MAX COHEN: In April 1991, a powerful cyclone struck Bangladesh, killing close to 140,000 people and leaving 10 million homeless. I was due to travel to Bangladesh on business shortly thereafter, and I didn’t know what to do. The Sunday morning that I was to depart, I heard the news that there was another cyclone aiming for the area that very day. I immediately called one of my textile suppliers over there, but he assured me that this cyclone was due to hit a hundred miles down the coast, and there was nothing to worry about.

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But I have to say I was worried just the same. I had called the Rebbe’s office several times, but that hadn’t had a chance to pose my question to the Rebbe – should I make my trip to Bangladesh? I was sitting on the flight from Manchester to London – where I’d be catching the flight to Bangladesh – and I was weighing the situation. I didn’t have a blessing from the Rebbe, and I knew that everybody back home would be worried sick. So by the time I arrived in London, I had come to the decision that I was not going to travel any further.

I found a phone box and I called my in-laws to re-assure them, and that’s when my father-in-law told me that he had just gotten a phone call from Dovid, my brother-in-law – who at the time was a rabbinical student at the Chabad Headquarters in New York – that the Rebbe had given a blessing for my trip.

So, I immediately took my luggage and checked in for the flight to Bangladesh, and then I called Dovid who was waiting in New York to tell me the details.

What Dovid told me absolutely blew my mind. He said that the Rebbe was handing out dollars for charity, as was his custom every Sunday morning, and that he decided to enter the queue and ask for a blessing for my trip. Their conversation went like this: (more…)

I was 14 years old in 1945, when I was liberated from the Gunskirchen Concentration Camp in Austria, having also spent time at Auschwitz and Mauthausen. After some months, I was reunited with my older brother Berel, and we both ended up at the Pocking DP Camp, where we awaited immigration to America.

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At Pocking we met a very special person – Rebbetzin Chana Schneerson, whose son had married Chaya Mushka, one of the daughters of the Rebbe Rayatz. She had heard that we were going to Brooklyn, and she came to see us. She was still waiting for her papers, and she didn’t know when she would be permitted to travel. She had a slow, soft way of speaking. She asked us if we would be so kind as to take a letter to her son. We asked, “Who is your son?” She said, “His name is Menachem Mendel. You’ll ask at the Chabad Headquarters. They’ll point out who he is.” Of course, we agreed. We had no idea at the time who she was introducing us to, or that her son would become the next Chabad Rebbe.

It took a while before we were permitted to board the boat for America, but we finally arrived on these golden shores. At the first opportunity, we went to the Chabad Headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway with the letter from Rebbetzin Chana. There we asked to see her son, Menachem Mendel, we learned that he was the son-in-law of the Rebbe Rayatz. He was pointed out to us. I remember that he wore a double-breasted gray suit, and a gray hat with a black band. We spoke to him in Yiddish, and we gave him the letter from his mother. He opened the letter and began to read it. From what I could see, it was not a long letter, but he took a long time with it. Too long, it seemed to me. I finally said to Berel, “What is he reading so much?” I did not understand that this letter was precious to him, as he’d had no communication with his mother for many years because of the war. (more…)

My father was a very unusual man. Although he was quite successful in his business and quite prosperous, you wouldn’t know it by the frugal way he lived. The bulk of the money he made, he gave away – and we found out only after he passed away how much that really was. He gave because he thought it was his duty to do so. He believed that this is why he was given certain advantages –everything that happened to him, happened for a purpose; there was no coincidence. He lived his whole life this way – he had no real worries because he trusted in G-d, and when he needed advice, he got it from the Rebbe.

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The Rebbe was an integral part of his life, and there wasn’t anything that happened to him or his family that my father didn’t tell the Rebbe about.

There came a time when I was 16 years old – I had finished high school early and was ready for college – that I decided I wanted to go to a school away from home, away from Chicago. In particular, I settled on Stern College in New York. My father’s response to this was to send me to see the Rebbe. He said that, after I talked with the Rebbe, the decision would be made if I would be allowed to go or not.

I wasn’t happy about it – in fact I was resentful. I didn’t understand what this was about. I mean, if I wanted to go to Stern College, why shouldn’t I go? My friends had gone? I really didn’t grasp the significance of having an audience with the Rebbe.

My father bought me a plane ticket and I was sent to New York by myself to see the Rebbe.

My father told me not to sit in his presence but, as soon as I walked in the door, the Rebbe invited me to sit down. He immediately put me at ease. I began to feel that that he really cared about this matter – he asked me why I wanted to go to Stern, what I hoped to accomplish by it, what attracted me to that particular school. I had not given very much thought to any of this, because my main motivation was getting out of the house and living on my own. (more…)

In the early 1980s, I arrived in Brooklyn to celebrate the final days of Sukkos with the Rebbe. It was the morning of Hoshana Rabba, the last of the festival’s “intermediate days.” That morning the Rebbe was handing out the traditional “lekach,” honey cake, in his sukkah, and people were lined up to receive a piece of cake and share a quick moment with the Rebbe. Standing ahead of me in line was a young fellow, dressed hippie-style in sloppy jeans and sporting an unkempt bush of hair. Standing behind me in line was a distinguished Satmar chasid, a Rosh Yeshiva in the Satmar yeshiva in Williamsburg.

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As the unkempt fellow approached, the Rebbe asked him, “Where are you going to be tonight for the hakofos?” – referring to the traditional dancing with the Torah.

The man answered, “I have no plans to be anywhere for hakofos tonight or any other night.”

“It would be my great honor and privilege,” the Rebbe replied, “if you would attend hakofos tonight with me in the synagogue.”

The fellow thanked the Rebbe for his invitation, but remained noncommittal. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and walked away.

I was next in line. I received my lekach from the Rebbe without incident. Just behind me was the Satmar chasid. As he approached the Rebbe, I turned back, and I heard as the Rebbe addressed him: “I see that you’re wondering why I’m pleading with this fellow to come to hakofos tonight. What connection do I have with  him?

“The answer is clearly articulated in the book Tehillah L’Moshe.” (more…)

My name is Bernie – in Hebrew, Baruch Shlomo – Cytryn. I was born in 1927 in Kelsa, Poland. When I was 12 years old the war broke out, and we were all herded into a ghetto. In 1942, the Kelsa ghetto was liquidated, and we were put on a cattle train to Auschwitz.

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I was moved around to several concentration camps. First I was in Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Sachsenhausen, Oranienburg, Mauthausen, Dachau, Gross-Rosen and other places. Though my family perished, somehow I survived.

On April 27, 1945, I was liberated by the American Army. I told the HIAS – the Hebrew Immigration Aid Society, which was taking care of the refugees – that I had family in America, and they located an aunt who brought me to Brooklyn. After a time I moved to Crown Heights – 272 Kingston Avenue – right around the corner from the Lubavitcher synagogue, and I befriended Rabbi Eliyahu Gross. From time to time he would take me to Chabad gatherings.

Meanwhile, I got a call-up letter from the US Army. This was 1950, when the Korean War broke out. I wanted very much to serve because the American Army saved me. My relatives were against it, but I wanted to serve because I felt I owed a thank you to the young American boys – not much older than me – who had saved thousands of us Jews.

When I told Rabbi Gross that I was going to Korea, he said that I had to meet the Rebbe and get his blessing. He arranged everything, and I was already in uniform when I went to see the Rebbe. (more…)

In 1976, my daughter Chana Bayla fell ill with cancer. Doctor Daniel Krasnekuky at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem took an extraordinary interest in her treatment. He was incredibly dedicated to her. He’d come from his department to the children’s ward, and he’d sit next to her bed and administer the injections himself. Unfortunately the treatments were not successful, and she passed away.

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After the seven-day mourning period for Chana Bayla had ended, I went to his office and I told him, “Listen, doctor, I can’t pay you. But I can share with you what G-d has graced me with – I can study with you. Would you like to study a little Torah?

He was a Jew without even the most basic knowledge of Torah and mitzvos, but he was interested. “What will you learn with me?” he asked. I mentioned the Tanya, which contains a little Kabbalah. He liked that – everybody likes Kabbalah.

So we agreed to study together – Monday nights at his house. I would arrive like clockwork. We would study a few lines and it would develop into a discussion. In a short while, this man started to put on tefillin and becoming more observant, but his wife – who would sometimes join us in our Torah debates – was impervious to the whole thing. She simply said, “I’m not interested, I’m perfectly happy the way I am…”

One day, I arrive at his house at my set time, I knock on the door, but there’s no response. I knock again and again. Finally, the door opens. I notice that the blinds are drawn and it’s dark inside. The doctor comes out all depressed. (more…)

I was born in Hungary, but I came to America as a youngster, before my Bar Mitzvah. My father was already here, he was a rabbi in upstate New York, and he enrolled me in Yeshiva Torah Vadaas in Williamsburg. From there I went to Yeshiva University – known today as R.I.E.T.S. – and to Brooklyn Law School.

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In 1942, I received my rabbinic ordination, and shortly thereafter became the rabbi of Mount Eden Jewish Center, which was considered one of the largest congregations in America. It was located in the Bronx, not far from Yankee stadium. I was the rabbi there for 36 years, during which time I was also elected as the president of the Rabbinical Council of America, and subsequently of the Hebrew Alliance of America.

By the late 1970s the Mount Eden neighborhood had begun to change, and my congregation dwindled away. I no longer even had a minyan, and I felt that the time had come for me to retire. Why I didn’t do it has everything to do with the Rebbe.

I had known the Rebbe since 1950 when he recommended that I travel to the Soviet Union, where Jews were being persecuted. I began to visit the Soviet Union and I did this many times. On many occasions, I spoke with the Rebbe in preparation for these trips, and I’d also brief him upon my return.

Every year, on the day before Yom Kippur, I’d visit the Rebbe to get a piece of lekach, the honey cake which he handed out on that day, and also to get his blessing for the new year. But one year – it was 1985 –  instead of going to Brooklyn to see the Rebbe, I had to take my wife to a doctor’s appointment in Manhattan, and as a result, I almost missed him. By the time I got to Crown Heights, the Rebbe had finished receiving people, and everyone had gone… This was an inauspicious start to my year, and I was upset. (more…)

In 1941, Chabad opened a yeshiva for young boys at its headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. In those years, Crown Heights was a very affluent Jewish community. There were about a dozen students at the time, and my brother Leibel and I were two of them. I was thirteen years old, and I tell this story from the perspective of a young boy.

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At that time, it was the custom on Rosh Hashana for those praying at 770 to walk up to the Botanical Gardens off Eastern Parkway to do tashlich – a special High Holiday prayer – at the pond there. Everybody – the whole community – walked down the street. How many people that was I cannot tell you, because when you’re thirteen you can’t estimate crowds. But it was a lot of people.

The Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yoseph Yitzchok, was Rebbe at the time. The Rebbe was not yet the Rebbe – he was better known then as the Rebbe’s younger son-in-law, Ramash.

So that year, when we started going outside, Ramash stopped us and said, “Wait, that’s not the right way to walk. You should march down the street two-by-two and you should sing.” It was unheard of – singing in the street. Nobody sings in the street!

I was very shy and self-effacing, and walking down the street and drawing attention to myself seemed awful to me – I just withered at the thought. All the people in the apartment houses we passed were watching us from their windows. I felt that they were staring directly at me and grinning. I felt terrible, and I was praying to G-d – the way a thirteen-year-old prays to G-d – to get me out of there. (more…)

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With the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, the Henry Ford Motor Company realized that the new state would need a huge number of vehicles for the military and the government, and it announced plans to build a car assembly plant in Israel.

This made news all around the world. The Jewish State was just founded, and the Henry Ford Motor Company would be the first to build a factory there!

Our joy didn’t last long. As soon as the Arabs heard about Ford’s plans, they announced that if Ford didn’t back down, they’d boycott it by putting the company on the Arab League’s blacklist.

So, of course, Ford pulled out.

For the Israeli government it was a moment of crisis. With Ford capitulating to the Arabs, who would invest in Israel?

While the government was searching for alternatives, out of the blue, my friend, Lord Israel Ziev of London, called me up and told me, “There’s a man you must talk to. His name is Hickman Price. He is with the Kaiser-Frazer Export Corporation. His company built an automobile plant in Holland, and it was a great success. Now they want to build one in Greece. I suggested to him that he should meet with you first.”

The arrangements were made, and we met. And from the very first moment, we knew we were going to do business. But this project required $2.5 million. That would be equivalent to $250 million today, perhaps $300 million – so a lot of money. (more…)

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As a foreign correspondent and columnist, I had the privilege to speak with the Rebbe at length, and on many occasions. I wrote about him for Haaretz and other Israeli newspapers. It’s impossible to describe to today’s generation what it was like to sit opposite the Rebbe and to look into his eyes, to hear him speak for two, three hours.

He had such a soft way of speaking. Once I came to see him in the winter – there was snow outside. And afterwards I wrote that his smile could melt all the snow in New York. That’s how warm his smile was.

Then there came a time when I did something that erased that smile from his face. In hindsight, I wish I had done things quite differently.

The year was 1979. The Iranian Revolution had just taken place, Ayatollah Khomeini had seized power, and a major international crisis was unfolding. A group of young Islamist militants had attacked the United States Embassy in Tehran and had taken fifty-two Americans hostage. The situation was very tense, and there was a sense of fear in the world.

At a public address on November 17, the Rebbe requested that, because of the situation in Israel and around the world, a public fast day be announced. Even though Chabad is not in favor of fasts, the Rebbe said that if other rabbis should issue a call for a special day of fasting and prayer, he would endorse and support it. (more…)