Monthly Archives: August 2024

I was raised in a Torah-observant family in the Washington Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, where I attended religious schools through junior high school. But when I expressed the desire to continue my studies in a yeshivah, my parents objected. My father, an immigrant from Russia, wanted me to have a proper college education that would lead to a proper career so, as a compromise, I enrolled in Yeshiva University, which offered both secular and religious studies and which had a campus near our home in Washington Heights.

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While at Yeshiva University, I first encountered Chabad. This was in 1954, when a bearded young man approached me and explained that he was from Lubavitch. Berel Shemtov was his name, and he had a few books with him – they were copies of the Tanya, the seminal work of Chabad philosophy authored by the Alter Rebbe in the 18th century – and he invited me and several of my colleagues to join a weekly group to study it. He only spoke Yiddish, so we had a hard time communicating with him, but we joined the class, and for a few weeks we studied in the evenings in one of the empty classrooms.

But when the university administration found out, they objected and the class was stopped. Berel reported this to the Rebbe who advised him to speak directly to the YU dean, Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik. Berel did just that; Rabbi Soloveitchik gave us his total approval and the class resumed.

After two years of Tanya studies, I was on fire spiritually – I felt as if I had acquired a new soul – and I wanted to quit YU in order to enroll in a Chabad yeshivah. Of course, my parents were not happy about this, and my father wrote to the Rebbe complaining: “My son wants to stop his secular learning. What is going to become of him?”

The Rebbe responded, “B’shum panim v’ofen nit – Under no circumstances” should I quit college. His opinion was that I should complete my studies, earn my diploma and use that diploma to spread Torah. (more…)

My father, Rabbi Nachum Goldshmid, was born in Yekaterinoslav (today Dnipro), Ukraine, where the chief rabbi was the Rebbe’s father, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, also known as “Reb Levik.” My grandfather Reb Yitzchak Goldshmid, the local kosher slaughterer, had a close relationship with Reb Levik.

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Aside from their eldest, the Rebbe, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak and Rebbetzin Chana had two younger sons: Berel and Leibel. The latter was the same age as my father, and the two forged a strong friendship that would last for many years.

Around 1909, as the boys were nearing school age, Reb Levik asked the chasid Reb Zalman Vilenkin to open a cheder, a small school, for his children and some other boys, in Reb Zalman’s home.

Many years later, when my aunt met with the Rebbe for the first time, her husband made mention of her maiden name.

“Goldshmid?” asked the Rebbe, looking at my aunt. “You are Reb Nachum’s sister?”

She confirmed this to be the case, and the Rebbe continued, “I learned with him in cheder. I also knew your father well.”

When she recounted her meeting to my father, he remarked, “I never learned together with the Rebbe in cheder. We learned in the same home, but I didn’t learn with him – he always studied on his own.”

The Rebbe was some four years older than my father, so when he joined the cheder, the Rebbe was already eight. The students were split into three classes, with the top “class” comprising one student, the Rebbe. In addition to being the oldest of the group, he was also, in terms of his abilities, without a peer. (more…)

When I was seven, my family moved to Parsippany, New Jersey — a place that, at the time, lacked an organized observant community. Despite this, my parents took it upon themselves to establish an Orthodox synagogue in our home, the first in the area, while my siblings and I attended a nearby Jewish day school. With no religious neighbors and a limited support network, we were incredibly fortunate to be just ten minutes away from Morristown, New Jersey.

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In Morristown, we found a lifeline in its vibrant Chabad community. Spending time with the students of the yeshivah and other members of this close-knit community, we deepened our understanding of what we were learning in school and integrated it into our daily lives. In the summer of 1977, just before my Bar Mitzvah, I attended Camp Gan Israel in Morristown, run by Chabad, and it was an experience that left a lasting imprint on my soul.

By then, our entire family had grown close to the Chabad community in Morristown. One evening, towards the end of that summer, we received an unexpected call at home.

“We’re heading to a private audience with the Rebbe tonight,” a family friend told my father. “If you join us, you too can meet him. Are you available?”

“Absolutely,” my father replied without hesitation.

They picked us up that evening and drove us to 770. I can still recall the thrill of sitting in the car with my father and brothers, each of us buzzing with anticipation. What blessing should we ask for? What would the Rebbe say to us? That alone left a profound impression on me, along with every other detail of the journey — driving into Brooklyn, parking the car, entering 770, and waiting outside the Rebbe’s door. We even practiced the blessing one recites before seeing a great Jewish sage. I had seen the Rebbe once before, as a young child, but this time, I was old enough to grasp the significance of the moment. (more…)

In 1953, most Lubavitchers in North America lived in Brooklyn; not in Crown Heights, but in Brownsville. That was when my family moved there as well, from Paris, where I was born following the Second World War.

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On Shabbat, we would walk half an hour to be with the Rebbe for the prayers and chasidic gatherings – farbrengens. In those days, the Rebbe’s farbrengens were short, less than two hours, and they took place in what is today the upstairs small synagogue in 770.

The platform that the Rebbe sat on during the farbrengens was a piece of plywood on top of a few milk crates, placed against the southern wall of the room. In front of the Rebbe were two rows of two tables, where a total of forty people sat, with more people standing around; in all, there were maybe one hundred and fifty people squashed into the room.

Directly across from the Rebbe there was a table where all the children under Bar Mitzvah would stand. We didn’t understand much of what the Rebbe was saying, but we could still see the Rebbe and participate in the event.

Unlike adults, who were able to have an audience with the Rebbe in honor of their birthdays, children couldn’t have their own private yechidus, as these audiences are called. But once a year, at the farbrengen preceding an upcoming birthday, we could push through the crowd onto the platform and tell the Rebbe: “This Thursday is my birthday.”

The Rebbe would give the child a blessing and say l’chaim. It didn’t take much time, but every kid was able to have his special moment with the Rebbe. (more…)