“I think you’re my cousin!”
I turned around, trying to figure out who she was speaking to. Then she said it again. She was talking to me.
“I think you think I’m someone else. I’m definitely not your cousin,” I said, smiling as I thought about how funny it would be if I actually had Lubavitch cousins.
Just that morning, I had moved to New York—a huge shift for me. I grew up in California and graduated from college that June of 1994. My third year in college was spent in Israel, and it was there that I had reconnected with my Judaism in a meaningful and profound way. Yet, it still came as a huge shock to all my friends and family when I decided to move to Crown Heights, Brooklyn, the headquarters of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, to spend a year immersed in Jewish study in a formal learning program.
I had landed in Crown Heights that Friday morning, moved my luggage into the Machon Chana dormitory on President Street, and was excited to go to the famous 770 for Friday night services.
Minutes after I entered 770, Rochie approached me. I recognized her from camp where we had both been counselors just the month before, but since we had never really spoken, I was surprised when she came up to me.
Then she told me that she thought I was her cousin. I was sure she was mistaken. She was actually pretty adamant about it, and laugh though I did, she still insisted that I go back to her house with her to meet her father, Rabbi Leima Minkowicz, who had asked her to find me.
The whole situation was preposterous to me, but I agreed. After all, I didn’t really know many people in Crown Heights, so cousin or not, I figured it would be great to meet another family, especially someone who specifically wanted to meet me!
Rochie explained that her father had been looking through a camp publication that listed the names of the counselors and saw my name: Sara Esther Matz. He knew that he was the descendant of Matz, and he knew the origin of the Matz name, and that most people with the name “Matz” are related.
The story is told that in Russia in the 1800s, the Tsar ruled that boys were to be drafted into the army for life—more often than not, a short-lived one. The only exception was if a family had an only child. So, my relatives, the Jaffe family, decided to rename their three sons with three different last names. The oldest was given the family name, Jaffe, the next was given the name Rabinowitz, and the third was given the name Matz, which consisted of two Hebrew letters, mem and tzaddik, an acronym for morei tzedek, meaning “righteous guide.”
The name “Matz” was chosen to honor the family grandfather, Rabbi Yaakov Yankl Jaffe, who was the head of the Rabbinical Court in Utena, Lithuania, and even farther back, over 350 years ago, to honor our relative, Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe, known as “The Levush,” a highly respected and well-known rabbi and halachic authority.
At the time, I knew none of this history. My paternal grandfather, Yosef Matz, was the sole survivor of his family, having left Utena on a student visa in 1936 for British-mandated Palestine. Unfortunately, after that, his brother and sister and parents were unable to get out. On December 21, 1941, he married, completely unaware that by then, everyone he loved and knew had been murdered. On July 31st and August 7th of 1941, the Jews of Utena were marched into the forest of Rašė and executed by the Lithuanians themselves. In total, 200,000 Lithuanian Jews were murdered during the Holocaust. He still didn’t know of the horrors when my father was born in 1945.
Growing up, when I would visit my grandfather in Israel, it was too painful for him to discuss his family and what had happened. Only towards the end of his life did I get bits and pieces of his story. All I knew is that I was raised without any extended family from my father’s side, or any awareness that I even might have other Matz relatives.
All of that changed that Friday night in August of 1994 when Rochie insisted I go to her home.
We showed up and I was immediately welcomed with the sweetest smile. Rabbi Leima Minkowicz was so excited to speak to me.
“So, you are Sara Esther Matz?” he asked with the biggest smile. “Who is your grandfather?”
I replied that my grandfather’s name was Yosef Matz.
“YEISEF MATZ!” he screamed with his endearing Russian-Yiddish accent. “Yeisef Matz and my mother, Tonia, were cousins! My maternal grandmother, Freida, was a Matz. You are our cousin!”
In that instant, my life changed. Not because I discovered that I had relatives, but because of the incredible person that Rabbi Minkowicz was.
Now, for some perspective, my grandfather and his mother were second cousins. But when you are in Crown Heights, you are likely closer related to your next-door neighbor or the person standing behind you in the market, than the relationship I had with the Minkowicz family.
And yet, as far as both Rabbi Minkowicz, and his wife, Mrs. Shoshana Minkowicz, were concerned, I was family. More specifically, from that moment on, I was “the cousin.”
Throughout that Shabbat I was introduced to the entire extended clan. I met all of their children, and the grandchildren, the aunts and uncles and everyone in between. They took me in and treated me as if they had discovered a long-lost child. Each and every introduction was made with the greatest excitement: “Have you met our cousin? This is our cousin, Sara Esther!”
I was enveloped in love and support and hospitality and food. There was never a time that I entered their house where I wasn’t immediately asked if I was hungry. And to be fair, I always was hungry, and the food was incredible, so I joined endless meals with them. And my parents received a wedding invitation to every single wedding of their children as did any other relative that Rabbi Minkowicz discovered throughout the years.
In time I learned more about my newfound relatives. In 1946, their family was part of the “Great Exodus” of Jewish families escaping Russia, finally making it to Paris in 1947.
Rabbi Minkowicz had a close relationship with the Rebbe who, on two occasions, personally inquired about his health. A number of times he led the prayer services in the Rebbe’s minyan on the High Holidays. And Rabbi Minkowicz also merited a few times to drive the Rebbe’s mother, Rebbetzin Chana, to her medical appointments.
Rabbi Minkowicz was a member of the administration of Beis Rivkah, the flagship Chabad educational institution for girls in Crown Heights. He was known for his incredible dedication to the school and its students. And he was the gabbai of his synagogue in Crown Heights.
When I started dating, Rabbi and Mrs. Minkowicz took on the role of my parents and were involved in helping me however they could. And when I got engaged, Rabbi Minkowicz spoke at our engagement party, explaining that the Matz family was originally Chassidic, but in Utena, they had drifted away from their Chassidic roots. Our engagement brought everything full circle. With my connection to Chabad, and now entering into my own Chassidic marriage, the Matz family was once again Chassidic.
Soon after we married, we moved to Israel, and over the 28 years since, I was unfortunately only able to see Rabbi Minkowicz a handful of times. Two years ago, when I was in Crown Heights, my then 21-year-old son and I went over to visit and Rabbi Minkowicz was so happy to spend time with a member of the next generation of my family. We caught up and took pictures. It was a beautiful visit.
Then, just the other month, I bumped into one of his daughters, Chaya, and found out that he had suffered a stroke. I had not been aware and wanted to make sure I had a chance to come and see him. I tried to make plans but unfortunately the timing didn’t work with their schedule.
And then, just over two weeks ago, my phone rang from a number I didn’t recognize. I answered and suddenly I heard: “It’s Leima Minkowicz. Sara Esther, it’s Leima Minkowicz.” I was shocked. I had no idea he had my number and this was the first time, in all the years I had known him, that he had ever called me.
Unfortunately, I struggled to understand him and could only make out certain words. A few of my daughters were around so I put the call on speaker so that they could also hear him. He mentioned Vermont (remembering that is where we live), he asked about our kids, and I told him that I had met other Matz family members and wanted to share the information I had received. He gave me his email and I promised I would email him.
I never had a chance to. Only now I realize he was calling to say goodbye.
Rabbi Leima Minkowicz, Leima ben Naftali Hertz, passed away on Sunday, the 15th of Tevet (January 4, 2026) at the age of 85.
He leaves behind his incredible wife, Shoshana, a brother and three sisters, his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and an entire community in which he was a pillar. As his son Hirshy posted following his funeral, “His life began on the run, fleeing Russia during World War II. It ended with two coach buses filled with his descendants making their way to his funeral. I can’t imagine a more powerful way to sum up my father’s legacy.”
And yet, with all of his accomplishments, accolades, work, responsibilities and family, Rabbi Minkowicz was also someone who, when he saw the name “Matz” on a roster, made the time and effort to find out who I was. He made sure I came over to his house so he could excitedly tell me that I was indeed a cousin. And then, upon meeting me, treated me like I was the most important discovery he had ever made.
He took a girl who had just moved to New York that very day, barely knowing a soul, and provided me with a family—a real family—that he made sure I knew I would always be a part of. Today, over 30 years later, I walked into his home once again, this time to be there for the shivah mourning period. And though he wasn’t there to greet me with his excitement and smile, he is a part of each and every one of his family members who welcomed me, their cousin, as he undoubtedly lives within all those who had the great fortune to know him.
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