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MARCH 18, 2021 | The Jewish Home OCTOBER 29, 2015 | The Jewish Home
LIVING LEGEND Excerpts from the new book BY NACHMAN SELTZER
W
hen he first arrived in Migdal HaEmek, Rav Yitzchak Dovid [Grossman] found out that many of the stores were open on Shabbos. It was painful to see Jews walking into coffee shops, bars, and restaurants when it was already Shabbos, and he resolved to do whatever he could to alter the status quo. In one of the shopping centers not far from his shul, there was a popular restaurant called Kima. One Erev Shabbos (Friday afternoon), on his way to shul, the young rabbi stood in the restaurant’s doorway, where he had a good view of the room filled with people sitting and enjoying themselves, even as the Shabbos Queen had arrived in the city and wandered around in search of those who were happy to welcome her. Even worse, the people in the restaurant playing the games – some even playing backgammon for money, each with a bottle of beer at his elbow – every so often would raise their mugs and call out, “Bo’i kallah!” This stemmed from an old Sefardic tradition to welcome Shabbos into one’s life by saying, “Bo’i kallah – Welcome, bride.” But the words were most decidedly not meant to be said while sitting in a smoke-filled establishment and gambling on a Friday night! As he stood there looking at the scene before him, Rav Grossman recalled a story from his youth, a story involving his rebbi, Rav Aryeh Levin. ◊◊◊
Rav Aryeh had a practice of walking through the Machaneh Yehudah shuk on erev Shabbos, his very presence reminding the store owners that it was time to close up shop before the holy day began. One Erev Shabbos, Rav Aryeh passed a store that was packed with customers. Rav Aryeh Levin could have approached the owner and given him a mussar shmuess, telling him off and shaming him for his actions He could have stood outside the store and made a protest. Instead, he took a seat inside the store and sat there quietly, observing the customers and everything else that comes along with the beauty of a thriving business. He didn’t move for twenty minutes, and his very presence was driving the owner to distraction. Finally, the owner couldn’t help himself and approached Rav Aryeh. “Kevod HaRav, honored rabbi, can I help you with anything?” “No,” Rav Aryeh replied. “I just wanted to tell you one thing. I’ve been sitting and watching the sheer volume of business that you are doing right now, on this Erev Shabbos. I’ll tell you the truth: I don’t know if I would be able to withstand the nisayon, the test you are facing, and I understand you one hundred percent because your test is so challenging.” Having said his piece, Rav Aryeh stood up, gave the man a kiss on the forehead, and left the store. The store owner came to see Rav Aryeh on Motza’ei Shabbos, just after Shabbos was over. “Kevod HaRav, I just wanted to let you know
that I closed my store this Shabbos and that I will never open my store on Shabbos again for as long as I live.” “But how were you able to do it? How were you able to withstand such a tremendous nisayon?” “I’ll tell you how,” the man replied. “I was able to close my store because you were the first person who understood me. You didn’t yell at me. You didn’t threaten me or castigate me. You empathized with me and showed me that you really understand my situation. And because you understand me and the test I am facing, I was finally able to close my shop.” ◊◊◊ Now, standing outside the restaurant, Rav Yitzchak Dovid Grossman reviewed his options. He could walk into the restaurant and deliver a blistering mussar shmuess, a scathing attack on the patrons within the eatery. But there was a good chance that such a shmuess would anger one or two of the already tipsy and more heavily inebriated patrons, who might react by throwing a frosty beer bottle at his head. Besides, he had learned at the feet of his rebbi that empathy and understanding is the way to go. And he wasn’t a blistering shmuess kind of rabbi in any case. That was left for other people. And so Rav Yitzchak Dovid took a different tack. He entered the restaurant and made his way to the middle of the room, where he raised his voice, as if he were the chazzan (cantor) in a Sefardic
