Towards the end of his life, my son, Michoel, who is a rabbi in Sydney, Australia,
realised that we didn’t have any recordings
or sermons that my father gave. He was
an outstanding orator and very learned,
but he refused to allow anyone to record
his speeches. So my son decided to phone
my father periodically and say, “Zeide, I
have to make a speech on Friday night. I
have nothing to say. Please fax me something.” My father used to say, “It’s so difficult for me to write nowadays, but, if Michaeli asks me, I have to make the effort.”
So at least my son has a little of my father’s pearls of wisdom.
My son, Avremi, summed up my father
so beautifully when he wrote a tribute
commemorating 50 years of my father’s
service to the community: “One of the
fondest memories I have of my Zeide is
when he would sometimes come over for a
melava malka. As my brother and I would
go to bed early, he would steal into our
room to tell us a bedtime story. I would always ask, ‘Zeide, is this story true?’ And
he would reply, ‘Yes, of course it’s true.’
Today, when you hear a tale about Zeide,
there is no need to ask, ‘Is it true?’ Zeide
was true. True and sincere. He had the
well-being of his flock and his family continuously in his thou