether it be in the daily reading, or while the sefer Torah is being taken out of the Holy Ark, or during the responses of Kedushah, or in the additions to the Tachanun prayer on Monday and Thursday mornings, or during the climax of Yom Kippur at the conclusion of the Ne’ilah service – I have always recalled the Rebbe’s words, that Shema is Yisrael.
“One request I have yet to the Almighty: When the time comes for me to return to Him the soul which He has entrusted in my keeping, and I am to breathe Shema Yisrael for the very last time, I pray that He grant me a clear mind, so that then too I will be able to recall those words the Rebbe told me – Shema is Yisrael!”
Let me confess, unabashed, that gazing upon that homespun peddler from Homil, R. Pesach the son of R. Yisrael – beholding the hoary dignity of his countenance, his gray-white beard, his sheer refinement, his artless attachment to the Rebbe’s teaching – I envied him.
A man ought to yearn to be blessed by an innocent individual such as this, his ignorance notwithstanding, for without a doubt a blessing from his mouth is highly esteemed in the worlds Above.
And such an individual was one of the ordinary chassidim of my grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash.
86. Among the prominent chassidim who had formed a close bond with my grandfather was R. Yisrael DovBer, one of the most proficient teachers in Velizh. He had a mellow understanding both of the revealed levels of the Torah and of Chassidus, and engaged earnestly in the avodah of davenen. As a young man he had twice visited my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek.
From Rosh HaShanah of the year 5627 (1866)30 he visited my grandfather in Lubavitch every year, and was admitted to yechidus on each occasion. In 5662 (1902) he told me that at one such yechidus he had handed the Rebbe a note that said that though he toiled until he thoroughly grasped a concept in Chassidus, he did so without relish.
My grandfather responded: “Toil is no match for an insensitive mind;31 what you need is melody in your prayers.”
This encounter had taken place in 5638 (1878).
R. Yisrael DovBer recalled: “Your grandfather’s reply made me quite despondent. When a man has been toiling away at his avodah for twelve years, intellectual insensitivity is no great ornament. So, thoroughly downhearted, after the repetition of the maamarim of Rosh HaShanah I told the present Rebbe, your father,32 of my yechidus.
“Your father replied: ‘If one’s mind is not exhilarated by a concept, then no matter how thoroughly comprehensible that concept may be, this indicates that it was not truly grasped, and that the absence of exhilaration is due to one’s intellectual insensitivity.’ Your father went on to explain at length the Rebbe’s advice (‘What you need is melody in your prayers’), and said that this teaching constituted the individualized help that a Rebbe gives his chassid.”
R. Yisrael DovBer concluded his reminiscence: “And that’s exactly what happened. I became a new man. After davenen I would experience an intense yearning to study and master some concept in Chassidus. Then, having studied and mastered that concept, I would feel a powerful desire to daven.”
87. In the province of Vitebsk there was a township called Batchaikov which, together with its many surrounding villages and forests, was the inherited property of a certain nobleman. In addition to his own castle, there were numerous buildings for his employees and for the superintendents who managed his vast estate, and a Catholic church with its priest and his servants.
The squire himself was a kindly man, and provided a livelihood for the Jews of the region. If they were poor he exempted them from paying their land tax, and did not charge a pasture fee for the cows and goats of the local rav, the shochet, the chazzanim and the schoolteachers. In fact almost of the Jews of the township drew the greater part of their livelihood from this noble’s estate.
Being an ailing man and often seriously ill, he used to visit the well-known Dr. Heibenthal in Vitebsk. In later years, as he grew weaker with age, he visited the renowned Dr. Berthenson.
Old and frail, he entrusted the administration of his entire estate to his chief manager, an anti-Semite. Inspired by a newly- appointed priest with similar prejudices, this chief manager began to displace the local Jews; the paupers were forced to pay for their holdings; the rav and his colleagues were charged for their pasture; and in the course of about two years the Jews at large were impoverished.
Now most of these people were quiet folk who were connected with my grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash. They would visit Lubavitch for a Yom-Tov or a Shabbos, listen to a maamar, be received by the Rebbe at yechidus, request a blessing for children, for health and for their daily sustenance – and then make the journey home, confident that the Almighty would no doubt show them compassion. But as to the growing threat to their livelihood of the anti-Semitic priest and chief manager, – such matters none of them made bold to mention.
There were a few Jewish families that had maintained commercial contacts with this estate for a couple of generations. To one of these families belonged a certain R. Shmuel the son of R. Aizik Monye, or, as he was called more familiarly, Mulye Aizik’s. He was a respected and well-to-do chassid of my grandfather, with a reputation throughout the region as an honest, charitable and hospitable businessman. In addition he was moderately learned, and was able to appreciate a chassidic teaching.
He visited Lubavitch for Shavuos in the year 5640 (1880), and in answer to my grandfather’s question at yechidus, he explained the reasons for the deteriorating conditions under which his anxious townsmen were living.
“I know,” said my grandfather. “Professor Berthenson told me that your squire’s life is in danger.”
And my grandfather proceeded to admonish R. Shmuel for the fact that throughout this whole period no one had told him about the changes in policy on the estate.
R. Shmuel Batchaikover (as he was known in Lubavitch) continued his story: “Your grandfather fell deep into thought for quite some time, and then, turning to me, he said, ‘Travel home. The very first time you meet the squire, tell him in my name that I know that he is critically ill and the doctors have despaired of saving his life; let him help out the Jews of Batchaikov and the surrounding villagers who operate the inns and tar works on his estate, and for every such Jewish family that he helps, G‑d will give him a month of life and health.”
A couple of days after his return home R. Shmuel visited the estate in the hope of seeing the squire, but that was out of the question: no one was allowed to approach him. Since it was a pleasant summer’s day the doctor ordered that the carriage be prepared, so that his aged patient could be taken, lying down, for a drive in the pine forest. R. Shmuel stood aside and watched that broken old frame being helped into the carriage, and his heart was pained.
At that moment the squire caught sight of him, and invited him to climb up into the carriage. He knew that R. Shmuel had a connection with the Rebbe. As for R. Shmuel, no sooner had he taken his seat than he passed on the Rebbe’s message. He was immediately asked to draw up and submit a confidential list of all the Jewish families in Batchaikov that could earn a living from the estate, and also to visit, personally or by proxy, all the villages, inns, forests, rivers and tar works that belonged to the squire and that could provide employment. And so it was that over a hundred and sixty families in the town and a few dozen families in the surrounding villages were once again enabled to earn their living respectably – and the squire recovered.
Needless to say, R. Shmuel became a highly respected figure around the estate, and from 5641 (1880) onward, he would send my grandfather a fine lulav and hadassim that had grown in the squire’s garden.
I heard this whole episode from the mouth of R. Shmuel when he came to Lubavitch at the end of the month of Av in the year 5654 (1894),33 while my father was visiting the Kherson colonies.
When he had finished telling it to my teacher the Rashbatz, R. Chanoch Hendel and myself, he concluded with these words: “The squire is an exceedingly old man, and throughout the fourteen years that have elapsed since that summer he has not once been ill. Last week, however, he felt very weak. He called for me and asked me to set out for Lubavitch in order to leave a message to this effect at the resting place of the Rebbe.34 For according to his reckoning of months and families, he was still owed a year and seven months of life – so let the Rebbe keep his promise!”
88. Whether intellectually or scholastically, R. Elye Abeler was a simple man.
Once at yechidus, my grandfather the Rebbe Maharash said to him: “Elye, I envy you! You go to market and meet all kinds of people. Then, in the middle of a deal with a friend, you share with him a glimmer of Torah light,35 such as a teaching out of Ein Yaakov, and encourage him to spend more time studying nigleh or Chassidus. This arouses great joy up Above, and G‑d pays the brokerage in blessings of children, health and a livelihood. And the bigger the market, the more work you have, and the bigger the earnings.”
Decades elapsed before R. Elye repeated this to me. Yet his arms and legs trembled as he spoke; he was all aflame, as if he had heard the Rebbe’s words that very day.
89. In the early years of the Alter Rebbe’s leadership, his chassidic teachings were succinct in the extreme.
On one occasion, for example, he took as his text a statement from the Mishnah: כָּל בַּעֲלֵי הַשֵּׁיר יוֹצְאִין בְּשֵׁיר וְנִמְשָׁכִין בְּשֵׁיר. [The context defines the restrictions applying to animals on Shabbos – under what circumstances may they move freely and be led from a private domain to the public domain.] This particular sentence says: “All animals bearing a chain or ring (שֵׁיר) may go out wearing their chain and may be led along by it.”36 [Reading this same text on a mystical level,] the Alter Rebbe gave the following interpretation: “All the masters of song (שִׁיר) – that is, the angels and souls [that inhabit the World Above] – go out in song and are drawn in song, that is, they may be either elevated or drawn down [into This World] through [the outpouring of a worshiper’s soul in] melody.”37
A chassid passing through Shklov had himself seen with what holy rapture the Alter Rebbe had delivered this thought, and he now of course repeated it to the few chassidim who were then living there. They were most distressed, in anticipation of the attack which the local misnagdim would no doubt make on this unconventional interpretation of a straightforward legal statement which, as everyone knew, dealt with animals. And in a short time their anxiety proved to be well founded: that teaching released a veritable tempest among the scholars of Shklov and its environs.
In due course the Alter Rebbe had occasion to pass through Shklov, and since the local scholars had by now recognized that he was a luminary in the Torah world, many of them visited him and asked him various learned questions that had engaged their attention. He however offered no answers. They therefore decided to convene a gathering of scholars in the communal house of study that was known locally as “the cold beis midrash.”At this forum he would be asked to deliver a learned dissertation, and to answer all the questions that had been put to him. The Alter Rebbe accepted the invitation.
Ascending the steps to the lectern at which the Torah is read, he said: “Shall I deliver a discourse and answer your questions? Instead, I shall sing you a melody. For there is a mishnah which says: כָּל בַּעֲלֵי הַשֵּׁיר יוֹצְאִין בְּשֵׁיר וְנִמְשָׁכִין בְּשֵׁיר – that is, souls and angels [from the World Above] may be both elevated and drawn down [into This World] through the singing of a melody.”
With this he began to sing a haunting melody, and in it the local scholars heard the intense yearning of a lofty soul. A sweet stillness stole into the heart of every man there; deep in thought, they did not sense for a while where they were. As they listened, the thorny questions and problems that had brought them there all found their sure answers. With his melody lending voice to his dveikus, he refreshed their minds from the wellsprings of wisdom, unlocking their intellectual tools. He raised them aloft to a level at which their problems all vanished.38
* * *
This was in 5531 (1771), at a time at which the brilliant scholar known as R. Yosef Kol-Bo39was already close to the Alter Rebbe, though not yet his chassid. He was still standing at the crossroads, and his decision was weightily affected by the above episode involving the melody, which the chassidim of Shklov called “the niggun of the Giving of the Torah.”40
R. Yosef had spent months of fatiguing exertion in an attempt to solve four near-insoluble problems that not even the sages of Vilna and Slutzk could master. But now, as he listened to the harmony of a soul searching and cleaving to its Source, all four knotty problems melted peacefully.
Years later, as he recounted this episode to a celebrated fellow chassid named R. Avraham Sheines, he said: “When those four problems resolved themselves in my mind, I felt like a small child. The ‘niggun of the Giving of the Torah’ helped me far along the way to becoming a chassid. I told myself at the time: ‘If up there, at the bimah, the maggid from Liozna does so well in opening minds to the Torah, then at the amud it is certain that he does well in opening hearts to the service of G‑d through prayer.”
In 5564 (l804), R. Avraham Sheines passed on the narrative to my great-grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek, whom it served as the basis for a maamar. This discourse, entitled לְהָבִין עִנְיַן טְעָמִים נְקוּדוֹת תַּגִין אוֹתִיוֹת, sets out at length the mystical significance of the letters of the Holy Tongue. It explains there that the letters are consummated by their tagin, the miniscule “crowns” that adorn certain letters in the sefer Torah; the letters attain clarity by means of the nekudos, the vocalization points that make the meaning of the consonants explicit by supplying the vowels; and the te’amim, the cantillation symbols [that adorn the printed text of the Torah and indicate how the verses should be chanted], reveal and elicit the primal germ of potential intellect and draw it down into the revealed levels of the intellect.
