Here's My Story

I asked the Rebbe to comment on the face, he looked at the face and replied, “Very good” – he said three times. And then he added, with a smile on his face, “Better than the original.”

The first time I went to the African National Congress's Department of Publicity offices, I literally came face-to-face with a massive poster of Yasser Arafat, which covered the wall facing the entrance. This immediately made me question the wisdom of what I was doing, so I decided to ask the Rebbe’s advice. The Rebbe didn’t hesitate to give me a blessing for success and advised that I should use my influence “to focus on the good.”

'Then the Rebbe leaned toward my wife and said, “These children are my generals. You shouldn’t worry.”'

I grew very fond of Rebbetzin Chana. She was a joyful person, exuding a lot of optimism, always with a smile on her face. She gave me the feeling that she was like my Bubby, that she really cared about me – the little kid schlepping her groceries.

The Rebbe's personal attention to a young student, and the importance of continuing in the path of the Previous Rebbe.

The Rebbe wrote: “It would be worthwhile to attach two pennies to the flyer, so that the students can also fulfill the mitzvah of giving charity on Purim.

When my wife picked up the phone, he told her to take a pencil and write down the Rebbe’s answer to her letter. It was this: “G‑d, will provide everything that is needed. And may you always report with good news”

During the private audience with the Rebbe, he talked to us about our baby who had passed away. “Although you are frustrated because you can’t see her,” he said, “she can see you. Please remember that.”

Then we finally decided—this is it. Our husbands were fed up; they didn’t want us doing it anymore. But then the Rebbe stepped in. . .

I answered that chamber music—especially that composed by Beethoven—is one of the most specialized forms of classical music. I felt that chassidic melodies had exactly the same components. Thus began a lively discussion about music.

The Rebbe asked us many questions that we never dreamed he would ask and that I had a hard time answering.

Our family has kept the Rebbe’s note for these many years. It is preserved in a safe, and we take it out only when a relative is giving birth so she can take it to the hospital with her. I myself have a copy, and I carry it with me wherever I go.

Although I had no experience as a congregational rabbi, I succeeded at it largely because the Rebbe guided me every step of the way—not telling me what to do, just making sure I fulfilled my mission and didn't lose focus on what was important.

The Rebbe became like a father to my father. I guess that means the Rebbe became my Zeide. . . My sense is that there wouldn’t have been enough hours in the day if the Rebbe gave everybody as much time as he gave my parents.

The story was so astounding that I decided to confirm it with the Rebbe himself. When I saw him next, I asked him, “Is it true that you stopped Sharon from going on the plane that was hijacked?”

The Rebbe said that when one child is celebrating a major event, the other children often feel left out, forgotten, and they are hurt by being ignored. “So please make sure that when you are planning this wedding, you don’t ignore your younger children.”

I was amazed! That the Rebbe should consider the feelings of a child, and that he should take so much trouble to engage her!

He was a rabbi, and what does a rabbi know about property? But here he was, talking to me about the most complicated financial maneuverings. I couldn’t believe it. . .

The CAT scan revealed that behind my right eye, in the middle of the gray matter, I had an aneurysm. If it burst, death would be instant. . .

The Rebbe told me that there were many Jewish people who had problems with addiction, and that I should make sure to take care of them . . .

I walked over to my group and I said, “Apparently the Rebbe noticed that there is a group that didn’t come up to get coins for charity. The Rebbe doesn’t care how you are dressed. So come up. Get a coin from the Rebbe, and it should be for a blessing.”

Upon my return I reported on the trip to the Rebbe, and I mentioned that when I met people in Russia, I identified myself as “a chassid of the Lubavitcher Rebbe,” but never as “a Lubavitcher chassid” . . .

The Rebbe never forgot his childhood teacher, and showed respect and gratitude to the man who, as he put it, “hut mir avek geshtelt auf de fees—put me on my feet.”

She had been born and raised in Boro Park, and she had married there; unfortunately the marriage ended badly, and more unfortunately, her husband refused to agree to a divorce. Now she ran away . . .

I was so overwhelmed by the amount of pressure I was under, so I wrote a long, very emotional letter to the Rebbe. . .

When they came into the apartment, he asked them, “Do you know the man who brought you here?” My grandfather said, “No. He was some nice Jew I met. I told him that I was looking for this address, and he walked us here. It was very kind of him.”

The secretary told us that “The Rebbe doesn’t understand the word ‘stuck.’” When we tried explaining, the secretary replied, “The Rebbe knows what stuck means. The Rebbe says that a Jew is never stuck.”

The Rebbe felt that if instead of just asking for money, rabbis stood up and said, “Gentlemen, let’s roll up our sleeves and start putting on tefillin for Israel,” every Jew would have done it.

The Rebbe was so nice to me—I remember him like a loving grandfather. He smiled; he expressed interest; he asked me questions. “How are you doing in Israel? How are the Israeli girls treating you? Are you comfortable there?”

The Rebbe closed the door, and he said to me, “Something must really be important for you to approach me like this. Could you tell me what is the problem?”

I felt a little lost, and I was looking around for a prayerbook, a siddur, but could not find one. The Rebbe motioned for me to sit next to him and pray from his siddur together with him. When some chassidim started motioning to me to move away, the Rebbe looked up and said in Yiddish, “What do you want from him? My prayers are going very well with him!”

The Rebbe was so very compassionate. He didn’t exactly say, “It’s nothing what you did—don’t worry about it,” but he was very reassuring. I was just a naive kid, and that was exactly what I needed. I felt a personal connection with him at that moment—I felt understood totally.

Even though I was not observant, the Rebbe always made me feel that he was concerned about me. He was always caring, and he never admonished me in any way or made demands.

The Rebbe saw the potential in me, and he found a way to bring it out. He didn’t just issue a command, “You should do this!” He said, “Let me take you there.” This was an incredible kindness on his part. And his guidance has continued to carry me and support me throughout my life.

Then another man’s voice came on the line. I said, “Who am I talking to?” He replied, “Rabbi Schneerson.” I said, “Do you mean the Rebbe?” After a few second pause, which felt like forever, he said, “Yes, the Rebbe.”

When the Rebbe told Mel Alexenberg to contribute to the town of Yerucham by opening a college. The Rebbe said that making it a “college town” would ensure that people actually move there instread of running away.

In the beginning of the summer of 1941, a man came to the rescue. We did not know his name; we just called him Monsieur, which is French for “Mister."

I asked the Rebbe, "How do I educate my children, when I myself was not educated in Yiddishkeit?"

It was June 23, 1941, and we went to the pier together with a delegation which had been sent by the Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, to greet him as he arrived in the United States.

The Rebbe asked me about frequency hopping, which has to do with protecting the location of a radar unit. He asked me about infrared technology, specifically about an evasive technique used to get away from an infrared missile. His questions were very technical, like “What is the spectral footprint of the engine?”

I explained to the family that the child’s condition was deteriorating, that medication was needed to save his life from immediate danger, and that after we stabilized him we would have to do several invasive procedures . . .

My whole family had an audience with the Rebbe. They were in his office, discussing serious things, and I was doing what a little kid does—I was running around the floor, playing . . .

As time went on, the Rebbe campaigned to change the awareness of people about what should be shown to children.

Then he wanted to know what type of machine gun the Israeli army was using. They had the Thompson machine gun at that time. “Why don’t you buy machine guns from Sweden?” the Rebbe asked. The major was surprised. “Why? What’s wrong with this one?” The Rebbe had a ready answer . . .

Mubarak rushed the conversation and brought it to an end. Then he called me over and said, “Can you tell me what the Lubavitcher Rebbe wants from me?”

The Rebbe had the clarity of mind to realize that somebody in a far corner of the room, who had a broken ankle and was on crutches, would never reach him.

As the Rebbe was saying this, I was thinking to myself, “Here is the Rebbe, the leader of world Jewry, who is totally dedicated to all Jews, and not only that, he’s the best friend I have in the world.”

I was positive that I knew my Hebrew name – Yosef. And I had signed the letter to the Rebbe with it, followed by my father’s name – Yosef ben Tzvi Hersh Leib HaLevi. But I agreed to ask my mother, even if I felt all this was silly in a way.