I was born in 1956 in a city called Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, 1,500 miles from the Lubavitcher communities in Tashkent and Samarkand, in Uzbekistan. In order to immerse in a mikveh, my mother had to take a thirty-six-hour train ride, each way, to Samarkand.

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My parents had only come to Dushanbe for a business opportunity, so we didn’t stay for long, and I grew up between Samarkand and Moscow, where my grandparents lived. My parents had six children in Russia, which was such an achievement that the government gave my mother a medal. She was called a “Heroic Mother,” and received eleven rubles every month to buy additional milk.

Every child in the Soviet Union had to go to a government school. It was mandatory. If parents were caught not giving their child a communist education, it was three years of jail, and up to twenty-five years if they decided to take it to court. During that time, their child belonged to the government, and would be sent to grow up in government institutions.

So, when I came of age, my parents told me, “We want you to continue in yeshivah and we don’t want you to go to the Russian school.”

“Sure,” I said. “that’s fine.”

“Well,” they continued, “for that, you will have to disappear.”

What does it mean to disappear? It meant that, starting from September until mid-June, when children are in school, you cannot go outside or near the window. Nobody can know that you exist. (more…)

When my parents emigrated to the Land of Israel and settled in Haifa, I was two years old. In the 1940s, I attended the Chofetz Chaim yeshivah in Kfar Saba, which was headed by Rabbi Aharon Yehuda Leib Shteinman and later spent eleven years studying in the Ponevezh yeshivah in Bnei Brak.

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Although educated in the premier Lithuanian yeshivot, I was young, wanted to be open, and was interested in Chasidut. A few of my friends in Ponevezh were from Chabad families, and from time to time I would attend gatherings held by a Chabad chasid who lived nearby. I especially remember a farbrengen led by Rabbi Refoel “Foleh” Kahn who had returned from a visit to the Rebbe’s court, and related his experience to us Ponovezher students.

At the age of twenty-eight, while still unmarried, I was offered a rabbinic post in the Ramat Remez neighborhood of Haifa. My teacher Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman, the esteemed head of the Ponevezh yeshivah, told me to accept the position on the condition that I open a yeshivah in the neighborhood and lecture there every day. Members of the local community were enthusiastic about the idea and even pledged their support. In addition, then-mayor of Haifa, Mr. Abba Chushi, agreed to designate a suitable plot of land for a building, and even gave us a grant of half a million liras. To complete the construction, however, we would need several million more.

In the late 1960s, I decided to travel to the United States to raise funds from Jewish philanthropists there. At one point in my tour, someone put me in touch with the Rebbe’s secretary, Rabbi Leibel Groner, who arranged an audience for me with the Rebbe. (more…)

I was born in Crown Heights in 1952, and met the Rebbe for the first time eight days later; my parents invited him to my brit and honored him to be sandek – the one who holds the baby during the ceremony. During that period, the Rebbe only acted as sandek for three babies, and I had the privilege of being the last of the three.

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At the ceremony, the Rebbe delivered a talk, and gave my father five dollars towards my future yeshivah tuition. This was, he explained, a custom he had learned from the Previous Rebbe, whom I was named after.

I am told that I cried a lot. Most babies cry at a brit, of course, but they tend to calm down after a few moments, but I didn’t stop. When my great-uncle told this to the Rebbe, he remarked that it was a good sign: When the Previous Rebbe had also cried as a baby at his brit, his grandfather, the Rebbe Maharash, declared that he would go on to teach people Chasidut. So that is something I’m still trying to fulfill, as much as I can.

A little over twenty years later, in 1973, I was studying at the yeshivah in 770, when I was among six yeshivah students who were chosen to go to Australia. We were the fourth group of student-emissaries sent to the Yeshiva Gedolah in Melbourne, and teaching Chasidut to the other students and community members was going to be a major part of our job.

Before heading out, we had an audience with the Rebbe. The way it worked was that each group would leave around Passover time, and would return two years later. So, when we walked into the Rebbe’s room, we went in along with the group that had just come back. The six of us who were going stood on the left side of the room, and the six who were returning stood on the right side near the door. Rabbi Hodakov, the Rebbe’s secretary, was standing next to him. (more…)

A fuller version of this story has previously appeared in the book My Story Volume 1. Available at www.jemstore.com.

My first Chabad encounter with Chabad came about in 1960 when I was seventeen, and a friend invited me to a farbrengen where the Rebbe spoke. From that moment, I was totally smitten with the movement. It was a very cold winter day, and I remember feeling that although my body was frozen, my soul was on fire.

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I began to study chasidic philosophy, and when I graduated high school, I enrolled in a highly regarded institution of advanced learning for young Jewish women, the Bais Yaakov seminary in Williamsburg.

Every day, after school, I worked as a nanny in the home of a prominent rabbinic educator. While tending to the children, I unknowingly drew the attention of an older couple who lived nearby. They approached me and explained that they had noticed my love for Torah and offered to pay my way to Israel to meet a young man who headed a Kabbalistic seminary there. They were convinced we would be a good match for marriage.

At the time, I had no one to ask for advice about such a serious matter. The offer sounded exotic and interesting, but I wasn’t sure it was suitable for me. Besides, I was only eighteen years old. The well-meaning couple really didn’t know me or know what I was looking for in a life-partner. How could they suggest a soul-mate for me? The more I thought about it, the more distraught I became, but I didn’t know whom to ask for objective advice.

It was then that I decided to go to the Rebbe. I didn’t know the proper protocol, so I just arrived at Chabad Headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway, sat down on the steps outside the building and, not knowing what else to do, started to cry. (more…)

In 1939, during the Nazi invasion of Poland, the Previous Lubavitcher Rebbe was living in Warsaw, and once they occupied the city, he was trapped. After high-level political and diplomatic efforts, the US State Department enlisted the help of Germany’s Abwehr military intelligence service – the United States hadn’t yet entered the war – to smuggle the Rebbe out from under the eyes of the Nazi SS.

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But the US was reluctant to let the Rebbe into the country without proof he could support himself or that he had a sponsor to vouch for his financial independence. Today, you could walk down the street and grab ten people who would sponsor the Rebbe. But we’re talking about 1939. People didn’t have money, and even fewer people were ready to stick their necks out and take on that kind of financial responsibility. This is how my father, Julius Stulman, first became connected with Lubavitch.

My father was an extraordinary man. He had minimal education – Jewish and secular – and was probably dyslexic too, although he never wanted to be categorized that way. But, he had a brilliant mind and was a brilliant businessman who managed to make money every year of the Depression. At one point, he acquired some real estate on the Brooklyn waterfront, which put him in contact with a real estate lawyer named Sam Kramer. In addition to becoming his lawyer, Sam also became a friend.

Now, Sam was an early friend of the American Lubavitch establishment, serving as their legal counsel, and he apparently talked with my father about bringing the Rebbe over. I only found this out after he died, but it was my father who signed the affidavit allowing him and his family to immigrate. (more…)

In the early 1950s, my mother, Mrs. Miriam Popack, joined the National Council of Agudas N’shei U’bnos Chabad, better known simply as N’shei Chabad – the Lubavitch Women’s Organization. Early on, they began holding yearly conventions in Crown Heights, to study, to connect to one another, and to be addressed by the Rebbe. Then, in the early 1960s, Mrs. Leah Kahan had the revolutionary idea of creating another type of convention, hosted annually in different cities across the US and Canada. This could help expose many more women to Judaism and to Chabad, and would be a way to meet new people and invite them in. The conventions would include exciting programs, entertainment, and elegant cuisine, all geared towards Jewish women of all ages and walks of life.

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The committee wrote to the Rebbe for approval, and he swiftly gave his blessing. The first convention was held in Boston, and from the very beginning, my mom was the coordinator of these events. It became the passion of her life, as she saw the effect that these conventions had on entire communities and so many individuals.

There were memorable conventions in Chicago, Miami Beach, Toronto, Washington DC, Los Angeles and many more cities. But after twenty-five years, my mother decided that it was time to step aside from her post. The Rebbe, however, did not allow her to retire, and instead recommended that she find somebody to assist her. That somebody ended up being me.

Although I always kept my mother’s name on every report we submitted to the Rebbe, since he told her not to retire, slowly but surely, I assumed more and more of her responsibilities, until I became involved in every aspect of the events.

Many women eagerly looked forward to the out-of-town conventions. We would spend Shabbat together in beautiful venues, absorbing knowledge from excellent speakers and attending workshops on relevant topics. Singing and dancing added to the joy and camaraderie, but the highlight was the personal stories and experiences that were shared. (more…)

My grandparents were very excited. After graduating from school in London, I was heading abroad to study at the Beis Rivkah teacher’s seminary in New York. My older cousin, Leah Jaffe, had gone to a seminary in Paris, but I would be the first girl in my family going to New York.

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Not that it was my first trip to New York. I had been many times before, usually with my grandparents, Reb Zalman and Rosalyn Jaffe of Manchester. They enjoyed a personal and close relationship with the Rebbe, and by then with the Rebbetzin too. When it came to the Rebbe, you might say that my grandfather had no filter; he wrote to the Rebbe every single week, and just shared everything with him. When he found out what kind of flowers the Rebbetzin liked, he would send her a bouquet every Shavuot, and in 1963, they began visiting her whenever they came to New York.

Eventually, their grandchildren joined them: Some of my earliest recollections involve these visits to the Rebbetzin: That pit of anticipation in my stomach as we walked down President Street, and getting closer to the Rebbe’s house – entering the house, seeing the little knick-knacks that different people or communities had sent as gifts. Coming from England, I felt like I was going to the Queen. It wasn’t very fancy or overdone, but there was a real sense of elegance about the Rebbetzin, and it was welcoming and peaceful there.

My grandfather would have us sing for the Rebbetzin, and we would also go around the room, sharing what we had been studying in school, or things that we had been doing. She was always very interested in hearing about our involvement in activities that the Rebbe had promoted. “Oh that’s wonderful!” she would say, and give us foil-wrapped candies. (more…)

It was my first time back in the States since getting married. While my husband Michael stayed home in South Africa, I traveled with our boys, Eitan and Uriel, for a nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. Of course, we also went to have an audience with the Rebbe.

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My mother’s family had been affiliated with Chabad for generations, and, although we didn’t keep all the customs, she wouldn’t budge without first consulting the Rebbe: If anyone was sick, or getting married, or whatever, she would make an appointment. The Rebbe was very much a part of our lives when we were growing up.

We went to Crown Heights for Shavuot, but when we got there, I found out that the night before, the Rebbe had given out these beautiful, brown prayer books to all of the kids. Upset that we had missed out, I spent the whole holiday thinking about how I could get two of those siddurim for my children.

Our audience was at 11 PM, right after Shavuot of 1979. Eitan was just three years old and had fallen asleep, so I was holding him in my hands. Uriel, who was six, walked alongside me. The Rebbe greeted us very warmly; he looked at my children like they were his own grandchildren.

But before we had a chance to say anything, the Rebbe asked Uriel, “Do you have a siddur?”

Uriel replied, “No.” (more…)

One winter day, I was sitting with a few other yeshivah students in the study hall in 770, when Rabbi Binyomin Klein, the Rebbe’s secretary, came over to us. He wanted to know whether we’re willing to go on a list from which the Rebbe will choose emissaries to send to Australia.

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Two years earlier, the Rebbe had begun sending out groups of yeshivah boys as student-emissaries to the Yeshiva Gedolah of Melbourne. Since these groups went out for two years and Australia was far away, one could only be a candidate if found to be in good physical health, and only with his parents’ consent. My brother had been a part of that first group, and I asked Rabbi Klein to put my name down as well.

For a few weeks, we didn’t hear anything. But then, in the middle of a lively gathering the day after Purim, 1969, I got a tap on the shoulder. It was Rabbi Klein, summoning me to the office of Rabbi Hodakov, head of the Rebbe’s secretariat. I was going to Australia.

We were set to travel in time for Passover. Before leaving, the whole group – myself and five others – had a private audience with the Rebbe. When we came into his office, there was a box of matzah on a table at the back of the room. While standing behind his desk, the Rebbe addressed us: Now that the first group had just concluded their mission, he began, it was up to us to expand on the work that they had begun. He instructed us to each take one whole matzah and two broken pieces and then gave each of us thirty-six dollars, to be distributed to the pre-Passover charitable fund in Australia. (more…)

Our family arrived from Russia to France in 1947, and I was born the year after, the second of five children. When I was six, we emigrated to Crown Heights, in Brooklyn, to be with the Rebbe.

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I loved life in Crown Heights and attending school there each day. The highlight of every week was attending synagogue on Shabbat, and when there was a farbrengen with the Rebbe, I and other girls my age would stay for the duration.  While we may not have understood everything, we sat for hours, observing, listening, and absorbing the Rebbe’s energy, words, and wisdom.

Upon graduation, my mother very much wanted me to visit her parents, who still resided in Paris, serving as the Rebbe’s emissaries. However, my father was not excited about the prospect of a 17-year-old girl traveling so far away on her own.  So we consulted the Rebbe and he gave me his blessing for the trip, on the condition that it included a stint at the Chabad girls’ school in Yerres, just outside of Paris. I began brushing up on my French, with a Berlitz language crash course.

My trip to France ended up being transformational. As it was summer, the school was running a camp for girls, and while there, I quickly came to realize that I was living as quite a privileged American girl, in a very protective environment. My family didn’t lead a luxurious life, but some of the girls in Yerres were the children of Holocaust survivors, or from broken homes, with so much pain and suffering in their lives – and still they were smiling. Just being around them was humbling. They taught me what was truly important in life, and they helped me gain a broader perspective. That summer, I grew up. (more…)