“Canada’s Rabbi” But First a [Grand]father by Nochum Aharon Shonek

The Jewish Home | JULY 14, 2022

In Me M ory

“Canada’s Rabbi” But First a [Grand]father

Remembering Rav Reuven Pinchas Bulka, z”l, On His First Yahrtzeit

By Nochum Aharon Shonek

When asked to relate the significance of June 6, 1944 (15 Sivan 5704), most historians will likely begin elaborating on how the Allied Army stormed the beaches of Normandy, marking that day as a beginning to an end to World War II. Few, however, will think of D-Day as the day that my grandfather, Rabbi Reuven Bulka, z”l, came into this world.

Born in London to Rabbi Chaim Yaakov and Mrs. Yehudis Bulka, my grandfather moved as a toddler with his family to the United States, where they eventually settled in the Bronx, with the senior Rabbi Bulka becoming the rav of the local shul, Khal Adas Yeshurun. After first enrolling in the Rabbi Jacob Joseph Rabbinical Seminary (RJJ) as an elementary school student, the young Reuven would eventually receive his semichah there in 1965 from Rav Nissan Telushkin, z”l. That year, he also got his bachelor’s degree from the City University of New York, paving the way to eventually receive his Master’s followed by his doctorate, in psychology (specifically Logotherapy), from the University of Ottawa, in 1971.

At the age of 23, after a short stint as associate rav to his father in KAJ, Rabbi Bulka was offered a rabbinical position in Ottawa, then a very small Jewish community comprised mainly of older people. He accepted the offer, and, a week after his marriage to his first wife, Naomi (nee Jakobovits, from Montreal), a”h, Rabbi Bulka assumed the position of rav of Congregation Machazikei HaDaas, a position he would hold for the next 48 years. In 2015, he took on the title of Rabbi Emeritus (he never wanted to say he was “retiring”) and handed over the reins to the current rav, Rabbi Idan Scher.

Rabbi Bulka and his first wife had six children together, including my

mother, her sister, and four brothers, one of whom was niftar, r”l, within a few weeks of his birth.

Another tragedy came upon the family in 2001, when Mrs. Naomi Bulka was stricken with the machalah a second time, after having beaten it previously. Despite the experimental stem-cell transplant operation that was attempted, Hashem had decided the time had come, and, at the age of 55, my grandmother returned her special neshama to its Maker. Within a year of the petirah, Rabbi Bulka remarried to Mrs. Leah Kalish (nee Rosenblum), who brought

two sons from her marriage with her late husband, R’ Mendel Kalish, z”l.

Writing about all the honors and awards my grandfather received throughout his life, as well as the numerous positions he held in his efforts to bring the concept of kindness to the non-Jewish world, would require an entire book (a project currently in the works by one of the grandchildren). I’m here to remember him in his capacity of Sabba (“Sabba Rabba” for the great-grandchildren!), the grandfather I knew I could call at any time of day or night. The grandfather who bought me, and all the rest of his grandsons, a pair of the most mehudar tefillin for my bar mitzvah. Who, despite his myriad responsibilities as a rav, an author, and a public figure, had enough headspace to know me and relate to me in a way that made me feel that he understood me better than I understood myself.

Having the geographically closest of his children living in New York made attending any family simcha require a flight or a drive upwards of seven hours. Though an easy excuse to use, coupled with an incredibly busy schedule, missing a bar mitzvah, wedding, or bris was not in my grandfather’s vocabulary. The trip to New York became frequent enough that he eventually purchased an apartment in Lawrence to stay in for his extended visits.

It was in that apartment that my grandfather spent the last six months of his life. After collapsing from a stroke in his Ottawa home during the COVID-19 lockdown, he had been admitted to Ot-

He never liked other people going out of their way for him; that, he felt, was his job to do for them.

tawa General Hospital, where a biopsy revealed late-stage cancer in his liver and pancreas. Having all his children outside of Canada and unable to cross the border to visit, my mother and her siblings took upon the task of arranging for my grandfather to be brought to the Lawrence apartment, where he could be close to the family. Their efforts were successful, b’chasdei Hashem, and, shortly after Chanukah, my grandfather, together with his wife, moved into the apartment. In the apartment, he received a plethora of visitors, some quite regular, such as my mother, who would come in daily from Far Rockaway (Shabbos and yom tov included), as well as her brother from Woodmere, who’d visit with similar frequency. The other siblings living in the United States, one in Monsey and one in Baltimore, would make the trip down fairly often to be able to spend time with my grandfather. The youngest son, living in Eretz Yisrael, flew in twice during that period.

Throughout this entire time, despite his waning strength, my grandfather never missed a day of putting on tefillin. Even at the very end, when he had no strength whatsoever, he would have others put it on for him, something which was very against his nature – he never liked other people going out of their way for him; that, he felt, was his job to do for them. (During one of my visits, after someone got up to get something for him, I heard my grandfather muttering weakly to himself, “I’m so lazy…”)

It was on Motzei Shabbos, the night before Shiva Asar B’Sammuz, that my mother gave me the difficult news that the time had come to “say goodbye to Sabba.” Though very difficult to accept, denying reality was something my grandfather had instilled in me to avoid. That night, I was zocheh to have a few minutes with him, and, although he wasn’t conversing verbally, he nodded in response to my questions.

While still there, I remembered that in the weekly learning seder in Sefer Hachinuch that we used to have together on the phone – which had come to a halt when my grandfather became too

weak to continue – we had left off in the middle of a mitzvah – number 16, the mitzvah to not break a bone from the Korban Pesach. On a whim, I took out the Sefer HaChinuch and began reading aloud from where we had left off. The Chinuch was in middle of his famous response to the “foolish” question of the seeming superfluousness of the numerous mitzvos commemorating yetzias Mitzrayim, in which he explains how a person’s external actions impact his psyche and ending it off explaining to the reader that his life’s mission is to follow the Torah’s mitzvos and not veer from them even briefly, lest his “quick” actions impact him to veer further. It was with these words of the Chinuch, which my grandfather embodied so much, always thinking before acting and making sure that what he was doing was what he felt Hashem wanted, that I said my goodbye to him. Sabba with former Prime Minister Stephen Harper He was niftar later that night, shortly before alos ha’shachar. Yehi zichro baruch.

Thanks to my cousin, Mrs. Rikki Ash, for assisting me with the biographical information.

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