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R. Shmuel of Lubavitch (Maharash)

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Late in the afternoon, the Rebbe emerged from his room and instructed that the circumcision commence. The only clue to his delay was the mysterious sentence that passed his lips, "Ay... the Polotzk burial society..."
"I know he is critically ill and the doctors have just about despaired of his life. For every Jewish family he helps, I promise him one month of life and health."
The rebbe’s youngest son, Shmuel, who was seven years old at the time, wandered around the room, talking to the men who sat tearfully reading Tehillim as they waited to be received by his father . . .
The Jews of Vitebsk, if you want to know the truth, were never known to be generous givers of money to charitable causes. But they could always be counted on to provide food for the hungry.
I returned to my compartment in a state of confusion. The last thing I had expected from the Rebbe was a business tip
“So make it yellow,” replied Kusheh. And that is exactly what he did.
They crisscrossed Russia, trudging from doctor to doctor, but even the greatest specialists threw their hands up in despair.
"Sixty-two years have now passed," related Reb Pesach, "since I was privileged to hear from the Rebbe, your grandfather, that Shema is Yisrael..."
They would gather around the hot drink and warm their bones with pannes and chassidic philosophy.
“When I was a young man of twenty,” the Baal Shem Tov began his story, “shortly after being accepted in the society of hidden tzaddikim, several of us came to the city of Brody . . .”
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