Yeshuos Pesach 5771

PESACH 5771PESACH 5771

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E v e r since the times of Moshe Rabbeinu,

yidden knew that tough questions were to be presented to a gadol hador. In Eretz Yisrael, on Rashbam Street in Bnei Brak, lives Maran Hagaon Harav Chaim Kanievsky, shlit”a, a gadol hador respected and revered by all of Klal Yisrael. Rav Chaim’s halachic rulings are accepted unequivocally. People from all over the world send Rav Chaim their critically important questions of halachah and hashkafah. When we are aware that we are unequipped to answer a question ourselves, we ask him.

This past winter, Rav Chaim penned a unique letter regarding the importance of Kupat Ha’ir. True, Rav Chaim has spoken about Kupat Ha’ir dozens of times in the past. He’s expanded on its importance, stressed the power of its tzedakah and discussed the fact that he advises those who

seek his counsel to give their ma’aser and tzedakah money to Kupat Ha’ir.

He once told someone who had taken upon himself to perform a worthy deed to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir, for that was truly worthy in Hashem’s eyes.

But this time, for the first time ever, he wrote

it down. He wrote a letter to the public, fully aware that his words would reach the entire world. A written letter, he knew, is far more powerful than a spoken response. A written letter is clear and unequivocal.

In brief, measured words, he speaks about Kupat Ha’ir and what he thinks of the way it is run. The final line reads as follows: “Tzedakah to Kupat Ha’ir is wothwhile to protect and rescue contributors from every distressful situation."

Maran, shlit”a, penned a mere six lines expressing his opinion of Kupat Ha’ir’s activism. Six concise, moving lines that serve as a thousand witnesses to the awesome merit of every Jew who is a partner in Kupat Ha’ir. In six lines, he summarizes why it is worthwhile to give one’s tzedakah money to Kupat Ha’ir.

E v e r i

Maran Hagaon Harav Chaim Kanievsky, Shlit"a,

writes his opinion on the

“I Contributed and Saw a Yeshuah" phenomenon

hlit"For the first time

page 2 story supplement PESACH 5771

And in the same letter that Rav Chaim wrote in praise of Kupat Ha’ir, he directly addresses the “I Contributed and Merited a Yeshuah" phenomenon. Maran, shlit”a sat down to write us a letter. He analyzed the many components that comprise the wonderful organization known as Kupat Ha’ir. What are the raw materials, the cornerstones? Honest gabba’im, exceptionally desperate cases, thousands of poor receiving assistance – in this same list of “cornerstones," Maran mentions the topic of yeshuos as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You want to know what Kupat Ha’ir is all about? The gadol hador can tell you: yeshuos. Included in Kupat Ha’ir’s infrastructure of giving is the auspicious power a contribution has to bring an abundance of blessing upon you and your family. When Maran talks about Kupat Ha’ir, he talks about yeshuos, too.

Black on white, Maran penned his opinion in the most explicit way possible. If, G-d forbid, a tzarah should afflict you; if you suffer a difficulty and you ask yourself what you can do to try and find salvation, take the words of the gadol hador to heart: “Tzedakah to Kupat Ha’ir is wothwhile to protect and rescue contributors from every distressful situation." This is Maran, shlit"a’s opinion.

Some people feel resentful, is it right for Kupat Ha’ir to emphasize the yeshuas hashem that comes as a result of giving tzedakah? Here we have Rav Kanievsky’s words to inform and remind us that Kupat Ha’ir has never “invented" anything. The decision to publicize yeshuos stories rests squarely on the gadol hador. This is his opinion; and this is his decision. He emphasizes the matter of yeshuos in his concise letter about Kupat Ha’ir. The “Yeshuos" pamphlets are not a marketing ploy, G-d forbid. The gadol hador feels so strongly that tzedakah to Kupat Ha’ir has the power to affect yeshuos that he went through the trouble of personally writing it down for all of us to see. He wants us to know that this is the Torah way, that this is something that should be written down.

What is the correct hashkafah approach to

the topic of publicizing yeshuos? Who is a greater authority than Hagaon Harav Chaim Kanievsky, Shlit"a? Who is as familiar as him with this topic?

“Tzedakah to Kupat Ha’ir is wothwhile to protect and rescue contributors from every distressful situation." Eighty years of Torah stand behind that awesome phrase, written with the intention of having people see it and know the truth: yeshuos do exist in today’s generation.

How can Kupat Ha’ir take responsibility for such publicity? Indeed, Kupat Ha’ir would never accept such responsibility. It is Maran Hagaon Harav Chaim Kanievsky, shlit”a, who wrote what he wrote with full intent.

You might ask: what if a Yid contributes and does not see a yeshuah? First of all, we believe it will help, and even if it does not, our faith is not paper-thin. We all know that Hashem’s calculations are very complex. There is no doubt that a contribution to Kupat Ha’ir will be beneficial on some level – either openly or in a hidden manner, immediately or after some time has passed – because that is the holy Torah’s promise.

Rav Chaim knows all this, and that is why he not only endorses the publicity, he actually tells you to contribute in order to merit a yeshuah. He announces loud and clear - and with no qualms at all - what Hashem promises us in the Torah. It is precisely because of this Torah giant’s crystal-clear faith that he does not hesitate to make such a statement. He believes that the Torah is true and that Hashem is the Master of all salvation.

It is the holy Torah that is the basis for “I Contributed and Merited a Yeshuah."Rav Kanievsky, shlit"a, wrote it down so everyone would know.Kupat Ha’ir relies on the Gedolei Hador.And you rely on tzedakah, and merit salvation.

Ads for apartments in “The New Givat Z’ev" smile enticingly at readers of Hebrew-language chareidi periodicals. The area is rapidly filling up with more and more families and the community’s needs are growing accordingly.

The “Ateres Yeshuah – Dzikov" institutions decided to establish a Beis Medrash in the developing neighborhood. The new Beis Medrash, it was decided, would be housed in a trailer. It’s a marvelously convenient option: all you have to do is purchase a trailer, set it down carefully on the desired spot, and you’re set. There’s no need for the dirt, noise and long wait involved in construction.

After much legwork, the right trailer was found. It was located in Beit Shemesh, an hour’s ride from Givat Zev. After signing the necessary documentation and paying for the trailer, Hagaon Harav Chaim Meir Horowitz, shlit”a, the Rav of the Dzikov-Kehilla in Giv’at Z’ev was left with the question of how to transport the trailer to its destination.

Transporting an unusually large load, Rabbi Horowitz learned, was no simple matter. If the item in question does not exceed the breadth of the truck transporting it, there’s no problem. If it is up to two and a half meters wider, you can get away with it. If it is more than two and a half meters wider than the truck transporting it, you need official permission from the police.

The police make a huge production out of every such situation. One police car precedes the truck and one follows behind. The privilege of this “royal escort" amounts to the hefty sum of fifteen thousand shekels.

Fifteen thousand shekels in addition to the huge sum of the trailer itself… Rabbi Horowitz did not have extra funds available. He discussed the situation with people “in the know."

“Up to three and a half meters, the police look the other way," he was told. “You can get away with it if you do it quietly, in middle of the night. If you get stopped, just murmur something and it’ll be okay. It’s an unwritten, unofficial law and that’s the way it works. But if your trailer is larger than that, you’re in trouble. Any cop who catches you will confiscate the trailer, kick the driver off the road and slap you with a huge fine and you’ll have no choice but to pay to get the trailer back."

“This trailer is more than five meters beyond the limit. You haven’t got a chance," the truck driver he consulted told him.

Rabbi Horowitz was at a loss for what to do. Fifteen thousand shekels! And this in addition to the thousands of shekels the driver was charging him for the job of

Can be heard first hand from Hagaon Rabbi C.M. Horowitz Shlit"a ,

Rav of the Dzikov-Kehilla, in Giv’at Z’ev. 011-972-54 8485090 ,after 7:00 pm.

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"It is worthwhile to rely on tzedakah to Kupat Ha'ir to protect and rescue contributors from

every distressful situation."

transporting the trailer. Where could he come up with that kind of money? He hadn’t factored it into the total cost of the project.

He contacted yet another moving company and spoke to the boss, a gutsy guy who controlled more than a fair share of the market.

“I can’t afford a police escort," Rabbi Horowitz told him. “Will you do the job without it?"

The boss considered the situation carefully. “If we leave at one a.m… we’ll make sure to be very swift and very quiet… there’s a good chance we can get the job done undetected. I’m not taking responsibility for the trailer, but I agree to do the job." He wanted five thousand shekels, considering the risk and the late hour, but that was still a bargain compared to what the police escort would cost.

“You’re a believing Jew... pray," the mover told him. “Maybe the merit of the holy synagogue will stand in our good stead."

Rabbi Horowitz nodded. The aron in the Beis Hamikdash had carried those who carried it.

Perhaps the trailer would protect itself in its own merit.

Midnight. The boss himself showed up to do the job.

The crane attached to the

side of the truck was activated. All was quiet; the streets were empty. Slowly, slowly, the trailer was hoisted onto the truck. It stuck out two and a half meters on the right and an additional two and a half meters on the left.

The mover surveyed the truck critically and frowned. “It’s… it’s huge. It’s an elephant. Why does it look so big and clumsy? You’d have to be blind not to notice that it’s way bigger than the permitted norm."

Rabbi Horowitz shrugged. He was terribly nervous but he didn’t want the driver to notice. What if he were to back out on him now? He wished the night was over already. Hopefully, in another hour, the trailer would be safely in its place.

The driver deliberated. He knew he probably ought to back out of the job even now. His livelihood was dependent on his driving license, which would surely be revoked for three months if he was caught. Dare he take the risk?

“A holy place, a holy place," Rabbi Horowitz murmured encouragingly.

The driver jumped into the truck and revved the engine. He was a man of his word. He’d accepted the job and he’d carry out his part of the deal, come what may.

The truck rode off, the driver concentrating intensely as he maneuvered the

than a fair share of the market.

“I can’t afford a police escort," Rabbi Horowitz told him. “Will you do the job without it?"

The boss considered the situation carefully. “If we leave at one a.m… we’ll make sure to be very swift and very quiet… there’s a good chance we can get the job done undetected. I’m not taking responsibility for the trailer, but I agree to do the job." He wanted five thousand shekels, considering the risk and the late hour, but that was still a bargain compared to what the police escort would cost.

“You’re a believing Jew... pray," the mover told him. “MMayybbee tthhee merit of the holy synagogue will stand in our good steadd.""

Rabbi Horowitz nodded. The aron in tthhee BBeeis Hamikdash had carried those who carried it.

Perhaps the trailer would protect itself in its own merit.

MMMiiddnniigghhtt.. The boss himself sshoowweeddd uupp ttoo ddo the job.

TThhee ccrraannee attachhedd to tthhee

The mover surveyed the truck critically and frowned. “It’s… it’s huge. It’s an elephant. Why does it look so big and clumsy? You’d have to be blind not to notice that it’s way bigger than the permitted norm."

Rabbi Horowitz shrugged. He was terribly nervous but he didn’t want the driver to notice. What if he were to back out on him now? He wished the night was over already. Hopefully, in another hour, the trailer would be safely in its place.

The driver deliberated. He knew he probably ought to back out of the job even now. His livelihood was dependent on his driving license, which would surely be revoked for three months if he was caught. Dare he take the risk?

“A holy place, a holy place," Rabbi Horowitz mmuurrmmured encouragingly.

The driver jumpedd iinnttoo tthhee truck and revved the engine. He was a man of his wordd. HHee’dd aacccceppted the job and he’d carry out his part of the deal, come what may.

TThhee ttrruuck rode off, the driver concentrating iinntteennsseellyy aasss hhee mmaanneeuuvvered the


huge vehicle and its even huger load with

practiced expertise. His eyes flicked back and forth

between the road and the mirror.

At the exit from Beit Shemesh they met up with a cop. And not just any cop.

The heavy truck drove slowly. Sixty seconds remained until the unavoidable meeting.

“Rabbi," the driver shouted into his speakerphone, “this cop is the worst they come! He’d write his

own brother a ticket, I tell you! He’s married to the police department, this guy is!"

Rabbi Horowitz’s heart sank.

The driver crawled forward, the blue lights flashing in his eyes.

How many times had he come across this cop? Their meetings had always been decidedly unpleasant. He knew lots of cops and he got along with most of them just fine. A friendly nod, a good word, a clap on the shoulder… Policemen are human, too, and even the toughest among them

At the exit from cop. And not just any cop.

The heavy truck drove slowly. Sixtyy seconds remained until the unavoidable meeting.

“Rabbi," the driver shouted into his speakerpphone, “this cop is thhe worstt tthheeyy ccoommee!! HHee’dd wwrriittteeee his

How m yTTheir meeeetings had always beennn decidedly uunnpleasant. HHe knew lots of cops and hheee ggot along wiitth most of tthhem just fine. A friendly noodd, a good wordd, a clap oonn the shoulder… Policemmeen are humaann, too, and eeven the toughest amongg tthhem


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can be friendly if you act the right way. During the day, the heat makes people cranky and irritable and drivers honk like crazy. There’s always some person who makes a silly mistake which brings unpleasant results. At night, however, things tend to be calmer. The stars twinkle overhead and the weather is usually more pleasant and breezy. Truck drivers like himself often work late at night and they get to see the softer side of cops.

But not with this guy, oh no, not with him! This guy defended the object of his adulation – the police department – like a mother protecting her children. Every single law was holy; every letter and nuance – decisive, absolute and uncompromisable!

“He spends his free time studying bylaws," his colleagues often snickered. “Maybe, maybe he’ll find some sort of hidden meaning he can use against some poor, unsuspecting driver."

Even when a discussion between a few cops ensued, and some of them were in favor of being lenient, this cop refused. If it was possible to be strict, that was his duty. If it was possible to slap a driver with a punishment of some sort, that was the thing to do. He considered every driver a potential criminal unless proven otherwise.

And it was this cop who was now standing there waiting for them!

“Say goodbye to your trailer," the driver warned Rabbi Horowitz. “It’s a goner… and so am I. I won’t be allowed on the road for the next three months!" he wailed as he pulled to a stop in front of the cop’s madly waving arms.

“I don’t see a police escort," the cop said, cynical as always. “What’s up, my friend? You want a suite in jail? Three months vacation? Honestly, what’s gotten into you? Did you think you’d be able to

transport an airplane like this without anyone noticing?"

“It’s just three and a half meters…" the driver began. What foolishness it had been to take the job! Why had he ever agreed? How would he go home and break the news to his wife?

“Three and a half meters…" the cop echoed scornfully. “First of all, three and a half meters requires a police escort by law, and you know it. The limit is two and a half meters. So even your admission of three and a half meters bodes no good for you!"

“But everyone knows that the police turn a blind eye until three and a half meters," the driver protested. In his mind’s eye, he already saw the ticket. He’d made a huge mistake, fool that he was. “Really, officer. Up to three and a half meters… that’s how it goes. It’s an unofficial law…" He was murmuring more to himself than to the cop. Why should the worst cop in the middle East even listen to him?

“Unofficial law! A blind eye! What other nonsense did you say?" The cop was furious! “I go by official law, not unofficial law! And official law says two and a half meters! Three and a half gets you your license revoked on the spot!"

“But three and a half squeaks by… everyone knows…"

“You’ve got five meters there. Five! You’re crying like a baby about three and a half meters when you’ve got five meters!"

“Three and a half, officer. The trailer is three and a half meters wider than the truck, not a centimeter more." They’d slap him with contempt of a police officer on top of everything else. That was all he needed.

and they get to see the soffter side of cops.

BBut not with this guy, oh nnoo, not with hguuy defended the object of hhis adulatiopolliicce department – like a motthher proteccchilddrren. Every single law was hollyy; every lenuuancee – decisive, absolute and unccoompro

“He spenndds his free time studyingg bylcolleaagguess often snickered. “Maybe, mmafind soomme ssort of hidden meaning hheeagainst ssoome ppoor, unsuspecting driver."

EEvven whenn a ddisccussion between a ennssuued, and ssomee oof them were in favolenieenntt, this ccoop reeeefused. If it was possssstrict, tthhat was hhisss dduuty. If it was possiba ddddrriverr wwith a ppppunisshhment of some wwwaaaass the tthhing to dddoo. He cconsidered evepppoottteential ccrriminall unnless pproven otherw

AAnnnndd iiittt wass tthis coop whho waass now stanwwaaittiinnnggg forr tthem!

“Saayy ggooooodbbyyee to yyour traiilleer," tthhe drivRaabbbii HHHHooroowwitz. “It’s a goner…… anndd so abee allowwweeedd on the road for the nnextt tthrhhe wailedddd aaaas he puulled to a stop iinn froonntmmadlyy wwaavviinng arrrmms.

“I don’t sseee aa ppollllice escort," the coopp saas alwwayss.. ““WWhhaatttt’s up, my friend? Youu wiin jaill?? TThhrreee mmmmoonths vacation? Hongggggootteenn iinnttoo yyoouu?? DDid you think you’d


“I’m going to get my tape measure and prove

just how much that trailer is sticking out," the cop said,

rushing to his car. An organized fellow like himself never went to work without such basic equipment as a tape measure in an easy-to-find spot.

He began searching furiously in all the many compartments, growing more irritable with each passing moment as the tape measure refused to make its appearance. He searched the trunk, behind the seats, his pockets… he searched everywhere but he couldn’t find the tape measure.

The driver watched the cop grow more and more frustrated and his heart sank even lower. An irritable cop was the worst kind. And this cop, frustrated to such a degree, was liable to slap him with offenses from here to doomsday. Would he really end up in jail? He cursed the moment he’d agreed to transport the trailer.

“I don’t have a tape measure!" the cop shouted, climbing out of his car.

He blames me for that, too, the driver thought blackly.

“I don’t have my tape measure; did you ever? Be off with you, you three-and-a-half-meter trailer, you! What can I do? I’m positive it’s at least five meters but I can’t prove it. I don’t have my tape measure!"

Before the cop could change his mind, the driver hopped back into his seat and sped off.

“You’re not going to believe this," he shouted into his communication device to Rabbi Horowitz, who had been holding his breath. “This is crazy. I must be hallucinating. He let me go because he couldn’t

find his tape measure! That master of precision and organization couldn’t find his tape measure! What did you do, wave a magic wand? I can promise you this guy sleeps with his tape measure in his hand! He wouldn’t go to his son’s wedding without a tape measure! He was humiliated to be caught without such basic equipment. He literally sent me packing!"

“Three hundred and sixty shekels to Kupat Ha’ir," Rabbi Horowitz said, weeping into his phone. “That was the only thing I could think of when you told me you’d been stopped. Three hundred and sixty shekels to Kupat Ha’ir. The moment you told me what was going on, I called Kupat Ha’ir and contributed three hundred and sixty shekels. That’s why the cop couldn’t find his tape measure. That’s why he couldn’t prove how wide the trailer is. Say ‘Blessed is he Who has performed a miracle for me in this place.’"

“I’m outta there already," the driver said, alternately checking his mirror and the road. “I was afraid he’d come to his senses and make me wait on the side until he could get hold of a tape measure. He could have easily proven that the trailer sticks out way beyond the limit on either side of the truck. Any kid could prove it. I’ll be in Givat Zev very soon!"

And he was.

Who would’ve believed it?


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Rabbeinu Tam TefillinCan be heard first hand. Harav Hagaon RavYehuda Deitsch 011-972-50-4102308

or Harav Hagaon Rav Yitzchok Meir Sternbuch 011-972-52-7663333.

The taxi sped off, wending its way between the other cars on the road. It was an ordinary evening in Yerushalayim. Market vendors hosed their stalls down with water and tape recorders played bedtime songs.

The driver is an Arab, the thought suddenly occurred to Rav Yehudah Deitsch, shlit”a, son of Rav M. Deitsch, shlit”a, the Rav of Ramat Shlomo. He glanced at the side of the car. The small plaque bearing the name of the car owner and that of the driver, usually affixed to the side of the car – wasn’t there. There was no flag on the taxi either, he realized with a start, no identifying mark. The driver was chattering into his communication device in guttural, heavily accented Hebrew. There was no doubt about it.

It hadn’t been that obvious at the first glance. The driver’s hair was white and clipped short. His complexion was relatively pale for an Arab.

He didn’t say a word. Rav Yitzchak Meir Sternbuch, his colleague at Yeshivas Darchei Torah, was already discussing the topic at hand. They were on their way to Hagaon Harav Naftali Nussbaum, shlit”a, to solicit his advice on an important chinuch matter that had come up in the yeshivah. Reb Yehudah forgot all about the Arab driver and lent his full concentration to what his colleague was saying. Both of them felt the burden of the decision they had to make very keenly.

They knew they could expect to have a very limited audience with Rav Nussbaum. It was important to plan exactly how to present the question as briefly and as accurately as possible.

“Please wait for us here," Rav Sternbuch told the driver when they arrived at their destination. “We’ll be upstairs for about ten to fifteen minutes. Keep the meter running." The driver nodded and maneuvered the car to a comfortable parking spot. He pulled out his cell phone and withdrew a can of coke from the glove compartment.

The men went upstairs, where they were warmly received by Rav Nussbaum. They presented their question and provided the necessary details. Rav Nussbaum asked some questions and they responded. They analyzed a number of options and discussed the pros and cons of each one.

An hour and a quarter later, they finally left Rav Nussbaum’s apartment and came downstairs, their foreheads still creased in concentration as they discussed the implications of Rav Nussbaum’s advice.

“Where’s our taxi?" Rav Sternbuch asked, looking around. The small side street was completely empty. A glance at their watches revealed why.

“An hour and a quarter!" Rav Deitsch gasped in alarm. “How are we going to pay the driver? What a chilul hashem!" He frowned. “I don’t seem to remember noticing a sign or anything."


“He was an Arab," Rav Deitch said quietly,

something niggling at his brain. “He was an Arab, for

sure, and there was no plaque on the side of the car. There was no flag, either, and… and…" Suddenly, he clapped a hand to his forehead. “My tefillin, my Rabbeinu Tam tefillin! I left them in the car!"

What can be done now?

“Do you remember if there was any identifying sign on the car?" Rav Sternbuch asked.

“No,"

“I need my tefillin for tomorrow morning," Rav Deitsch said quietly, his distress clearly evident. “I’ve been donning Rabeinu Tam tefillin ever since my marriage. It’s not just the money, not just the loss. I’m afraid the tefillin won’t be treated with proper respect in the hands of an Arab. Oy, vey."

Rav Sternbuch could think of nothing to say to console his friend.

“It’s eleven thirty already," Rav Deitsch said. “There doesn’t seem to be any reasonable chance of finding the driver. But the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. He knows where my tefillin are and He knows how to return them to me, if I am found deserving."

Yes. That was true But miracles… is it permissible to daven for a miracle?

“I have to make some sort of hishtadlus," Rav Deitsch murmured. “The only type of hishtadlus that makes any sense in a situation like this is a contribution to Kupat Ha’ir. In the merit of the mitzvah of tzedakah, may Hashem see my pain and return my tefillin to me." He raised his voice slightly. “I hereby commit to contribute one hundred and eighty shekels to Kupat Ha’ir if I get my tefillin back tonight," he

declared.

“Tonight?" Rav Sternbuch echoed wonderingly.

“Yes. Is anything too hard for Hashem? I have to don my tefillin tomorrow, after all."

They parted in sorrow, without much hope. Miracles are wonderful when they happen but you can’t expect them to. The precious tefillin… the fear that they would be profaned… it was too painful to contemplate.

Two Hours Later

Two hours later, Rav Yehudah Deitsch’s brother-in-law left Beis Hamedrash Ohr Hatzafon and began to head home. It was 1:30 a.m. He walked slowly, his mind still on the sugya he’d been studying earlier that evening.

Suddenly, a taxi screeched to halt near him, causing him to jump in alarm.

“Hey, you." An angry Arabic face looked out of the window. “You told me to wait and then you just disappeared. Mark my words, I’m going to find your friend! He’ll pay down to the last cent!"

Rav Deitsch’s brother-in-law stood there in shock. “I didn’t take a taxi today," he protested confusedly. “What do you want from me? I didn’t take any trip!"

“Don’t play innocent on me! It was you and your friend. He didn’t pay me! What does he think, that he can get away with such a trick? I’ll find him and he’ll pay. Mark my words. I waited for nearly an hour, like an idiot! And take your bag; my car is not a storage room." And he threw a black bag at him.

Rav Deitsch’s brother-in-law instinctively took a step back and fled in alarm. Was the Arab throwing a bomb at him? The taxi sped away. Rav Deitsch’s brother-in-law stood from a safe distance, waiting tensely for an explosion. When nothing happened, he approached the area tentatively… and froze in


“HDemD

ssombraain.



place. The “bomb" was a blue velvet tefillin bag!

He picked up the tefillin and kissed them fervently. Then he tucked the bag under his arm and walked home, wondering about the strange Arab driver. Who could he have mistaken him for? Was he someone’s double? Or did all Jews look the same to Arabs, the way all Filipinos look the same to us? But if so, why had he picked him out of the scores of Jews walking the streets every day?

At home, he checked the bag again, looking for a sign of identification. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the letters yud, aleph, mem, tzadi, dalet.

His brother-in-law’s name was Yehudah Aryeh Marem Zvi Deitsch. Was there a chance in the world that someone else shared those same initials?

How had the Arab known that there was a connection between them? His brother-in-law Yehudah (or Yidele, as he was known) was a short, thin man while he himself was tall and broad. They were related only by marriage, after all. They looked nothing alike.

He called his brother-in-law’s house. His brother-in-law answered on the first ring, his voice despondent. He couldn’t sleep, and no wonder.

“Did you by any chance lose your Rabbeinu Tam tefillin?" he asked.

He could practically hear Reb Yehuda’s heart leap into his throat. “Yes! How do you know? Did you find them?"

“An Arab threw them at me! He accused me of traveling in his taxi and not paying! He screamed at me in middle of the street and threw the bag at me. I saw the initials on the bag and knew it had to be yours."

Rav Deitsch didn’t wait for morning. He

came to his brother-in-law’s house immediately, full of gratitude to Hashem. The contribution to Kupat Ha’ir had somehow caused the driver to pick his brother-in-law, out of Jerusalem’s entire population, to throw the bag at! His brother-in-law, who was sure to recognize his initials and return the bag to him that same night.

Here are the names. These are the people. Here are their phone numbers. They’re all well known public figures.

Harav Hagaon R’ Yehudah Deitsch shlit”a:

011-972-50-4103208

Harav Hagaon R’ Yitzchak Meir Sternbuch shlit”a:

011-372-52-7663333

ort, broad. They

ter all. They looked

ther-in-law’s house. His brother-in-n the first ring, his voice despondent.

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“You know, Kupat Ha’ir just happens to be conducting a prayer session in Tzefas this Friday," Aryeh said. “What do you say to the idea that we hop over and watch?"

The group burst out laughing. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Is that what we traveled all the way to Tzefas for? Haven’t you ever seen people davening before?"

“Hey, wait, this is Kupat Ha’ir we’re talking about," Aryeh protested. “Don’t make fun!" But his protest sounded weak even to his own ears. Kupat Ha’ir. The brochures with the scintillating descriptions provided the perfect background for jokes. Honestly, did they think that smart, worldly bachurim like themselves would take such descriptions seriously? How many times could someone repeat an endless list of names, especially when he didn’t know a single one personally? Who cared anyhow? Only those poor, gullible contributors who were sure their name was the “star of the list" and was certainly treated with respect and attention. And the rabbanim? That was really a good joke. The rabbanim were serious people. They wouldn’t really conduct “tefilah sessions" just like that. Rabbanim have busy schedules: lectures to attend, commitments to see to, their own, personal lives. Sure, they were willing to daven at the Kosel or Kever Rochel for a few minutes and be photographed for the benefit of Kupat Ha’ir. But surely their sense of obligation

ended there.

“My mother asked if I would go," Aryeh said uncomfortably. “She sent in her name to be prayed for at the kever of Reb Leibele Ba’al Hayessurim. She’s originally from Tzefas and the place has special meaning to her. I don’t feel comfortable just not going."

The argument stopped there. The merry group had too many interesting stuff to do, to take the time to shlep to Reb Leibele’s kever. It was a short Friday; Shabbos was at 4:15. They had to reach the apartment they’d reserved for Shabbos, settle in, arrange the food on the hotplate, prepare for Shabbos and survey the neighborhood a little. What an experience it promised to be, four bachurim spending their “free" Shabbos in Tzefas! They had permission from their yeshivah, of course. They were good, serious boys, after all. And witty, too.

Witty, that was the word. How many jokes had they tossed off about Kupat Ha’ir? Too many to count. Kupat Ha’ir was an easy target, somehow. There was lots of material for sarcastic, cynical comments. You couldn’t fool everyone all of the time, no matter how well-oiled a campaign you ran. They, the elite group of bachurim, were certainly to savvy to fall for such stuff.

To the boys’ relief, the apartment was reasonably clean and orderly. They opened the windows and

Lechu Venelcha

A group of Yeshiva students from Yeshivas “Darchei Moshe" find Kupat Ha’ir in Tzefas.




inhaled the cold, crisp air of Tzefas. They stored their perishables in the fridge, and placed the food that had to be kept warm on the hotplate.

When everything was ready, they finally set out to take a walk. They locked the door to the apartment behind them and took the key with them, as the apartment owner had requested. Aryeh was a responsible fellow, and so he placed the key inside a pocket that closed with a button.

Tzefas is a holy city; it wears an aura of mystery like a velvet cloak around its shoulders. Entranced, the boys inhaled the unique atmosphere as they explored the winding streets and alleyways.

Suddenly, a flurry of motion caught their eyes. A crowd of people was streaming in one particular direction. What was going on?

It didn’t take long to inquire and hear the answer: Kupat Ha’ir’s tefillah session at the kever of Reb Leibele. With no further discussion regarding their argument earlier that day, the bachurim simply followed the crowd.

The area of the tziyun was overflowing with people. They saw black suits and hats; knitted yarmulkes; large, billowing woolen talleisim ketanim and even bare heads. The crowd kept getting thicker and thicker. Were there hundreds of people or maybe


even thousands? They couldn’t really tell; their field of vision was completely blocked.

At 11:40, a few minutes past chatzos, the crowd seemed to magically part and a narrow path formed to allow Harav Hagaon R’ Shmuel Eliezer Stern, shlit”a, one of the rabbanim of Kupat Ha’ir, to pass. Rav Stern had come to daven on behalf of contributors to Kupat Ha’ir.

Rav Shmuel Eliezer gave not a second glance to his surroundings. Instead, he began immediately reciting Tehillim. Amidst the deep hush that had fallen over the area, his voice could be heard clearly as he chanted the ancient, holy words. His expression was pleading, heartfelt as he recited each word slowly and clearly.

After an initial moment of shock, the audience joined in. The voices grew steadily louder. Occasionally, someone cried out a few words with great emotion, inspiring everyone around him to even greater kavanah. Rav Shmuel Eliezer was the chazzan; he set the pace, and the audience joined him with enthusiasm and fervor. Hundreds or perhaps even thousands of people together all shouted the holy pesukim. It was truly an awe-inspiring scene.

Our group of bachurim were all wide-eyed with disbelief. Something inside them insisted stubbornly: He’ll complete Sefer Rishon and then stop. How long can he stand under the midday sun and daven like that? After all It’s Friday today, – a busy day! But the first Sefer finished and then the second and third. Slowly, gradually, they, too,

were swept up in the electric atmosphere. They felt like idiots standing there as a mini-Yom Kippur unfolded around them and yet not taking part because of mistaken preconceived notions.

They joined, succumbing to the magnetic pull they could not deny existed. They connected, really connected…

Sefer revi’i, Sefer chamishi… it was 1:40 when Rav Stern completed Tehillim. One-forty! He had spent two hours reciting Tehillim with unflagging concentration and fervor.

Members of the audience were wiping away their tears as Rav Stern, shlit”a, withdrew the list of names and began reading them aloud. His voice choked up as he recited each name and its accompanying request. Sometimes he paused for a moment, lingering on a particular name; occasionally, he wiped his brow. He held the list of names in his hand and looked at them and their requests as he prayed on their behalf. The audience was silent as everyone watched in awe. Thousands of names ascended directly heavenward. The four bachurim watched as well, practically hypnotized.

People began murmuring the names of their loved ones, their own names, any names they could think of. It was impossible not to join. It was impossible not to envy those whose names were on the list. It wasn’t every day a prayer session of such caliber took place.

The last name was recited at 2:15. Rav Stern, shlit”a, rose and the audience once again split to let him pass. Rav Stern walked quickly, looking neither to




the right or left.

What the audience didn’t know was that Rav Stern still had to return to faraway Bnei Brak. It was 2:15 and Shabbos would be ushered in a mere two hours later.

A car was waiting. Rav Stern stepped inside and the car drove off immediately, reaching the outskirts of Bnei Brak at a quarter to four.

Back at Reb Leibele’s kever, the audience began to disperse. People walked slowly backward, as is the custom at the Kosel. The scene they had witnessed was too amazing to express in words.

The sun was already low in the sky when the last few people left the cemetery.

The four boys, too, returned to their apartment.

They, too, were filled with awe at what they had just witnessed. They, too, were overcome with emotion. They walked in silence, barely looking at one another. Some things are better left unsaid. Each bachur knew that his friends were reaching the same conclusions as he was.

Aryeh withdrew the key from his pocket. The pocket closed with a button, so there had been no fear of the key falling out. But the key wouldn’t open the door!

The bachurim’s sense of awe gave way to a distinct sense of anxiety. Time was ticking by and they couldn’t get in! They tried again and again, but to no avail. They tried knocking at a neighbor’s door; they tried climbing up to the porch. Nothing worked.

Shabbos was almost here and there was no solution in sight. All their stuff! Their food, their clothing, their pajamas! Their “house!" Where could they turn, alone in a strange city?

Five minutes before sundown, Aryeh hesitantly said aloud what each of them had been thinking to himself: “We saw what a tefillah session conducted by Kupat Ha’ir looks like. We were very wrong. Maybe… maybe the yeshuos are true, too? Maybe it’s not all one big bluff; maybe it really works?" He was afraid his friends would scoff but he felt he had to speak up.

No one scoffed. Today’s scene had changed their attitude completely. And they were desperate.

They agreed on a sum and announced it aloud.

With trembling fingers, Aryeh stuck the key into the lock, a simple action that each of them had tried at least twenty times in the last few minutes.

The key glided inside. The lock clicked open as smoothly as if it had just been oiled. The door opened and the apartment beckoned invitingly.

Shabbos descended on the ancient, holy city.

Four bachurim, completely different from the people they had been a mere few hours earlier, greeted her with unsurpassed emotion in the fields of Tzefas.

Likras Shabbos L’’chu V’nelcha.

L’cha Dodi Likras Kallah.

A Shabbos of emunah.


“Moshe, you know you tend to be absent-minded. Give me the money. It’s safer that way."

Naomi felt slightly anxious as she looked around her. In another few moments, they’d be going upstairs to the passenger hall. They were booked for a 1:00 flight. In another hour, they’d be winging their way over the ocean.

There was a palpable knot in her stomach. They’d be away from home for less than a week, but there were the flights to contend with, and the treatment she needed to undergo in a strange country… She wished she were back in Eretz Yisrael already.

“Nu, Moshe, the money! You remember what happened to the check we got from Shlomo, and to the wallet you took to the beach, and…"

Moshe quelled the urge to place his hands over his ears. He knew nothing was safe in Naomi’s hands. He might be absent-minded but she was… there wasn’t even a word to accurately describe Naomi. His wife thought she had the exclusive right to words, anyhow. But even without the right word, he knew the money was better off in his pocket than in her hand.

“Moshe?"

With a sigh, he handed her the wallet with the

four thousand dollars they had set aside for this trip. They’d need cash at their destination, lots of it. Their financial situation, to put it delicately, was less than glowing. For him, four thousand dollars was an absolute fortune. But with no other choice in the matter, he handed it to her, practically telling the money goodbye as he did so.

He managed to keep a one hundred-dollar bill in his own pocket without his wife noticing. Just in case. Better safe than sorry.

The line moved slowly. Naomi bristled as her handbag was searched but soon it was all behind them. They settled into their seats and tried to relax. Moshe withdrew a pocket size mishnayos and began learning quietly. Wherever a Yid finds himself – in the sky above or in the sea below – Hashem is always with him. He was pondering a question that had occurred to him when his wife cried out with no advance warning, “The money!"

Moshe stifled a sigh. In our times, prophecy exists only among fools – and he was no fool. Still, he had known what would happen… why had he agreed to give her the money? Why? How would they manage abroad without a penny to their name?

In the meantime, his wife began overturning her handbag and then crouching on the floor of the

$3,900 in a Purple Wallet

A couple travelling overseas meet Kupat Ha’ir at the “Duty free" shop.




plane and checking the aisles. No money.

He checked his pockets despite the fact that he clearly recalled having removed his wallet. He tapped his suit, shifted in his seat, checked the floor beneath him. No money. The passengers Nearby inquired what the matter was and tried to help, too. The distraught couple didn’t know which was preferable: to have everyone look, and the lucky finder slip the money into his pocket, or not to have anyone find the money at all…

“But we had it when we boarded the plane! How could it be missing now?"

How.

The flight went smoothly and soon it was time for landing. Moshe and Naomi fastened their seatbelts, the plane landed and the passengers left the plane. Only they remained, still searching.

“We can’t go to our

accommodations with no money," Naomi wept. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, Moshe produced the hundred-dollar bill. “I held on to this just in case the rest of the money would get lost," he said, trying valiantly to keep the slightest trace of reproach from

his voice. He had enough problems as it was.

They arrived at their accommodations and, heads hung low, told their hosts what had happened. It was with a sense of deep humiliation that they accepted their hosts’ gracious offer to loan them four thousand dollars.

The next few days passed slowly. The shopping she had planned to do lost its appeal. How could she buy things with money they borrowed and had no idea how they’d repay? The medical procedure went pretty smoothly, too, and they were relieved when it was finally time to return to Eretz Yisrael.

The flight passed uneventfully and soon they were back at the Ben Gurion Airport.


“Maybe the money fell before we boarded

the plane?" Naomi said suddenly, expressing what

had occurred to him previously.

“Maybe. Let’s ask the security official."

They searched for one and approached him nervously. “Did anyone find four thousand dollars here, six days ago?"

The official looked at them sidewise. What kind of people lose four thousand dollars and come looking for it only six days later? They saw him linger before responding and a wild hope seized them. Maybe? Maybe?!

“No, no one gave me anything like that," he replied dryly.

Frustration gnawed at them. A moment earlier, they hadn’t thought there was a chance in the world, but now they felt as if someone had beaten them. “Could it be that someone turned it in to your superviser?" Naomi asked.

“Possibly," the guard replied with a shrug. They dragged

themselves over to where the supervisor stood, not daring to so much as glance at one another. They knew the answer would be negative. They knew it.

They were right.

“Okay, there’s nothing else to try," Naomi said, lifting her hands in despair. “I mean, b’derech hateva, we tried everything. $400 to Kupat Ha’ir. If the poor really need money, maybe Hashem will have mercy on us and we’ll get our money back."

Moshe agreed. He still intended to search every corner of the airport and question every employee. It was he who would need to return the loan – he!

But Naomi was preparing to leave. “There’s no point in looking any further," she yawned. “I’m going home. There’s not even a one percent chance we’ll find it through natural means. We’ve done our hishtadlus as well. If Hashem wants us to get our money back, He knows where to find us." She said goodbye and disappeared and Moshe felt frustration bubble up inside him.

Ten minutes after Naomi had left, a thought occurred to him.

“Naomi," he practically shouted into his cell phone, “which store did you go into before we

boarded our flight?"

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Completely chilled, Naomi gave him the name of the store. “I didn’t leave the money there, you can be sure," she said.

He could be sure? He wasn’t even sure what his own name was any more. He looked around for the store and soon found it.

A pleasant clerk was standing with his back to the cash register.

“Excuse me, sir," Moshe said, his voice lifeless, “did you by any chance find a purple wallet containing four thousand dollars in cash a few days ago?"

The clerk’s expression changed at the speed of light. His eyes grew huge in his face and his jaw dropped open. He looked around him quickly and pushed Moshe out of the store.

“I found the money," he whispered in shock as soon as they reached a quiet corner. “But they’re a bunch of thieves in this store, I tell you. I can’t stand them and their dishonesty. I’m an honest person; I’ve never taken a penny that didn’t belong to me. Stolen money brings no blessing."

Moshe wasn’t sure how much he believed the sales clerk’s proclamation of honesty, especially considering the way his face was changing colors as he spoke.

“I found the money and I hid it. I’ll show you exactly where. Everything is exactly as I found it."

A huge stone rolled quietly off Moshe’s heart.

“But tell me.." The clerk looked directly into Moshe’s eyes. “How did you know to approach me? Who told you I would even be here today?"

Moshe shrugged. No one had told him a thing.

The clerk would have none of that. “Listen here. I’ve been working here for ten years. My shift is from

midnight to five-thirty a.m. for ten years, I never

step into this building during hours other than

those. Today was the first time. I didn’t come to

pull my shift; I came to take care of a document

I needed for tax purposes. I didn’t plan to spend

more than ten minutes at the airport now. How

did you just happen to walk in here during those

ten minutes?"

Moshe had no idea. How should he know? Five

minutes ago, he didn’t know the store even existed.

First he wanted to see the money, then he’d be free

to think about how everything had happened.

The clerk preceded him into the store. Inside a tall,

impressive floor vase standing near the register,

peeking out from among small gray pebbles, was a

familiar purple wallet. Moshe picked it up, slipped

it into his pocket and left the store, the clerk right

behind him.

Moshe counted the bills. Thirty Nine Hundred

Dollars.

The clerk regarded him closely, his eyes moist.

“Hashem loves you," he said gruffly. “There’s no

other explanation. If you had come ten minutes

earlier or ten minutes later, no one would have

known a thing. And if someone had known, you

can bet the money would never have found its

way back into your pocket. This is the first time

in ten years that I’m here at this hour. You can ask

anyone if you don’t believe me."

“I believe you," Moishe said, clapping the

clerk on his shoulder in deep gratitude.

“I believe in Hashem and in the awesome

power of Kupat Ha’ir."


Rav Chaim Kanievsky’s request was typically succinct: he would like to speak to a gabbai from Kupat Ha’ir when possible. When possible… When a request like that comes in, all other matters become impossible and the only possible thing to do is hurry over.

“There’s a Yid named Yosef Elmaliach (the name is fictitious)," Rav Chaim said slowly. “We need to help out there."

That was all.

“How can we help?" The gabbai was painfully familiar with the details.

A succession of financial complications had brought the poor fellow to the unfortunate situation of huge bank debt. He was not at fault: he had exercised proper caution but still he had fallen. He owed NIS 250,000 to Bank Pagi (an acronym for Poalei Agudat Yisrael) alone. Although the Elmaliachs had once been a prosperous family, today they were earning barely enough to live on. There was no way they could think of returning NIS 250,000.

Yosef Elmaliach knew there was a time bomb ticking over his head. He owed the bank money, lots of money, and he had no way of repaying his debt. In the meantime, the monster kept growing

with each passing day.

“How can we help?" the gabbai asked Rav Chaim. “Should Kupat Ha’ir give him NIS 250,000?"

“Kupat Ha’ir should give whatever amount is decided upon at the meeting of the rabbanim," Rav Chaim said firmly. Sometimes, Rav Chaim attends these meetings personally, and then he determines how much should be allotted to who. He was not planning to attend the next meeting, so he abstained from quoting a figure. He delegated authority to the right people and instructed the gabba’im to abide by their decisions.

The gabbai left, his mind at ease. How much the rabbanim determine. Okay, that was fine. What a stone off his heart. He couldn’t bear the burden of the unfortunate family and their fate on his shoulders. There would be a meeting and the rabbanim would tell him what to do. It was not his responsibility, not his burden! Maintaining such an attitude was the only way he could go on in his capacity.

A low voice inside his heart asked: the rabbanim wouldn’t allot NIS 250,000 for one family, that much was certain. Even if they were to allot them twenty or thirty thousand shekels, that wouldn’t satisfy the bank. It would be like throwing money

Thirty Thousand Plus

Another ThousandManaging director of Bank Pagi, Mr. Dov Goldfreind, and his

personal experience with Kupat Ha’ir.




to the wind.

The gabbai silenced the low voice firmly. Emunas

chachamim was an unshakeable principle at Kupat Ha’ir.

In preparation for the upcoming meeting, the gabba’im prepared the case histories of all families applying for aid, the Elmaliachs among them. They verified all the details, compiling data gleaned from various sources. They researched the causes behind the family’s downfall and prepared a report on the outcome. A representative of Kupat Ha’ir went down to the bank to verify its position. All the details would be presented to the rabbanim at the meeting.

Many requests are discussed at the monthly meetings, each painful, bitter and laden with anxiety. The tension in the air is thick; a sense of heavy sadness creeps into the heart of everyone present. Another suffering family and another, and another. At every meeting, more orphans have “joined the club"; every time, more families that used to squeak by, simply cannot do so any longer.

Elmaliach. As was his custom with every case, the gabbai paused for a brief moment before launching into the details and asked Hashem to place the right words in his mouth, to help him cram all relevant information into the few brief sentences for which time allowed. To provide him with the right tone of voice so that his presentation was as accurate a portrait of the situation as possible.

The rabbanim discussed the situation among themselves. “A one-time grant of thirty thousand shekels. Look into what would be the most effective thing to do with the money." The rabbanim, too, knew that NIS 30,000 was nowhere

near enough to even pacify the bank. But that was what Kupat Ha’ir could handle. Hashem would send His blessing…

How?

It didn’t matter how. The miracle would occur and then the picture would become clear.

In the meantime, the thirty thousand shekels lay idle. Any simpleton knew – and they had consulted with professionals – that transferring the money to the bank would be an act of utter foolishness. It wouldn’t change a thing with regard to the bank’s charges against Yosef Elmaliach. Months passed and the bank proceeded with its agenda. They sent letters, more letters and dire warnings. They filed charges and hired lawyers.

Yosef Elmaliach knew time was running out. His crash was inevitable. Rav Chaim Kanievski wanted to help him; Kupat Ha’ir wanted to help him – but apparently, Hashem had decreed that he suffer an unbearably painful blow.

He received an official notice: if your debt has not been paid by such-and-such date, the bank will take legal action. He knew exactly what that meant and his heart wept. A day passed, then another and another.

There was one day left.

He had never been more desperate in his life.

“Hashem, if something works out, I’ll contribute a thousand shekels to Kupat Ha’ir," he wept. His wife trembled. A thousand shekels was a fortune for them. The deduction of a thousand shekels from their living expenses meant tightening their belts so much they’d barely be able to breathe. And yet, they were desperate. “A thousand shekels if this terrible debt is somehow eliminated. Ana Hashem,


Hoshia Na!" The entire extended family was

aware of the situation. Everyone was worried.

Everyone was terrified of what the future held in store. However no one was in a position to help.

“A thousand shekels to Kupat Ha’ir. Please Hashem, help us!" That was the only thing he could do, so that is what he did. And that was all he needed to do!

On that day – on that same day - Yosef Elmaliach’s brother bumped into an old friend and the two began reminiscing about their shared childhood. As they were talking, the friend mentioned someone who had been an important figure in the brothers’ life.

“You remember that woman who helped your family, Mrs. Goldfreind? Her son is a powerful man today. He’s the CEO of Bank Pagi, did you know that?"

“What?" Yaakov, Yosef ’s brother, couldn’t believe his ears. “The CEO at Pagi is Mrs. Goldfreind’s son? Dovi?" He didn’t stick around long enough to explain to his friend why the discovery held such significance for him. Instead, he began frantically making phone calls to try and verify Mr. Goldfreind’s personal number. Maybe… maybe… maybe!

When he finally reached Mr. Goldfreind, their conversation was brief. The name said it all.

Mrs. Goldfreind had been a woman of tremendous compassion and kindness. Finding neglected children, bringing them home and showering them with love and warmth had been a “hobby" of hers.

One of the neglected children she’d taken in was the mother of Yaakov and Yosef Elmaliach. As a little girl, life had dealt her a bitter blow and she’d been dumped from one place to another until she’d finally found a place she could call home: the Goldfreind residence. For years, Mrs. Goldfreind had provided the little girl with everything a mother could give her child. She’d sat at her bedside during nights filled with frightening dreams, holding her hands with tender love; she’d applauded enthusiastically at her graduation parties; she’d consistently expressed full faith in her abilities. Slowly, the child had emerged from the trauma she’d suffered and began to blossom. Eventually, she married and raised a fine family. For Mrs. Goldfreind, nothing could have been better “payment" for her efforts.

“Dovi, for what did your mother do so much for my mother? Yosef is up to his ears in debt. Help him!" The CEO was alarmed and his heart was touched. He hadn’t known it was that Elmaliach!

Dovi had been a child at the time. A child in a home

BANK POALEY AGpage 22 story supplement PESACH 5771

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full of chessed. He would finish what his mother had begun. How? He didn’t yet know how.

That day, he picked up the phone to the gabbai at Kupat Ha’ir.

“Tell me, how can I help?" he asked. “I’m not the bank, after all. There are rules. But I would like to help."

“Rav Chaim Kanievsky said that we can give whatever is approved at the meeting. NIS 30,000 will have to be enough!"

“How can NIS 30,000 be enough? We’re talking about NIS 250,000! Offer me three quarters of the sum, even half - we’d have something to discuss. Thirty thousand? That’s a joke!"

“Rav Chaim doesn’t intervene in decisions made by the rabbanim at meetings which he was not present. He delegates authority and the rabbanim do as they see fit. Their decisions are blessed with divine assistance. I don’t know what else to say: thirty thousand will have to be enough."

Dov Goldfreind, the CEO, was at a loss. He did the only thing he could: he presented the bank with a personal request. This is a very rare and unusual privilege that every CEO guards very close to his heart. He presented it with tears in his eyes, thinking of his mother, who had done everything in her power for a poor, homeless little girl who had blossomed in her merit.

The results were surprising. The bank

management agreed to deduct NIS 200,000 worth

of debt. Two hundred thousand shekels! No one

would have believed that such a thing was possible.

Yaakov Elmaliach accepted responsibility to raise

an additional sum amounting to ten thousand

shekels. Yosef would pay back the remaining ten

thousand shekels in tiny installments over the

next few years.

The huge debt was eliminated, down to the last

penny.

“Just tell me how you happened to suddenly

discover me," Mr. Goldfreind said to Yaakov

Elmaliach when everyone was gathered in his

office. “How did you find out that I was my mother’s

son? This debt is years old already! What happened

at the last minute?"

Everyone turned to look at Yosef, who smiled

placidly. “It’s really very simple. I don’t know why

you’re all so surprised."

“I contributed a thousand shekels to Kupat

Ha’ir and cried out to Hashem from the

bottom of my heart. Hashem sent the

information to my brother on that same day

– and the rest is history."

GUDAT ISRAELFIBI GROUP

The Tzedakah Of The Gedolei Hador

KUPAT HA'IR1-888-KUPATHAIR555555555555555 8888888888888 777777777777 22222222222222 88888888888888 444444444444444 2222222222222

Yeshuos Pesach 5771

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