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STORY SUPPLEMENT KUPAT HA'IR
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Bein Hametzarim 5769
Y YESHUOS
STORY SUPPLEMENT KUPAT HAIR
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Table of Contents
Honor Thy Father
pg. 3
Told by the K family, Tel: ................................ 050-4112434
The Golden Contribution
pg. 7
Related by the P Family Tel: ........................................ 052-7615846
Kupat Ha'ir's Grandma
pg. 10 0
Related by the Protagonists Tel: ...................................................073-2219754
A Fairytale Ending
pg. 13
Related by the D Family Tel: .......................................052-7623558
Too Good To Be True
pg. 16
Name withheld for obvious reasons
On the Path to Yeshuos
pg. 19
To hear the story from the protagonist: ........................................................................ 052-7638388
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"We've been waiting for you," people say softly as they stroke the pages of the yeshuos booklet. "We've waited and waited and now you're finally here." A warm, pleasurable feeling fills their hearts. People love Kupat Ha'ir's yeshuos booklets. The booklet symbolizes Hashem's love for His children, revealed through astounding hashgachah pratis. There's something magical about stepping into the stories of people so much like ourselves experiencing situations that could so easily happen to us - and feeling, in the end, how Hashem sometimes raises us above the daily routine that so dulls our sense of admiration for the way He runs His world and tells us lovingly, "Here I am for you, My children." Kupat Ha'ir's yeshuos booklet tells us that when we merit bringing Hakadosh Baruch Hu into our lives; when we learn to see His signature in everything that happens to us; when we cleanse our viewpoint and search for Him in all the events that befall us – we will find Him there, close by and supervising everything that happens to us with love and concern. The most unusual stories find their way into the booklets. But the little miracles that occur in your own home, in your own small circle, are no less powerful or exhilarating. Do you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation? Is there a problem that's causing you to lose sleep at night? Do you feel your hands are tied to improve your lot? Raise your eyes heavenward, offer up a prayer, contribute to Kupat Ha'ir and look around you with a newfound viewpoint. Here, kevod Hashem is revealed to you. Suddenly, you see a certain continuity and Who is behind it all; suddenly, you sense that everything is planned and predestined. Suddenly, you feel Hashem's direct supervision, His abundant love. What of all this did your contribution to Kupat Ha'ir accomplish?
Honor Thy Father Told by the K family, Tel: 050-4112434
The rain kept pouring down in sheets. It seemed as if it would rain forever. Four people huddled inside the car, not knowing where to turn. “Maybe we should just settle down to spend the night like this?“ asked the son, soaked to the bone and shivering with cold. His father shook his head. “Ima needs her medication. You know, for her heart.“ He knew. “Besides, after the exertion of packing and the flight, we need a good night's sleep. We're not youngsters anymore.“ Once again, everyone peered out the window into the darkness, trying to come up with some sort of a solution – to no avail. They had landed in Switzerland a few hours earlier. The elderly parents, especially the mother, were not in the best of health. Every year in the winter, their married son took them to Switzerland for a few days to relax against the backdrop of some of the most magnificent scenery in the world. “These four days do more for Ima's health than any medication or doctor,“ the father would tell his son gratefully. “I know it isn't easy for you to get away. It can't be easy for your wife to handle everything on her own while you're away. But if you only knew how
much Ima and I appreciate it, how much stronger and better we feel afterward, you would know that this trip is the biggest kibbud horim you could possibly do.” So the son kept up the tradition. Every year, he rented a villa facing stunning scenery, planned excursions suitable for his parents’ physical condition and made arrangements for tasty, kosher food. They were away for only four days but those four days gave them strength for the entire year. But this time something had gone wrong. Maybe it was a mistake to land at night. They had planned it that way because they’d hoped to go directly to sleep and begin the following day refreshed and rested. The pouring rain that greeted them dampened their enthusiasm somewhat but thanks to the son’s meticulous planning, a rented car was waiting for them. The son drove carefully to a certain hotel where, according to the plan, the key to the villa they had rented would be at the reception desk. They had arranged it this way because the hotel was open 24 hours a day, so they could pick up the key at any time. The key was in fact at the reception desk. But the clerk glanced at the sheet of paper with the address and shrugged. “This address is in a remote area
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somewhere. I can’t tell you how to get there. I’ve never been there myself.” They consulted a map and located the area but the son still felt unclear as to how exactly to get there. “You know what?” the son suggested. “Call us a cab. We’ll follow in our car.” But that wasn’t an option. Taxi drivers in a small Swiss village retire for the night early. Not a single driver answered his phone. The only taxi company in the village was closed for the night. It wasn’t tourist season and there was no reason for anyone to be working a night shift.
“Okay, we’ll set out and look around,” the son said. He was worried. The pouring rain and thick darkness – there were practically no street lamps – did not make the situation any easier. The car drove down the darkened streets, splashing through puddles. “We’re going in circles,” the mother commented. “We keep driving up the same streets.” The son drove a bit further. Every so often, he stepped out to glance at the street signs but he couldn’t find the street they needed. “Maybe we should try a different hotel,” the father suggested. “Maybe the clerk at a different hotel will be able to direct us.” They tried. They located a different hotel on their map and drove over. The son stepped out of the car once more, leaving his parent's and son in the car. The gate was locked. Through the window, he could see the clerk at the reception desk. He was fast asleep. He rang the bell, waking the clerk. The son apologized for disturbing him and explained the situation.
The narrow path leads only to the solitary house seen behind it.
T he nar wind thrrow path continu ough the e thick fors to est.
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The clerk actually knew where the street was located. He took
The end of th minutes of walk forest, leads to
a sheet of paper and drew a clear map for the son to follow. The son sighed with relief. “I apologize once again for waking you,” he said uncomfortably. “You see, my parents are no youngsters. My mother suffers from a heart condition. Her medication is in her suitcase and it’s raining so hard that I can’t even look for it.” The clerk was gracious and understanding and the son left with a light heart, having no idea that it would still be quite some time before his search came to an end. Now the trip was short and smooth. With the map spread before him on the steering wheel, the son steered the car through the winding roads. He drove through the same streets he’d covered before but this time, he didn’t miss the small but important turn. They now found themselves on the right street, as indicated by the sign on the corner.
5, 9, and 13. He found also numbers 2, 6, 10, 12 and 16. But there was no number 4! It just wasn’t there. He walked up and down the street, to the car and back, his clothing drenched despite the umbrella he held in his hand. Every so often, he returned to the car to warm up for a few minutes before setting out again. “It’s got to be here somewhere,” they kept telling themselves. The other numbers were all there; number 4 had to be there, too. He’d been given the keys to the place, after all. It had to exist! But logic was of no help to them, of no help at all. At some point, out of despair and helplessness, the son began trying to open all the doors he saw, no matter the numbers. Either someone will open the door and show me where the house we’re looking for is located or they’ll call the police on me. Very well! Let the police help us out!
“I can’t wait to get out of the car,” the mother said. “I feel every bone in my body.”
But no one woke up. Even that hope was washed away in the rain.
“What number is our villa, Abba?” the grandchild inquired.
The mother was feeling terribly unwell at this point and the father wasn’t faring well, either. The son’s tension increased with each passing moment. Utter silence reigned; the only sound was that of the incessant rain.
“Number 4.” He located number 2 and prepared to park the car near the next villa. “But Abba, that one is number 6!” The grandchild was fully alert. His father looked up and furrowed his brow. His son was right; the sign read number 6. So where was number 4?
f the path, after 10 walking through a thick s to house number 4.
The street was dark and empty. The houses seemed to be scattered haphazardly about. The son stepped out into the rain again and examined all the houses. Each villa was surrounded by thick hedges. Dogs barked. I hope I don’t open the wrong gate, he thought to himself, his discomfort increasing. We must find our villa already. What an obstacle course! He found houses number 1, 3,
They were careful not to make noise. They had been told that the area was populated by non-Jews, some of them anti-Semites. “Don’t make any problems,” the agent had told them. “Don’t do anything that might cause a chilul Hashem. Be quiet, cultured and well-mannered. Act respectful and don’t disturb the peace.” The warnings were superfulous. They hadn’t come with small children, after all, nor were they rough or noisy people by nature. But if they considered for a moment knocking on one of the doors, they rejected the idea immediately. Everyone was fast asleep; that much was obvious. “I’m going to try one more time,” the son said, on the verge of collapse. He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t find the villa but there certainly was no point in prowling the streets in the rain over and over again. “You know what?” he said suddenly. “I’m going to contribute a hundred shekels to Kupat Ha’ir. It certainly can’t hurt.” And he left the car again. He passed each house, checking the numbers. 2, 6, 8 – there was no 4! 3, 5, 7 – no 4! page 5 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
Suddenly, a light went on in one of the windows. A man in a checked pajama peeked out. “What’s the matter?” he asked, speaking Swiss-German. “We can’t find number 4,” the son replied in English. “Wait a minute.” Oh, Hashem – please. Would this man help them out? Had he been woken from his sleep? He didn’t appear to be angry. The door opened. The man stood there, barefoot. “What seems to be the problem?” “We can’t find house number 4! I checked all the houses on the street and there is no 4! My parents are in the car. They’re elderly people, not in the best of health. They need their medicine and they want to sleep.” The man shrugged his shoulders. “There’s no number 4, you say? That can’t be! I’ve been living here for years and I’ve never heard that joke. Just a minute.” The door closed behind him as the son waited outside, wondering what the man intended to do. A few moments later, the door opened again. The man was fully dressed now, complete with boots and a thick winter coat. He was holding an umbrella and a flashlight. “Let’s go,” he said to the son, who was standing there in shock. “Let’s find house number 4.” “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you like this,” the son protested in despair. “It’s raining hard outside. Just tell me where it might be.” “It could be anywhere. Let’s go see where it really is, not where it could be.” The man paid no attention to the son’s discomfort. He opened his umbrella and switched on his flashlight.
trees. “Where are you taking me?” he asked after a few minutes of following his guide through the darkness. He felt as though he were in the middle of a thick forest. “You wanted house number 4, didn’t you? I’m taking you to where there are a few more houses that belong to this street. They circled the mountain upon which the neighborhood homes were scattered, reaching its other side. Among the trees, the son could make out a few pointy roofs. The villas were barely visible. They were impossible to spot from afar, but they were a beautiful sight from up close. The non-Jew shone his flashlight on the area. House number 4 was the very first one. “There it is; we’ve found it,” he said. “That’s what’s important.” He turned to leave, the exhausted son trailing behind him. It had taken them ten minutes to find the house. Now they had a ten-minute walk back to the car, where his elderly parents and his son were waiting. The non-Jew disappeared, shrugging off the words of gratitude with which the son tried to shower him. “Did you find it, Abba?” his son asked, sticking his head out the window.
“Strange,” he murmured to himself. “But I guess if it isn’t on the main street, it must be on the side path.” In the darkness, he made his way to a narrow path that wound its way through the trees.
“Yes!” his father replied, putting his finger to his lips to remind his son to be quiet. “You won’t believe where it is. I could have spent all year looking for it and never finding it. If not for the man who got out of bed, dressed in middle of the night and walked with me through the rain, we would have had no choice but to spend the night in the car.”
The son stared. He had walked the path leading from one house to another more than twenty times but he had never noticed that the path continued further. It was completely hidden, surrounded by tall, thick
“It wasn’t in our honor that he did all that,” the father said, his voice filled with emotion. “Nor was it in my honor. It was in honor of Kupat Ha’ir!”
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The Golden Contribution Related by the P Family Tel: 052-7615846
"Don't forget to bring the becher.” Binyamin wouldn’t forget. Minda knew he wouldn’t, but she reminded him anyhow. The becher was such an integral part of the event that it was impossible to leave the house without mentioning it. She’d polished it two days ago already, rubbing and buffing it until it gleamed like new. As she worked, she’d read every name engraved upon it. The names of her parents and those of her husband’s appeared on the bottom, near the stem, inside the delicately etched roots. Her name and her husband’s were in the broad trunk and all her children’s names and those of their spouses, as well as her grandchildren’s names and those of their spouses comprised the branches. Even the greatgrandchildren’s names appeared in tiny, adorable leaves. It was a true work of art and extremely valuable. A golden goblet, Minda thought to herself with pleasure. Had her children had the same work done on a silver goblet, which would have cost far less, she’d have thanked them from the bottom of her heart. It wouldn’t have dawned on her that there could be anything better. But her children, they should be well, were always looking for ways to gladden their parents hearts in the best way possible. “We’ve already bought you a silver becher for your silver anniversary,” they had explained. “For your golden anniversary you deserve a golden becher!” The golden becher had been the highlight of the special celebration they had prepared in honor of their parents’ fiftieth anniversary. A golden goblet is not something you see every day – certainly not one so large and even more certainly not one with such intricate work on it! Minda and Binyamin guarded the becher carefully.
They never tired of looking at it, of running their fingers over the engraved names and sighing with gratitude to Hashem, Who had rescued her from Block 4 and her husband from the forest, bringing them to Eretz Yisrael to raise such a large and beautiful family. On leil haseder, the golden goblet served as Kos shel Eliyahu. Taller and more beautiful than any of the silver goblets they’d collected over the years, it stood proudly in middle of the table, where the grandchildren stared at it in awe. Minda and Binyamin also made sure to bring the goblet with them to the weddings of their grandchildren, where it was used under the chuppah. When it wasn’t in use, the goblet was kept hidden in a fireproof safe along with other valuables. daa It was only before a wedding that Minda would withdraw the goblet, polish itt and remind Binyamin to take it alongg rs to the wedding. Quite a number of years had passed since their golden anniversary and quite a few weddings, ken yirbu, had been h celebrated with their goblet, thee golden goblet. Itt had even madee a trip across thee o ocean, with no small amount of o n apprehension on nd d Minda’s part, and returned homee safely, thank G-d. page 7 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
The goblet was no longer merely a symbol of their children’s love and concern, of Minda’s and Binyamin’s joy at the family with which Hashem had blessed them, of their gratitude that their respective families’ legacy had not been cut off completely during the Holocaust. It had already become a part of their very essence, their very selves. At the conclusion of the chuppah at the Wagschall Hall in Bnei Brak, after the happy couple had gone to the yichud room and the guests were streaming back into the hall, Binyamin looked for the goblet – and couldn’t find it. “What do you mean, it disappeared?” Minda asked, feeling dizzy. “I don’t understand. Was it under the chuppah or wasn’t it?” “It was, Savta.” “And were the brachos recited over it or not?” ‘They were, Savta.” “And the person who recited the brachos – was he a real live person or perhaps Eliyahu Hanavi?” “Shh… it was the Rosh Ye s h i va , Savta.”
“Well? Where did he put it when he was done? He couldn’t have drunk the goblet, too, after all!” “It was passed to the kallah, who drank from it, and then to the parents, and then… and then we don’t know to whom!” “So ask!” Minda’s voice rose. “This is not a safety pin we’re talking about. It should be easy to see It’s just moments after the chuppah! Go ask everyone who drank what he did with it Quick, before it really gets lost!” They asked. And how they asked. Instead of washing their hands and sitting down to the seudas mitzvah, everyone was preoccupied with the lost goblet. The mechutanim heard what was going on and expressed how sorry they felt, but then turned to receive their guests. Binyamin, on the men’s side, and Minda on the women’s, were inconsolable. They watched anxiously as their children and grandchildren questioned everyone and searched over and over again. And they saw as all the searchers eventually raised their hands in despair. The goblet was gone. The chassan and kallah entered the hall. The orchestra swung into action and the dancing was lively. But Minda’s distress did not dissipate. On the contrary, it deepened with each passing moment. Minda refused to join the dancing; she only just barely refrained from weeping openly. Binyamin danced as if possessed, his eyes darting all over as he continued searching. The golden goblet; their golden goblet! “Abba, I spoke to everyone,” Binyamin’s oldest son told him. “Don’t take it so too heart. We’ll buy you a new goblet, the very same thing. You won’t know the difference!” But Binyamin shook his head sadly. “Twentyone of my grandchildren have already been married with the goblet,” he said. “We’ve celebrated seven Pesachs with it. How can a new goblet ever be the same? A replacement is never the same as an original. If it’s lost, then what it symbolized is lost as well.”
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“What makes you say that, Abba?” Binyamin’s son asked in distress. “Baruch Hashem, the family is alive
and well. The goblet is eitzim va’avanim, inanimate. Nothing is lost. We’ll buy a new becher! It’s not worth getting so upset about.” But Binyamin was upset, terribly so. He asked Minda what she thought and was not surprised when she reacted exactly as he had. After fifty-seven years together, they saw things the same way. The wedding was almost over. Most of the guests had left; the orchestra was packing up. Minda sat on a chair on the side, silent and withdrawn, her eyes downcast. On the other side of the mechitzah, Binyamin, exhausted, barely managed to shake the hands of the grandchildren as they came to tell him goodbye. “We’ve got to do something,” the sons told one another. “Abba has aged twenty years tonight! We shouldn’t have bought them a gift that they could grow so attached to.” The oldest daughter had a brainstorm. “We’ll tell them that tomorrow or the next day we’re bringing the police over to search the hall with specially trained dogs. In the meantime, we’ll order another such a goblet. We’ll have the artisan work throughout the night. He earned good money seven years ago. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to do so again!” “You’re dreaming,” her sisters-in-law informed her. “First of all, Ima knows every line on the goblet by heart. She’ll discover our deception immediately. Besides, it took the artisan three weeks last time. What makes you think he can do it in a night or two?” Minda was in a different world. She heard not a word of the discussion. Binyamin’s heart broke at the thought of her anguish in addition to his own. He knew his son was right: he ought to be grateful that it was only the goblet that was lost while his family was healthy, but… The younger sons and a few of the grandchildren began searching every centimeter of the hall and the courtyard. They left no stone unturned. They checked the entire hotel, the kitchen, the dressing rooms. Maybe, just maybe, the goblet would still turn up. When even their best efforts proved fruitless,
someone suddenly remembered Kupat Ha’ir. “Where are our brains?” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. “If Kupat Ha’ir were created for this situation only – dayeinu! If we find the becher still tonight, I’m contributing…” He specified a generous amount of money, a very generous amount indeed. He couldn’t bear to see his parents’ distress. He was prepared to do everything in his power to see them happy once more. The family stood around, holding their breaths. Binyamin and Minda sat side by side, waiting for a taxi to take them home. Alone, without the becher. “Why is everyone so quiet?” asked the son who had made the pledge. “What’s the matter, doesn’t anyone believe in the Ribono shel Olam anymore? Don’t you think He has the power to perform miracles? Don’t you think that if tzedakah has the power to rescue from death, it can return a lost goblet?” “A lost goblet, did you just say?” An unfamiliar avreich stood in the doorway to the hall. “Might this belong to you?” And he held out the golden goblet! Just like that, as if it were a play rehearsed in advance down to the tiniest details. The avreich explained that he had just left a simchah taking place in Hall B at Wagschall’s. For some reason (which reason?) he had walked through Hall C, which was empty that evening, and a package had caught his eye. He’d looked inside and discovered a very valuable item and he was trying to find the owner. Perhaps one of the non-Jewish workers had taken it and hidden it with the intention of returning for it after he finished his job for the night. Perhaps there is a different explanation. Who knows? And what difference does it make, really? One grandchild asked a question that reverberated through everyone’s mind a long time after the simchah was over: “Couldn’t we have taken this simple step as soon as it was discovered the goblet was lost? Is’nt it a shame that Sabba and Savta couldn’t enjoy the wedding?” page 9 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
Kupat Ha'ir's Grandma Related by the Protagonists Tel: 073-2219754
“In the summer? Chas vechalilah! It’s unthinkable to take a family to America during the summertime!” Rav Steinman’s, shlit”a, response was firm. His student was taken aback. “We planned to travel during bein hazemanim,” he explained weakly. “If we go in the winter, we’ll have to lose a few days of the zeman.” “You should not go in the summer. There is no question about it,” the Rosh Yeshivah repeated. The talmid was thoughtful as he left. He had already asked Maran shlit”a’s advice about taking his family abroad to procure American citizenship for his children. If his children were registered as American citizens, he’d be eligible to receive a considerable amount of money per child each year, assistance in financing his daughters’ high school tuition and a few other benefits. Rav Steinman had advised him to go ahead and apply. No one can say whether it is the extra income, so sorely needed by kollel avreichim in Eretz Yisrael today, that forms the basis of the Gadol Hador’s approach on this matter, or perhaps the possibility of providing the children with foreign citizenship, a possibility that helped many Yidden in times of trouble in the past. Whatever the case, he sent in an application along with all the necessary documentation and went through the long and exhausting process necessary for an entire family. Summer seemed the most convenient time for him as the winter was crammed with various events: his wife’s sister was getting married; his son needed to prepare for yeshivah entrance exams; it was essential that he be in Eretz Yisrael for the duration of Chanukah; and shortly thereafter, his oldest son would be celebrating his eighteenth birthday, at which point he would no longer be able to claim page 10 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
citizenship and be eligible for various benefits. The trip would take at least two weeks and finding two empty weeks in such a busy winter seemed like Mission: Impossible. “And you think that if you do find two convenient weeks, the American government will give you an appointment for precisely that time,” his wife said with a smile. “Go ask around, talk to people who have done this already. You submit a request and it takes half a year until they get back to you. They issue a date and you change your plans accordingly. They don’t let people tell them what to do. You come, you wait on line a few days, you go a little crazy, you regret having gone ahead with the whole idea – and finally, you leave with the papers you need. That’s how it works.” He took his wife’s advice and asked around. On the surface, it seemed he’d already missed the boat. The summer was almost over and he hadn’t yet submitted a request for a new appointment. Most dates during the winter were out of the question for him. So why should he bother with the whole exhausting procedure? “Wait a minute. We haven’t yet discussed what it’s like to take such a long flight with nine children,” his wife reminded him. “Think of all the spilled juice bottles on the flight. Think of all the messes we’ll have to clean and the fights we’ll have to settle. Think of getting off the plane with tired, sticky children who want nothing but to sleep and bringing them to an unfamiliar apartment with pillows that smell different from those we have at home. Think of…” “Stop!” “And then we’ll have to face the cross-interrogation of clerks who want to see you trip up and leave in
humiliation. In the best-case scenario, they’ll give us a list of documents we’re missing and need to come up with. We’ll have to send our relatives to the topsy-turvy apartment we left behind to poke through our drawers and closets to find the documents and fax them to us. Then we’ll discover that they faxed us the wrong…” She had a healthy sense of humor; there was no question about it. But he wished she’d joke about other things, not this. The whole project seemed too difficult, too tiring, too demanding. “Who says we’re obligated to go through with this as part of our hishtadlus?” he asked, trying to find the easy way out. Hishtadlus: that magic word. If you want to do it, it obligates you; if you don’t, it absolves you. It’s like a joker card that fits neatly into any empty space, playing whatever role you want it to. “Rav Steinman told you something about that, didn’t he?” Yes, that was true. His Rebbe, the Rosh Yeshiva, shlit”a, had explicitly instructed him to begin the procedure. But it just seemed so impossible. “Maybe we should request a new appointment. Make a contribution to Kupat Ha’ir and hope for the best,” his wife suggested. He felt like saying, “No, I’d rather not contribute nt and we can so that we won’t get an appointment just forget about the whole trip.”.” But he bit back the comment. tadlus. Itt Hishtadlus was hishtadlus. y. wasn’t always a joker. What a pity pity.
dollar bill in a Kupat Ha’ir tzedakah box affixed to a bus shelter. “Everything should work out for the best,” he whispered, hoping with all his heart that indeed it would. Should they make the trip? Shouldn’t they? Hashem had the answers. If it was for the best, things would somehow work out. On his way back home, he met someone “experienced” in such matters. The fellow heard his story and shook his head. “You just now submitted a request and you think you’ll get an appointment before Chanukah? Tell me, is your grandma the manager of the department over there? What do you think, that all the clerks are just waiting for Your Highness’ letter to arrive, whereupon they will set aside all other applications and free just the date you want?” He blushed. The “expert” made him feel so utterly ridiculous. “I did my hishtadlus,” he said in a calm voice that belied his inner turmoil. “I contributed to Kupat Ha’ir. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.” His friend clapped him on the shoulder and offered to bet $100 that his oldest son would lose his chance at citizenship. He didn’t take the bet. That wasn’t his way. He g d his feet all the way home and tried dragged to forget fo g about the
planniing He called a friend who was planning riend tol old the same trip. The friend told bout to him that he, too, was about submit a request for a new appointment. ice, hee Feeling he had no choice, uestin ng filled out the form requesting aced it i in a new appointment, placed an envelope and careful lly wrote w carefully out the address. On hi is w way to his it he h placed l d a h hu undredd d mailil it, hundredpage 11 story supplement Bein Hametzarim m 5769
whole thing. By the time the response letter arrived half a year from now it would be too late in any case. Three weeks later, there was an envelope in the mail. He tore it open impatiently, just to see which out-of-the-question date. It was a secular date, of course. Something didn’t make sense. Wait a minute, what month was it? And when was the appointment? Was he reading right? Yes…they had an appointment for two and a half weeks from that day! He ran up the stairs to his apartment and checked the calendar. The wedding would take place before, the entrance exams later. Chanukah was still quite some time away and his oldest son’s birthday after that. The date he had been assigned was simply the best one he could possibly have picked! He placed a phone call to his travel agent and before he knew it, he and his wife were preparing juice bottles and toys with which to occupy the kids on the flight. “My friend told me it took her four days,” his wife related on the plane. “For four days, they showed up in the morning and left in the afternoon after waiting hours in line.” She was prepared for the worst, her handbag bulging with paraphernalia to keep cranky kids happy. But the children were fascinated by the aircraft, the seats, the seatbelts and the lights you could switch on and off over your seat. They didn’t even look through her bag to see what there was to nosh. “So we’ll stand in line for four days. What can you do? Hashem helped us until this point and He’ll continue to help us in America, too.” “Okay. I brought along a ton of things to keep them busy. Forewarned is forearmed.”
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Their accommodations were pleasant. The pillows were soft; the beds were comfortable; the linens smelled inviting. The children lapsed into dreamland without any difficulty. Wonder of wonders. But the most amazing part happened the following day, at the government office. They arrived in time for their appointment and were greeted pleasantly by a clerk. He asked them to wait and she began opening the bag she’d brought along. But the department supervisor arrived a moment later, apologizing for the delay. She took their documents, seemingly oblivious to their pounding hearts. She riffled through the papers and stamped them. She spoke briefly with the children, pinched the little ones’ cheeks, made sure they were all there and… granted them citizenship. “Make sure you take your documents in your hand luggage when you travel back to Israel,” she advised. “Don’t pack them in your suitcases. Luggage gets lost sometimes, you know. It was pleasant meeting you all. Have a pleasant stay.” And with that, they found themselves outside. Outside! With the documents! Four days later, they were back in Eretz Yisrael, barely able to believe what had happened. “I can’t understand it. I sent my application to the exact same address on the same day you sent yours – and I still haven’t received a reply!” his friend said to him in despair shortly before Pesach. “Tell me, maybe your grandma really is the supervisor there?” “Not my grandma,” he replied with a smile. “Nor my wife’s grandma. She’s Kupat Ha’ir’s grandma! Seriously, why don’t you try contributing a hundred dollars to Kupat Ha’ir? Maybe things will start moving for you as well!”
A Fairytale Ending Related by the D Family Tel: 052-7623558 Lizhensk. Purity fills the air. It is very cold. Snow is everywhere: on the ground, on the trees, piled in front of houses. But inside the hearts of the Yidden gathered there it is warm indeed. A spirit of sanctity pervades the atmosphere. The small village is filled with Jews of every stripe and background. Everyone is heading to the same place: the tziyun of the Rebbe Reb Elimelech, zy”a. The emotion is palpable. Hands tremble; hearts pound. Visiting the gravesite of the saintly author of the Noam Elimelech on the day of his yahrtzeit, 21 Adar, is no simple matter. The Rebbe promised that whoever prays at his grave will not leave this world without first repenting, and who does not want to take advantage of a promise like that? Stories of yeshuos abound as well. Almost everyone has a story to tell – either one that happened to him personally or one he’s heard from others. Mrs. D was there, too. She’d come with a heavy burden in her heart, her distress like a heavy sack on her frail shoulders. She’d wept at the tziyun like she’d never wept before and exited a different person. Her feet felt lighter, her bitachon in Hashem stronger. She felt a sense of inner peace. Things could only get better now.
trip to the temporary airport where special flights had brought masses of people early in the morning and would return to fly them back when night fell. The women’s dining room was pleasant. It was staffed by smiling volunteers who served hot and cold drinks, bowls of soup and some side-dishes. There was plenty to go around and the atmosphere was respectable and congenial. Mrs. D. sat down at a side table, reveling in the warmth of the place after the freezing cold outside. Women came and went, sitting down for a moment and grabbing a bite on their way to or from the ohel. She could see traces of tears on the women sitting nearby, just as they could certainly see on her face. They were all sisters. It was getting late. A quick glance at her watch told her it was time to get moving. She quickly picked up her things and left, thanking the devoted volunteers on her way out. The bus leaving to the airport was almost completely full. She boarded from the back door and made her
She looked around for a place to sit down and rest a bit from the exertion of praying with all her heart and soul. She wanted to grab a bite before the return
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way to an available seat. It was a twenty-minute ride to the airport. With Hashem’s help, she’d be back in Eretz Yisrael in a few hours. She allowed her mind to drift as the bus traveled down snowy roads. Her newfound sense of calm was so pleasant. It was wonderful to have hope again. A tear welled up in the corner of her eye. She needed a tissue.
woman asked with concern. “Yes, there where quite a few important documents,” she replied, wringing her hands. I also had fifteen hundred dollars in my wallet. And… oh! My passport and ticket are in there, too! What do I do without all those things now?” “Were you anyplace besides the ohel?”
But the black pocketbook wasn’t there!
“Yes, I stepped into the dining room for a few minutes. Maybe I left it there.” She remembered clearly that she’d collected her things before she left, including her pocket book. But maybe she’d accidentally dropped it. Who knew?
Alarmed, she picked up a different bag, thinking maybe she’d stuffed her pocketbook inside there. No luck. She searched under her seat, in the aisles – no pocketbook.
Aboard the bus were a number of “movers and shakers,” the types who know the phone numbers of everyone who is anyone. They placed a number of urgent calls and reported the situation.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone’s going to look in the women’s section of the ohel,” one such fellow reassured Mrs. D. “What does your pocketbook look like? Are there any identifying details?”
Absent-mindedly, she fished through the bags on her knees for the package of tissues she knew she had in the front pocket of her black pocketbook.
“What are you missing?” The women sitting near her were eager to help. Within a few minutes, the entire area had been searched. News of the missing pocketbook traveled to the front of the bus, where a similar search was held. No pocketbook. Obviously, she had boarded the bus without it. “Was there anything very important inside?” one page 14 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
Mrs. D. described her pocketbook and its contents to the best of her ability. “The person I spoke to will have someone check the women’s dining room, too,” the fellow told Mrs. D, hanging up. “He should get back to me in a few minutes.”
In the meantime, the bus pulled up at the airport. But the passengers were in no rush to disembark. What would Mrs. D. do without her ticket or her passport? Where would she stay until arrangements were made for new documents? All Yidden are bothers and everyone felt he couldn’t just leave her alone and helpless. Someone went to speak to the person in charge of the flights. Everyone avoided glancing at his watch. No one wanted to appear impatient or anxious; that would only increase Mrs. D’s tension. Mrs. D. was literally trembling. She was afraid to think what would happen when her fellow passengers boarded the plane and flew home to Eretz Yisrael. She’d have to stay all by herself in Lizhensk, Poland until temporary travel documents could be procured. It was not a pleasant scenario. “We’ll delay the flight a bit,” the man said, returning to the bus. “The person in charge says he can wait an hour, maximum an hour and a half. Any longer than that and the whole schedule will be affected. We must find the pocketbook within the hour.” But the person who had checked the ohel called back to say that the pocketbook had not been found. Nothing matching Mrs. D’s description of her pocketbook had been found in the dining room, either. The bus was searched thoroughly once more. Nothing. No pocketbook. hiich to report It was difficult to find the words with which n wanted to ne the results of the search to Mrs. D. No one n without nsk, be in her place. She was all alone in Lizhensk, her husband or children.
through their pockets while others used their cell phones to call Kupat Ha’ir and contribute via credit card. One man took a shopping bag and walked up and down the aisle to collect the money. The bag grew steadily fuller as people put in bills and coins. The “collector” finished collecting from the men and a woman rose and began “soliciting” from the women. You could have heard a pin drop on the bus as people waited expectantly for a miracle to occur. They knew the pocketbook was neither in the ohel nor the dining room. They knew the flight had to leave very soon and there would be no choice but to leave the woman there without her documents. So how…? The solicitation was nearly complete. The last woman found eighteen shekels in her purse. The ring of a cell phone broke the silence. “Really? Where? I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! Of course, tell them to send it right over. We’ll wait; of course we’ll wait!” He hung up. In a voice that was a mixture of amazement, incredulity and joy, he announced the news. “A non-Jew just showed up to return the pocketbook. He found it on the street, very close to where we boarded the bus. They checked the contents. The documents are there; the passport and ticket are intact; and the money is there in its entirety, too!”
d the When all avenues had been explored and clock was moving quickly toward the end of the pre-determined hour and a half,f, one person spoke up. an to “Yidden, brothers do whatever they ca can i our help! We haven’t yet done everything in o Kupat power: we haven’t yet contributed to o ommit Ha’ir! I suggest that every one of us commit himself to contribute eighteen shekelss to Kupat Ha’ir. Hashem will help!” ed d Everyone nodded. Some people fished page 15 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
Too Good To Be True Name withheld for obvious reasons
"It's not as terrible as you think," the midwife said consolingly to the young mother, who was sobbing bitterly. "It's unpleasant at first but you'll be taught what to do. At a relatively young age, your daughter will have surgery and from then on she'll function perfectly normally. She'll be just like everyone else, like all her peers. Be grateful that her problem is repairable!" Buttheyoung mothercontinued crying uncontrollably. She refused to let her mother or mother-in-law in to see her and would not even look at her husband. The baby had been taken for extensive testing. When one problem is diagnosed there is always the fear that additional problems will be found. " She's still exhausted from the birth," she heard the midwife explain to her mother and mother-in-law, who were waiting anxiously outside. "She doesn't have the strength to talk right now. I suggest you come back tomorrow. We'll be taking her up to her room now, but it's past visiting hours already. By tomorrow she should be feeling much, much better."But the new mother kept crying. She cried in the recovery room and she cried in the maternity ward. The other women in her room feared the worst. They asked one of the nurses if‌ "No, her baby is alive, thank G-d," the nurse replied. "She has a cleft palate. Try to be supportive. She's so young; she's not even twenty years old yet. You're both mature women, experienced mothers. Sometimes it's a chance comment from someone on the sidelines that has the best chance of penetrating."But there was no one to talk to. She was still crying the following day when her mother and her husband's mother came to visit. Her supply of tears dried up and replenished itself over and over page 16 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
again with every visitor she received and every time she picked up her baby. Her roommates told her about babies they knew who had been born with the very same condition and were today blossoming young men and women. They even showed her pictures of adorable, laughing children whom no one would ever guess had been born with a cleft palate. The new mother remained inconsolable. "She's very young. Too much has happened to her at once," people said. "Just one year ago she was a young, carefree girl. She went so quickly from being a girl to a bride to a young mother. The problem caught her completely off guard. Give her time. She'll get back to herself." And she did, although not completely. "I won't be able to calm down until we find ourselves after the surgery, with everything in order," she told her husband. He, too, was young and overwhelmed. Everyone was so busy showering his distraught wife with attention that no one really paid much mind to his own qualms. He was all of twenty-one years old yet he was expected to be strong and strengthen his wife. The strain was taking its toll on him. A few months passed. The mother learned to feed her baby with a special bottle. She followed the doctor's instructions and slowly, slowly, her confidence returned. The baby developed beautifully. Her eyes sparkled when she saw her mommy or daddy and her delightful gurgles were an absolute pleasure to listen to. But the surgery was like a black cloud hanging over their heads. "We recommend surgery abroad," the professionals
said. "Dr. X works at a large medical center in the States and he's tops at repairing birth defects such as your daughter's. If he operates, she'll be a regular child with no hint of the problem she was born with, please G-d. Don't risk settling for a lesser surgeon. If her appearance is compromised, your daughter will have a lifelong struggle with poor self-esteem, social difficulties and other problems."It was the grandparents who scraped together the necessary funds for the flight, the hospitalization period and the operation. It was they who gathered the necessary documentation from the young couple and they who made arrangements for passports and flight reservations. A mountain of paperwork was faxed from the parents' house to the medical center and back. A date was set for the surgery and a host family was found to accommodate the couple during their stay abroad. Everything was ready. Everything. Two days before the flight, after many sleepless nights, the young father suddenly broke down. "I don't see how we can go ahead with this trip," he told his wife, tears filling his eyes. "I don't speak a word of English. I'm so afraid. It's one thing to go as the baby's mother, to hold her and cuddle her and be busy caring for her. It's quite another to be the one in charge, to
talk to doctors and make decisions. I feel personally responsible for both your welfare and the baby's and I just feel I can't handle such a large burden myself." He was in a terrible state. The young mother contacted her extended family. "Two days before the flight!" an older brother-inlaw exclaimed. "It probably should have occurred to us earlier that you'd need someone older and more experienced to accompany you. The three of you are still children, after all! But now? Where can I find someone with a valid passport who can drop everything on such short notice? And who says there's still room on your flight?""I don't know what to say," the young father stammered. "I'm prepared to do anything necessary. Please understand, I'm not trying to shirk responsibility. I would walk there by foot if I had to. But traveling to a foreign country when I don't speak the language at all, to face senior doctors and make decisions when I don't really understand what's going on‌ it's a nightmare. It wouldn't be responsible of me to do that to my daughter. I wish I felt more confident‌ but I don't. What can I do?"The young man's confusion and helplessness threatened to overwhelm him. "I'm contributing a hundred shekels to Kupat Ha'ir," the young father said to his wife. "I don't know if it page 17 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
will help or how it can help. That’s my hishtadlus. Hakadosh Baruch Hu has many ways and means at His disposal and He can perform miracles, too.” “What kind of miracle? Do you think our daughter’s cleft palate will suddenly repair itself overnight?” his wife asked. “That’s what you call a tefillas shav, I think.” “Maybe so, but I didn’t say that. What I said was that I’m contributing and Hashem will help me however He sees fit. If He sees fit that we travel on our own despite the fact that we know nothing about the procedure our baby has to go through – we’ll do that and place our trust in Him. If He wants to help us in a different way, something else will happen. Are there any limits to what Hashem can do?” She listened in silence, her eyebrows raised. Poor thing, she thought to herself. He’s so scared he can’t think logically. Maybe what happened to me after the birth is happening to him now. He feels the sky crashing down on his head. They continued their preparations but there was a certain sense of expectation in the air. The following day, one day before their flight, the phone rang. On the phone was the interpreter for the medical center in the U.S., the one who had helped them make all the arrangements. “Doctor X, who was supposed to operate on your daughter, left the country today,” he informed them. Their hearts sank. They had waited so long for this page 18 story supplement Bein Hametzarim 5769
appointment. Who knew how long it would be before they got another slot? “He was summoned to the Gaza Strip because of the war going on there. Our medical center is providing humanitarian aid to Palestinians hurt in the fighting. Since you live in Israel, we spoke to Dr. X about your situation. He’s willing to travel to the medical center in Herzeliya, where he’s already been in the past, and operate on your daughter there. It’s not official; you’ll pay him directly and make sure to be discreet. We suggest you jump at the opportunity.” They hung up the phone and stared at one another, unable to believe what they had just heard. Dr. X, the top specialist, would operate on their daughter in Eretz Yisrael! Could it be true? Might someone be playing a joke on them? He began to laugh and cry at the same time. “Do you realize what’s happening here?” he asked his wife. “I told you Hashem had many ways and means at His disposal, but I never dreamed that for a hundred shekels, He’d fly the surgeon directly to us! It defies logic; it’s beyond our wildest expectations. It’s simply too good to be true!” The little girl had the operation in Eretz Yisrael. The surgery was a success. A contribution to Kupat Ha’ir had done its job once again. How did the father put it? “Are there any limits to what Hashem can do?”
On the Path to Yeshuos
To hear the story from the protagonist: 052-7638388
Maran Hagaon Harav Aharon Leib Steinman, shlit”a, gave Kupat Ha’ir two beautiful gifts in honor of the Shavuos appeal. Both of them were given inadvertently and unintentionally – which only serves to heighten their value and power! Until now, everything had gone according to the plan. Shlomo, a fine avreich who studies at a kollel in Bnei Brak, offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving to Hashem every morning. His children were nearly gown. Shidduchim loomed closer than “on the horizon.” His family lived on a tight budget and Shlomo realized that unless he planned seriously for the future, he’d be in trouble. That is, he’d be faced with expenses he wouldn’t know how to begin covering. Shlomo began to inquire carefully about different methods of earning some money on the side. His y, thank G-d and his family’s basic needs were many,
economic options quite limited. The brief amount of time he had at his disposal between sedarim to devote to the topic did not leave him much room for maneuvering. A friend told him about an excellent idea many people had tried with much success. You purchase a neglected apartment in some outlying town, invest in minor renovations and rent it out. The rent money covers the mortgage you take to cover the cost of the purchase. Within a brief amount of time, you have an asset that yields considerable profits. “You mean I can buy an apartment without going into debt?” Shlomo was sure he hadn’t heard right. “Yes, there is a certain element of risk, but still, you buy an apartment, pay for it with the rent money and eventually become the full owner. At that point, the rent money is all income and you can use it to p yyou marry off your children.” help
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A loyal talmid, Shlomo went to seek the counsel of Maran Hagaon Harav Steinman, shlit”a, without whom he never makes any significant decisions. Harav Steinman listened attentively and gave him his blessing.
over and Shlomo had to pay the mortgage out of his own pocket. He didn’t have where to pay it from! He had a hard enough time supporting his family as it was. With a heavy heart, he borrowed money and made the monthly payment to the bank.
Things moved pretty quickly from there. Shlomo purchased one apartment and divided it into two housing units. He borrowed money, invested in minimal renovations and put the apartments up for rent. At first, things went well. The apartments were rented out, the money entered Shlomo’s account on the first of every month and out again on the twentieth to pay the mortgage.
Five weeks, six, seven… soon the second month would be coming to an end. What should he do? His heart was heavy with apprehension. He was filled with doubt: maybe the whole plan was flawed? How could he possibly make two mortgage payments? Had he purchased a productive cow or had he purchased a bottomless pit that had to be “supported” with monthly payments to the bank. Hadn’t things been tight enough as it was without this headache? Since when did an inexperienced avreich like himself deal in real estate, anyway?
Shlomo thanked Hashem. In another few years, the rent money would be his own! The thought made him breathe easier. He wasn’t terribly preoccupied with taking care of the property, just as his friend had promised. And with Hashem’s help, he’d have a steady, convenient source of income. Thank G-d. After a “smooth” period with no obstacles, however, trouble began. One tenant left and another took his place. The second one, too, decided to leave. Breaches of contract, unexpected expenses, installments… Shlomo wanted to put it all behind him. He yearned to study in peace without being involved in rentals, keys, and various people and their demands. One apartment was rented out. The other stood empty. A week w ekk passed, we pas a seed, d tthe hen he n tw two, o, tthen heen th h hre ree. eT e. he m onth on th hw as then three. The month was
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It was bein hazemanim. One day, while walking in the street, Shlomo stopped at a bus stop. A metal Kupat Ha’ir pushkah caught his eye. Kupat Ha’ir! The thought occurred to him. Kupat Ha’ir…maybe salvation will come from there? Maybe a generous contribution to Kupat Ha’ir would finally bring the tenants and everything would be in order? He considered for a brief moment. The apartment had been empty for seven weeks and there was no potential tenant on the horizon. He had to do something. Wasn’t this the best possible “something”? “The first rental payment for this apartment goes to Kupat Ha’ir,” Shlomo thought to himself as he stood there in the bus stop. He felt better, somehow. He
wasn’t carrying the burden alone. Hakadosh Baruch Hu, Father of the poor and needy, would surely become a partner in his dealings. The next steps were easy. He felt calm and relaxed, close and beloved. He hadn’t actually done anything yet, but he already felt himself rising an inch above the ground. How great is the power of a good decision! He continued on to his destination, a bein hazemanim yeshivah located in one of the battei knesses in the city. He opened the door and was greeted by the roar of Torah study. Hundreds of bachurim and avreichim were toiling over their studies. He was overcome with a rush of joy and love. How he loved Torah and admired those who studied it! He, too, was eager to be a part of the incomparable magic. A sign on the wall caught his eye. Maintaining the kollel for one day of bein hazemanim costs X amount. The contributor earns the merit of the Torah studied that day. Suddenly, he felt a stab to his heart. Why did I rush to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir? He asked himself in disappointment. An entire month’s rent! I could have given it here, for Torah study! Hours and hours of Torah study by hundreds of scholars! What can compare to the support of Torah study? But he’d already made a commitment… True, he hadn’t actually said anything, but he had made up his mind. It might even be considered a neder. Feeling distressed, Shlomo went to see Rav Steinman, shlit”a, once again. Maybe he would help him get out of his mess. Maybe he would tell him what to do. He was
a loyal student who followed his rebbi’s instructions implicitly. Harav Steinman listened to Shlomo’s story from beginning to end. He heard about the lack of tenants, the internal promise to Kupat Ha’ir and Shlomo’s distress at his oversight: why hadn’t he thought to contribute to the bein hazemanim yeshivah, to Torah itself? “And if you contribute– are you sure you will find tenants?’ he asked.”It’s not a sure thing!” Shlomo nodded. Yes, he knew that. That was what hishtadlus was all about. This was the type of hishtadlus he had chosen to do. Rather than pay a broker, rather than spend on advertising, rather than hanging notices all over the neighborhood. Hishtadlus! “Torah takes top priority, there’s no question,” Rav Steinman murmured, as if to himself. Shlomo could barely swallow his disappointment. He was so tight in money. One time he was prepared to give away such a significant amount of money… why hadn’t he merited? Why? He wasn’t complaining, G-d forbid; he was just so disappointed. He was upset with himself. Why hadn’t he thought a little bit more? Where was his ahavas haTorah? Aloud, he said not a word. Suddenly, Rav Steinman raised his head, a shy smile on his face. He spoke with soft wonder. “You say you decided to give the contribution so that the tenants would come, isn’t that right?” he asked.
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Shlomo nodded. “Well then, we see that yeshuos come best through Kupat Ha’ir,” Rav Steiman said. “I don’t know why or how but that is what we see all the time. That’s what we hear from people. If it’s a yeshuah you’re looking for, Kupat Ha’ir – not the bein hazemanim yeshivah is the right place.” Shlomo listened carefully. Maran, shlit”a, lowered his head once again, deep in thought. Then he raised it again. “And besides… besides, you should know that Kupat Ha’ir supports thousands upon thousands of avreichim! Thousands of talmidei chachamim, true bnei Torah! Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir means supporting Torah on a grand scale, no less than giving to a bein hazemanim yeshivah! It’s not less; it’s maybe more! “You have no reason to feel sorry.”
The other people present in the room felt a deep sense of discovery. They had just gained new understanding. Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir is no less supporting Torah than contributing to a yeshivah! Yeshuos come mainly through Kupat Ha’ir! Maran Hagaon Harav Steinman, shlit”a! His clear intelligence, his uncompromising stand on principle, his sobriety, his razor-sharp outlook. This is what he said! Those were his words! He was not merely consoling a disappointed student. His words send a powerful message. They change the way most people see things. Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir is no less than giving to a bein hazemanim yeshivah. It may even be more! And despite the fact that we knew, and despite the fact that the gedolei hador had said so numerous times, still, hearing the words directly from Rav Steinman’s mouth lends them incomparable power. Yeshuos come best through Kupat Ha’ir! We see it all the time! If we hadn’t heard it with our own ears, we wouldn’t believe it! Although the story really ends here, and there is no need to add another word, still, there is a moving and surprising ending. Shlomo did not have to wait long for the big moment when he contributed the first month’s rent money. Nor did he have to wait longingly while day after day passed and his apartment stood empty. Within a few days, he found a tenant for… five years! No more new contracts. No renovations between one tenant and another. No empty spaces in the rent periods and no other problems of any sort. Good tenants at a good rate for five full years. Five full years of quiet! No one was as moved as he to receive the first month’s rent. Or maybe that’s not quite accurate. The gabba’im of Kupat Ha’ir were at least as moved as he, if not more. And now you are, too…
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The Gedolei Hador reading the Yeshuos booklet of kupat Ha'ir
Harav Hagaon R' Chaim Kanievsky Kanievsky, shlit"a
Harav Hagaon R' Aharon Leib Steinman, shlit"a
Harav Hagaon R' Michel Yehudah Lefkowitz, shlit"a
t Ha'ir, p u K h g u ro th s o u sh Hashem sendsmyeanaged with integrity which is
KUPAT HA'IR The Tzedakah Of The Gedolei Hador
1-866-221-9352