26 Jul REMEMBERING RABBI SHLOMO HALBERSTAM ZT”L THE BOBOVER REBBE (1908 -2000) ON THE 22ND YAHRTZEIT

This Friday, July 29th, Rosh Chodesh Menachem Av is the

22nd yahrtzeit of the Bobover Rebbe, Rav Shlomo

Halberstam (1908-2000), son of Rav Benzion, grandson of

Rav Shlomo, founder of the Bobov dynasty. At the outbreak

of World War II, he and his father escaped to Lemberg. On

the fourth of Av 1942 his father was killed, and Rav Shlomo

escaped to the Bochnia Ghetto. In Bochnia, the Rav lost his

rebbetzin and two children. He managed to escape with his

only surviving child, Reb Naftali, to Budapest, and then to

Bucharest. Rav Shlomo is believed to have been the last

remaining Chassidic rebbe to have survived the Holocaust.

Born in the Galicia region of central Europe, Rav Shlomo

arrived in the United States in 1946, alone and indigent

after his group was largely obliterated by the Nazis. During

the war, Rav Shlomo dressed up as a nun in order to rescue

other Jews, hiding them in the false bottom of a coal truck.

He strove to create a Bobov that would match the Bobov

that had been destroyed, working assiduously to build

chassidim that his father would have been proud of. Rav

Shlomo is widely credited with rebuilding the Bobover

community in the United States.

 

 

 

It’s hard to believe that its been

thirty three years. The date, Friday,

February 12, 1988. It was exactly

eight days before my Bar Mitzvah.

Surprisingly my father picked me up

from Yeshiva and told me we were in for

a special treat. As we entered Boro Park,

I still had no clue whom or where I was

going to see or meet. My father

managed to  nd a parking spot on 15th

Avenue between 46th and 47th streets.

We walked to the corner of 48th street

and 15th Avenue to an attractive looking

home that somehow appeared out

of place in Boro Park. To my surprise,

outside this home waited my

90-year-old great uncle Harry Boren

and his wife, my great aunt Eleanor. My

uncle greeted me and

told me again that this

would be a day I would

never forget for the rest

of my life. He was certainly

correct! I was at the

home of the Grand Rabbi,

Rabbi Shlomo Halberstam

zt”l, The Bobover

Rebbe.

My family is not Bobov,

however, growing up I

always knew that my

family had some sort of

connection to the Bobover

family. I knew that my

family was with Rabbi

Halberstam zt”l in Poland.

But that was all I had

known.

As we were greeted by

the Gabbai of the Rebbe,

Reb Shmuel Horowitz zt”l, I immediately

felt as though we were royalty. The

Gabbai took us up the steps where the

Rebbetzin greeted us. We followed the

Rebbetzin to the dining room, where

she gave us something to drink and

warmly conversed with all of us. About

 ve minutes into the conversation, the

Rebbe appeared.

The very air around us seemed to clear a

path for the Rebbe. Could this room

alone contain all the greatness that

stood before me? I knew that I was in

the presence of one of the leading

 gures of Torah Jewry. Physically, he

was a tall man in stature, with a silver

beard and horn-rimmed glasses. He

wore a magni cent navy blue,

patterned robe. He kissed my

uncle, and treated him as though

he was the Rebbe, the “nobleman”.

His actions and his m a n n e r i s m

s made an impression on me that

I shall never forget.

My uncle proceeded to introduce

my father and me to the Rebbe. In

a mixture of broken English,

Hebrew and Yiddish, the Rebbe

spoke to us for close to two hours.

To any Bobover Chasid, this would

seem impossible, however, the

Rebbe spoke to my uncle like he

was his best friend. He talked

about the old times with my uncle,

showed us pictures of his family in

Eretz Yisrael and tested me on the

Perek of Gemara I was learning in

Yeshiva.

My great uncle Harry Boren and

the Bobover Rebbe discussed the

relationship between my great

great Grandfather Aryeh Leib

Borenstien, (my namesake and Uncle

Harry’s father) and the Rebbe’s father,

Rabbi Ben Zion Halberstam zt”l. As

times grew worse for the Jewish people

in Galicia, Poland in the early 1900’s, the

elder Bobover Rebbe recognized the

dangers that lurked. However, for fear of

intermarriage and the lures of the

“brave new world,” Rabbi BenZion

Halberstam, was hesitant to allow immigration

to the United States.

However, he felt that the Borensteins

were a family that would not succumb

to outside temptations. Aryeh Leib and

his family settled in America and the

situation worsened in Poland. As World

War II approached, Aryeh Leib recognized

that the Bobover dynasty was in

danger of becoming lost in the ashes of

the Holocaust. He and a small group of

dedicated followers made every

attempt, and succeeded, to bring Rabbi

Ben-Tzion Halberstam, zt”l, and his

family to America in the 1940’s.

An hour passed like seconds, and the

Rebbe took out a Sefer Torah that was

written by a sofer of the Baal Shem Tov,

the founder of Chasidus. He told me

that he was a direct ninth descendant

of the Baal Shem Tov and that this Sefer

Torah had been handed down from one

generation to the next in his family. The

Rebbe allowed my father and me to

hold and kiss the Torah. Years later, I

went to the Rebbe for Simchas Torah

and learned that he would only dance

with this Torah on this day. I was among

the privileged few who had the “zechus”

to hold this precious Sefer Torah.

The Rebbe ended our conversation

when it was time for him to daven

Mincha. Before he left, he presented me

with a bar mitzvah gift of a silver

kiddush cup and his grandfather’s work,

Divrei Chaim. The bond between our

families was apparent to me, and the

bracha he gave me to continue in the

footsteps of my family only strengthened

our bond.

Over the years, I have managed many

times to visit Bobov in Boro Park. One

year I visited the Bobover Succah on

one of the nights of Chol Hamoed. It

was the  rst time I ever went to a

Rebbe’s Tish. I was amazed at the

amount of followers that came, longing

to get a piece of the Rebbe’s food, a

bracha in its own right. When the Rebbe

saw me, he told the person next to him

to make sure I got a spoon of his soup. I

was astounded that he still remembered

me, even years after I had  rst

met him.

Regretfully, I had been out of town the

day of the Rebbe’s P’Tirah. However, I

heard how the streets of Boro Park had

been closed for blocks. I heard how in

addition to the Rebbes six thousand

chasidim, there were an additional

thirty thousand mourners from all over

the world who came to show their

respect, devotion, and dedication to

the Rebbe. My father later told me how

he had been among those who listened

to the Rebbe’s son’s words of mourning

and comfort. My father, one of thousands,

is testimony as to how one man,

one great man, touched the lives of so

many and will be gravely missed.