Yeshuos Rosh Hashana 5770

7STORY SUPPLEMENT KUPAT HA'IR

Suk

kos

5770

Table of Contents Awaiting the YeshuahSlowly but surely, the picture is changing.

How long is it since people contributed to Kupat Ha’ir with the same attitude as a sick man paying a witch doctor: it can’t hurt to try?

How long is it since people had to give themselves pep talks that, “the main thing is that the money goes to tzedakah,” to contend with the feeling that chances were they wouldn’t really see results?

How long is it since then? A year? Two? Four? Sometimes it seems twenty-five years have raced by. Today the picture is very different from what it was.

“Something went wrong so that we should be prodded to give tzedakah,” a mother explains to her children, who are being raised at the knees of Kupat Ha’ir.

People run into problems of various types and they see these occurrences as reminders directly from Hashem: "Look up to Me; I’m here". They find themselves in an uncomfortable or pressurizing situation and they know: it’s too long since we’ve davened from the depths of our heart. Hashem wants to hear our voice.

They contribute to Kupat Ha’ir and offer a sincere prayer to Hashem. They truly sense that they are Hashem’s beloved children, as indeed they are.

The yeshuah that comes as a result is the “cherry on top,” the sign that Hashem is pleased. It is your heart that I desire, My son.

Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir forges an immediate bond with Hashem. It opens the contributor’s heart, on the one hand, and the gates of Heaven, on the other. Kupat Ha’ir has the merit of serving as the bridge between you and the Creator at the exalted moment when the connection is made.

This brochure contains eight stories collected from people from different walks of life. The common denominator between them is the stunning revelation of Hashem’s direct supervision over each and every one of us. You will certainly identify with some of them or maybe even all of them. They affect us all. We are all members of the same Kupat Ha’ir family.

pg.3In Absence of a TziyunThis story can be heard firsthand at...................................................... 011-972-50-4111458

pg.10Second Time in the Yeshuos Magazine To hear the story from a friend of the family, call .......011-972-50-4102372.

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pg.18Eight Children Experience A MiracleThis story can be heard firsthand at .................................................00-972-52-7631189

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pg.21"I Didn't Contribute And I Merited A Yeshuah!"This story can be heard firsthand .....................................011-972-52 – 7684650

pg.22The Most Potent MedicationName Withheld for Obvious Reasons

pg.7No Chance At All(?)This story can be heard firsthand at ..................................................011-972-57-3119274

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pg. 12The ExceptionThis story can be heard firsthand at............................................... 011-972-50-4140370

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pg. 15For One ShekelThis story can be heard firsthand at................................................011-972-8 -9744445

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page 2 story supplement Sukkos 5770

In Absence of a TziyunThis story can be heard firsthand at 011-972-50-4111458

Tzvika was a good bachur. Very good, even.

His first two years at yeshivah ketanah were filled with serious, intensive learning. The third year, shiur gimmel, began well, too.

He was a “good boy” who gave his parents nachas and joy. They received him eagerly whenever he had a free Shabbos. They beamed with pride at their talmid chacham and sent him back to yeshivah with lots of hopes and prayers, certain that he would continue to make progress in his studies.

But then he began gaining familiarity with Eretz Yisrael. We have a small, beautiful country with dozens – perhaps hundreds – of trails to explore from north to south. They captivate. They pull. They tempt. In shiur gimmel, supervision of the bachurim is slightly less strict, less close. A bachur may leave yeshivah now and then to air out and enjoy himself a bit.

Tzvika had friends who made sure to tell him all this. “Come spend one day with us,” they said. “You’ll have a good time. Besides, we’re going to stop at the mekomos hakedoshim as well,” they added soothingly.

Tzvika listened to them. He closed his Gemara and joined the trip. Two weeks later, he joined again. He felt the cold splash of the Banias on his skin, climbed cliffs, saw the Judean Desert and

marveled at the Herodium.

As the various sights of Eretz Yisrael grew more and more familiar to him, the pathways of Gemara grew vaguer and blurrier. There is no room in one heart for both Torah and joy trips. Tzvika’s new friends made him dizzy with delight as they described where they intended to go during bein hazemanim in Nisan. Then they’d really be able to prepare properly and enjoy to the hilt.

Tzvika’s mind was preoccupied with planning routes and itineraries. There was no room left for Gemara. Of course, he sat and learned while in yeshivah, but it was little more than lip service. He did it because he had to. He had to be able to tell his father something on Shabbos; he had to pass his tests.

The summer zeman began. The staff tried to stop Tzvika’s deterioration. “Catch yourself before you fall, Tzvika,” his maggid shiur told him.

“You used to be a top student,” the mashgiach said. “You can still make your way back. Sit down and start learning seriously. You know how to learn, after all, and you enjoy it!”

But he didn’t catch himself. He didn’t

make his way back to being a top student. He wanted to, but it was so hard to break away from his new social circle, from the new concepts they had taught him.

When the time came to enroll in yeshivah, Tzvika wanted to apply to a top yeshivah where he felt he could forget about the past few months and begin shteiging anew. His soul yearned to rejoin the serious learners, the real masmidim. He wanted it, too. But it was hard.

Maybe if he’d get into a top yeshivah, he’d be able to extricate himself from the rut he’d fallen into and succeed once again.

“Yeshivas Darkei Tuvya?” Tzvika’s maggid shiur didn’t want to hurt his student’s feelings, but he tried gently to make him rethink his plans. “Considering your progress over the past year… uh… I’m not so sure it will work,” he said uncomfortably. They’re very picky at Darkei Tuvya.”

Time passed. Tvika didn’t know what to do. He wanted to attend Darkei Tuvya. He was a good bachur and he knew that the real him was suited to study there. Had the entrance exams been held at the end of shiur beis, he would have gotten in easily. His ra”m had told him as much. It was just this past year, the year of shiur gimmel, that was ruining his chances for the future. Not a single yeshivah had contacted him to come in and be tested. Apparently, they had all heard that this was a bachur who didn’t take his learning seriously.

The entrance exams for yeshivah gedolah would be taking place the following day.

But Tzvika’s friends…

They were taking a trip up north. It was a fantastic trip, they assured him. “You can’t miss it,” they urged him. And he had no intention of missing it.

What about the entrance exams? Well, what of them? He hadn’t been contacted by any yeshivah in any case, certainly not Darkei Tuvya, which was where he really wanted to learn.

Tzvika went with his friends. His conscience pricked him terribly. He wanted to get in to Darkei Tuvya!

That was the yeshivah that was compatible with his aspirations, with his father’s dreams and his mother’s prayers. That was the yeshivah that was compatible with his abilities as they had been expressed until the past year.

But Darkei Tuvya had not even summoned him to be tested. He had zero chance of being accepted there or at any other good yeshivah. No one had summoned him; no one was interested in accepting him.

In the evening, after a day of hiking, they arrived in Tverya. They passed Beis Knesses Ohr Torah and went inside. It was quiet inside. There were sifrei kodesh, benches and a couple of brochures scattered about.

One of them was from Kupat Ha’ir.

Tzvika skimmed through the stories in the brochure. “From the Cemetery –Back to Life,” read one title.

I was a good bachur, the story began, but I just didn’t take my learning seriously.

Tzvika sat up straighter and read the rest of the story with rapt attention. Shuki, the narrator, was a good bachur who just didn’t take his learning seriously. He wasn’t accepted to the yeshivah of his choice, a yeshivah where he felt he could turn over a new leaf…

Tzvika was fascinated by the story; it was his story, too.

Shuki’s father had contributed NIS 1800 to Kupat Ha’ir. Eighteen hundred shekels – a considerable sum for someone who was not a man of means. He had traveled with his son to the tziyun of the Tchebiner Rav, zt”l, whose yeshivah Shuki wanted dearly to attend.

They were praying at the Rav’s grave when they met a Yid from abroad. The Yid inquired what they were davening for and they told him that Shuki dearly wanted to be accepted into the Tchebiner yeshivah. The Yid was convinced that Shuki was sincere in his conviction to buckle down to learning if only he got into the yeshivah of his choice. On the spot, he told Shuki to call the yeshivah again the following day


and set up a date for a second farher. “Study the sugya very thoroughly and Hashem will help,” he said.

Shuki studied, Hashem helped and the test went well. He was accepted into the yeshivah.

I did very well at the yeshivah, baruch Hashem, Shuki related in the story in the brochure. I buckled down and soon began to enjoy studying Gemara as never before. Learning became my entire life. My father would watch me when I came home on free Shabosos, his eyes filled with tears. My mother spoiled me with all sorts of treats. There was no happier bachur in the world than me.

In an amazing show of hashgachah pratis, Shuki later learned that the kindhearted Yid, the famed philanthropist R’ Benzion Dunner of London, zt”l, had asked a renowned Admor to speak well of Shuki to the yeshivah staff. It was only a few years later, when R’ Benzion passed away and his photograph appeared in the chareidi media that Shuki finally learned the identity of the man who had helped him.

Tzvika read the story in the brochure and felt his heart fill with longing. How he longed for a miracle like that! He, too, wanted to be miraculously accepted into the yeshivah of his choice, to get back into learning, to taste the sweet taste of serious Torah study once again. He wanted his father to be pleased, his mother to be happy. He, too, wanted to meet a “Bentzy Dunner” of some sort who would put in a good word for him at Darkei Tuvya.

Eighteen hundred shekels was beyond Tzvika’s means, but he promised three hundred shekels to Kupat Ha’ir if and when he was accepted into the yeshivah of his choice.

What now? In the story, after contributing to Kupat Ha’ir, Shuki had gone to pray at the tziyun of the Tchebiner Rav. Where could he go? Darkei Tuvya was a relatively new yeshivah; none of its founders had passed away, thank G-d. There was no tziyun to go cry at, no grave to daven at.

Tzvika decided that his hishtadlus would be to sit down and learn. Here and now, in Beis Knesses Ohr

Torah in Tverya. He withdrew a Gemara from the shelf. Judging by its dusty cover, it hadn’t been used in years. He sat down at a table and began learning, learning, learning. He looked for, and found, a Rashb”a. He’d never seen such an old edition of the sefer. He opened a volume of R’ Akiva Eiger with yellowed pages and learned like he hadn’t learned in a long, long time.

His friends went on without him, leaving him behind to sit and learn. At twelve-thirty p.m., an elderly, respectable-looking Yid in the beis knesses approached him and struck up a conversation. They spoke a little bit in learning and then the Yid asked Tzvika what he was doing in a nearly empty beis knesses in Tverya at such a late hour.

Tzvika told the man everything. There was something about the strange situation in which he found himself – the dim beis knesses, the late hour, being all alone up north – that caused him to open up his heart completely. He described how he used to be a good bachur – an excellent one, even – who had been a true masmid for two years, only to begin slipping over the past year. He related that he longed to be accepted into Darkei Tuvya and turn over a

new leaf. He knew e could do it and he promised to make the most of the opportunity if only it would be granted to him.

The following morning, he received a phone call. Yeshivas Darkei Tuvya wanted him to come down to be tested. He went to the yeshivah, his heart pounding. He was tested and then accepted for a trial period.

The Rosh Yeshivah knew him personally: he had studied with him up north, in the old beis knesses in Tverya.

• • •How did the Rosh Yeshivah get to the beis knesses in Tverya? Of all the places in the world, what brought him precisely there on precisely that night?

He has a talmid, an alumnus of Darkei Tuvya, who married and settled in a remote settlement up north. The talmid had a baby boy and the happy father had really wanted the Rosh Yeshivah to serve as sandak at the bris.

The Rosh Yeshivah had made it clear that he generally did not accept such requests lest they affect his daily

learning schedule. What was more, the day of the bris was the day of the entrance exams at yeshivos gedolos and he couldn’t be out on such a day.

But his student had begged and pleaded so that the Rosh Yeshivah had finally agreed to come to the bris on one condition: that the bris be held immediately after tefillas vasikin. That way, he could return to his city immediately, without wasting any extra time.

The new father had agreed immediately and the bris was scheduled for very early in the morning. The Rosh Yeshivah had decided to travel up north the night before the bris and spend the night in Tverya. He’d entered the Ohr Torah synagogue to learn a little bit… and there he had met Tzvika.

A Kupat Ha’ir brochure lying on the floor. Three hundred shekels to tzedakah. Trust in the Creator of the World. A baby born precisely eight days earlier. A Rosh Yeshivah honored with sandaka’us who decides to enter an old beis knesses in Tverya…

And a bachur studying at Darkei Tuvya, the place he felt was right for him, against all odds. He returned to the right path and is climbing it steadily. The light of Torah illuminates his face and he is so very happy.


No Chance At All (?)This story can be heard firsthand at 011-972-57-3119274

“You’ll have to extend at some point, right? So why live in such crowded conditions all these years? Just do it now and get it over with.”

His mother wasn’t usually much of a talker. She was a shvigger, which meant that anything she said could be construed the wrong way. But she saw the children sleeping packed like sardines, two to a bed, and her heart went out to them.

“Where will you put the baby when you have no choice but to move him out of his porta-crib?” her mother asked. She could speak more freely with her daughter than her daughter’s mother-in-law. “Where, tell me? What are you going to do, hang a crib from the ceiling? You have kids sleeping in the dining room and in the dinette. In the bedrooms you have them doubled up. Kids need more than just a place to sleep; they need place to grow.”

“I think we’ll remove the beds and have them sleep on mattresses on the floor,” she replied with a forced smile. “That way there’ll be more room.” She was trying her best to manage somehow in her 48-meter apartment without losing her cool. “My kids certainly don’t deserve two punishments – a tiny apartment and a snappish mother,” she concluded.

“They don’t deserve one punishment, either. Everyone extends these days. You just take a deep breath and jump in. You’ll borrow some money, take some loans and cut corners as best as you can. Hashem will help. You have such a good opportunity to add on a room. Don’t be such loafers!”

He heard her from his chair in the dining room. Although he knew his mother-in-law meant well, the words stung. He wasn’t a loafer. Not at all. He had three learning sedarim every day. He brought home a kollel stipend plus “shemiras hasedarim.” True, it wasn’t very much, even combined. His wife received unemployment benefits and they lived frugally. How could he ever return huge loans?

But the family grew, with Hashem’s help, and the necessity could no longer be put off. They shopped around for a cheap contractor, received two or three estimates, offered a prayer up to Shamayim and committed to a particular sum. “Very reasonable,” said everyone who heard. For them, it was an astronomical amount. Astronomical.

They did everything on the most basic, standard level. No frills. Just a new room, the porch right off it and a necessary change inside the apartment to allow for a door to the new room.

But when it comes to renovations, as everyone knows, things often work out differently than planned. The change inside the apartment turned out to be much more complicated than they had originally thought. Suddenly, their expenses mushroomed out of proportion but there was no going back anymore at that point. He approached another few friends for loans and somehow managed to keep his head above water.

Construction progressed nicely and the contractor demanded payments as the work was completed. He took additional loans from gemachs and borrowed the rest from a number of great-uncles. He found himself constantly busy with bills, guarantors, payments,


payback dates and all the rest.

What could he do? Necessity was necessity.

The new room was completed. Suddenly, there was breathing space. A second-hand triple high riser was placed in the new room and the children stretched out comfortably. A spot was found for the baby’s crib. Ah, what a relief.

But the burden of debt hung over him like a heavy cloud. The friends who had given him emergency loans expected their money back. He was busy scrambling for the monthly sum he needed to pay back his originally anticipated debts. Before he realized what was happening, he was caught up in a vicious, never-ending cycle, borrowing from X in order to pay Y.

“Take another mortgage,” his mother advised. She was experienced in such matters; she’d already married off a number of children.

“Maybe you should consider taking out a second mortgage?” his mother-in-law suggested. “That way, at least you’ll be more organized. You’ll be able to return all your little debts and be left with just one outstanding debt.”

Left with no choice, he went down to the bank.

“But you have a huge mortgage on your apartment!” The clerk who had arranged his mortgage for him years earlier, before his marriage, still remembered him. “You’ve got no chance at all. Do you at least have steady, reliable sources of income?”

He had to reply honestly that no, he did not.

“You haven’t a chance in the world. Don’t waste your time and effort. To get a mortgage, you’ll have to hire an appraiser to appraise your apartment. You’ll have to fill out dozens of forms and invest time and money. Take my advice and don’t bother starting because you won’t get what you’re after in any case. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been working here 35 years. You won’t get a mortgage.”

He was about to leave the bank, terribly dejected, when a different clerk waved him over. “I heard you talking to the other clerk,” he said. “I do think there’s a chance you might be granted an additional mortgage. If you’re

truly desperate, start the process. I’ll see what I can do to move things along.”

So he began. He hired an appraiser and invested money. He filed out forms and ran around completing one thing after another. The chance to merge all his small loans into one central one he could pay off at a steady monthly rate he could afford was a lifebelt, no less.

In the meantime, he had a response for everyone who asked for his money back. “I’ve applied for a new mortgage. When I get it, I’ll pay back all my loans, including yours.” His friends accepted his explanation and agreed to wait.

It was at this time that one bank after another began crashing in America, with implications for the entire world. For him, the implications were very unpleasant. He received a letter from the bank informing him that as a result of the worldwide recession, the terms for eligibility for a mortgage had become stricter than before and his request was being turned down.

What do I do now? he asked himself in despair. People are waiting for their money. I promised them I’d return it. I can’t handle the constant scrambling to borrow money from one source to pay back another. What good is our new, more spacious apartment if instead of enjoying it with my family, I’m busy running around all day? How will this end?

Only someone who has been through the steamroller of debt can understand what it means. Afraid as he had been to go into debt to begin with, he would never have believed just how pressured he would feel.

The fact that he had invested money in an effort to receive a new mortgage rankled as well. Here he was deeply in debt, yet he had paid for an appraiser’s services and more – and now it was all going down the drain.

“Speak to a mortgage consultant,” friends advised him. “If there’s any chance at all, it’s through a mortgage


consultant. Sure, it’ll cost you; what can you do? But at least he can make things happen.”

The consultant looked at his file. “Forget about it,” he said. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’ll never get a mortgage, period.”

He left the meeting feeling more crushed than before. More money spent; another hope dashed.

On that same day, Kupat Ha’ir’s Chanukah brochures were distributed. He flipped dejectedly through the brochure, reading the stories but not really comprehending what he was reading. His mind was on his debts.

Suddenly, he found himself on the yeshuos page. Kupat Ha’ir! He thought to himself, sitting up straighter. Kupat Ha’ir! Why didn’t I think of that until now? He quickly calculated how much the consultant would have charged him had he agreed to take on his case.

“If I get the mortgage without spending any more money,” he said pleadingly to Hashem, “I pledge the entire sum to Kupat Ha’ir. Ana Hashem, hoshia na!”

He thought of the countless stairs he had climbed to gemachs, the terrible aggravation he was enduring, the discomfort he felt when meeting friends and relatives who had lent him money and the hours and hours lost. All these added a special sense of urgency and desperation to his prayer. He was well aware of the hopelessness of his situation. The bank clerks and the mortgage consultant knew what they were talking about. But a contribution to Kupt Ha’ir had rules all its own, and he depended on them.

Later, feeling considerably strengthened, he went to the bank.

“Tell me, please,” he said to the clerk. “Is it possible to send in my application again, after it was rejected? Maybe you can send it to a different manager this time? Maybe there still is some slight chance?”

“It can be done,” the clerk replied slowly. “But it’s a waste of time in your case. I don’t see the point.”

“Oh, but I do,” he insisted. “I’ll phrase my request somewhat differently this time and please send it in again. What do I have to lose?”

The clerk had to agree there was nothing to lose.

The letter was sent.

Two days passed. Then the clerk called from the bank.

“All the directors rejected your request,” he began.

His heart fell.

“…except for one,” he went on. “He said he doesn’t know why, but something about your request bothered him. He asked to keep it on his desk for another day or two. He wants to think about it.”

“Okay. I don’t like it that my request is bothering someone, but if something good comes out of it, he, too, will have a portion in the World to Come.”

One day passed, then another and another. Every day, he phoned the bank and every day he heard that “no decision has been reached as of yet.”

Another two nerve-wracking weeks passed.

“If I don’t have an answer by tomorrow,” he said to the clerk, on the brink of despair, “I’m going to simply call him up and tell him I must have an answer either way.”

“Even the slight chance you have will go up in thin air if you do that,” the clerk advised him. “No one likes to be pressured, certainly not a bank manager, certainly not when all his colleagues rejected your request immediately, certainly not when approving your request goes against the bank’s policy.’

The clerk’s advice notwithstanding, he called the following day. He described the intense pressure he was under and politely requested a decision. The director promised to render one quickly.

He was sure he knew what the decision would be. A quick decision could only be one kind…

But he was wrong.

Kupat Ha’ir’s “mortgage consultant,” Who controls everything in this world, arranged matters according to a different system of considerations. The answer was positive and it came through that very afternoon, against all odds. The clerks were astonished.

The words seemed to dance on the page. It wasn’t just the mortgage, nor the fact that the gloomy predictions had all been proven false. More than anything else, it was the wonderful feeling of hashgachah pratis, of a request answered. It was that special, incomparably sweet bond shared with Hakadosh Baruch Hu.


Second Time in the Yeshuos Magazine To hear the story from a friend of the family, call 011-972-50-4102372.nd oTo hear the story from a frien

Their story, publicized in the yeshuos magazine of Chanukah 5769, elicited

considerable response. A contribution to

Kupat Ha’ir had blessed them with unusual

s i y a t t a dishmaya, and

on the day of his m o t h e r ’s yahrtzeit, her son m a n a g e d to put together a minyan in faraway Anatolia, Turkey. Later, his flight was moved up to an earlier time than originally scheduled, enabling him to land in Eretz Yisrael early enough to daven Shacharis with a minyan in Eretz Yisrael.

They’ve come back to us once more with yet another story, no less amazing – perhaps even more so – than the first.

This time, too, they were on their way out of Eretz Yisrael. Having learned their lesson well by now, they made sure to contribute a significant sum to Kupat Ha’ir before boarding the plane.

This time their destination was considerably further: China. They planned to spend a few days in the foreign country. A group of ten men (plus some women and children) had made up to travel together so there would always be a minyan. As a group, they hoped, it would be easier to obtain Jewish necessities, find a suitable place to stay and most importantly – daven

three times daily betzibbur.

The plane landed in Shanghai and the members of the group could barely contain their curiosity.

At the time, the first cases of swine flu had just broken out. Border control had become tight and meticulous. People were quarantined at the slightest suspicion that they might be harboring the virus; not a thought was given to their carefully laid plans or the money invested in them. Like people all over the world, the Chinese, too, place life and health over everything else, and Chinese health officials, along with doctors and nurses, were present in their airports.

As part of the medical security procedure, each of them was handed a thermometer. A nurse, speaking English with a distinct Chinese accent, supervised them to make sure they all did the job right. Then she collected the thermometers and checked to make sure the results were okay. One, two, three, four ---

She yelped.

One of the group had fever!

Everyone turned to look at them. Now they were in the center of the drama! As they were a group, the verdict was the same for all of them: quarantine!

The Chinese doctors congregated to discuss the situation as a group of policemen surrounded the group, their eyes flashing fear and hatred. Swine flu! Each member of the group appeared to them as a huge, monstrous virus. Each of them was potentially contagious; each of them might cause a renewed outbreak of the epidemic.


The instructions were clear and final: the entire group was to be quarantined until the reason for the man’s fever was verified.

The head of the group feared the worst. Quarantine is no picnic. Aside from the fear of exposure to the frightening virus, the conditions in such places tend to be tough and exhausting. He decided he had to try to do the impossible. A contribution to Kupat Ha’ir gave him the courage he needed. It gave him, after all, the backing of the powerful merits of tzedakah, tefillah and the blessing of tzaddikim. The rest of the group stood together and prayed from the bottom of their hearts as he made his way to the most senior doctor.

His English wasn’t the greatest, but he managed to make himself understood. He requested that the doctor quarantine only the fellow with fever and allow the rest of them to leave. He spoke passionately, knowing all the while that there was virtually no chance the doctor would listen to him but persisting in pinning his hopes on Hashem.

The doctor listened, nodding from time to time to show he understood. The expression on his face was one of distaste. It was obvious he did not agree with the arguments raised by the head of the group, whose heart plummeted.

But his request was granted!

Why? Just like that, for no reason. The hearts of kings and ministers are in Hashem’s hand – and so, undoubtedly, are the hearts of doctor!

A collective sigh of relief went up from the group. The poor fellow with fever was terribly distressed, but at least only he would be suffering and not the entire group.

They left the airport, leaving their friend to be whisked off to a hospital that had been converted into a quarantine center for people who had symptoms of the deadly flu.

The head of the group made sure to verify the name and location of the hospital, though he didn’t know what good it would do him. Entrance to the hospital was strictly forbidden.

Despite their best efforts, they were left without a minyan…

With some effort, they managed to find another Yid in order to daven betzibbur. But their hearts ached for their Israeli friend and they davened for him from the depths of their hearts.

In a most extraordinary fashion, with the amazing hashgachah pratis of Kupat Ha’ir accompanying him every step of the way, the head of the group managed to sneak into the hospital with a few antibiotic capsules. He located his sick friend and gave him the pills.

Half a day passed, then another. He remained in the hospital for a full twenty-four hours.

The shifts changed and the patients were checked again. The Israeli patient’s fever was still high and his throat ached. He continued taking the antibiotics surreptitiously.

“We need more zechuyos,” the head of the group said to the others. “We can’t go on this way. Who knows how long they might keep him there with all types of strange people, some of who are really sick?”

We need more zechuyos. The group already knew where to find them. They withdrew their cell phones and dialed the familiar number, a silent prayer on their lips. The power of their prayer would boost the power of their contributions.

Another half a day passed and the man’s fever went down. Another examination – and he was released! The group reunited joyfully.

Before boarding the plane, don’t forget the most important piece of “equipment,” they write at the conclusion of their letter. “A contribution to Kupat Ha’ir is an absolute must! Sometimes you can literally see the gates of Heaven open. Sometimes Hashem’s chessed is so great that everything goes smoothly and you don’t see anything! Either way, travel is not without its dangers and Kupat Ha’ir provides crucial protection. Don’t travel without it!”


This story can be heard firsthand at 011-972-50-4140370

The ExceptionIn lieu of an introduction:

The following paragraph has been excerpted verbatim from the letter written by R› Yosef, the protagonist of our story, to Kupat Ha›ir. We felt it would be improper to present this amazing story without giving due to the first paragraph of the letter.

I’m a steady supporter of Kupat Ha’ir. I even help out with collection from various neighborhoods sometimes, as my friend ---- (one of Kupat Ha’ir’s gabba’im) can attest. I never once doubted Kupat Ha’ir’s integrity. But there was one thing I laughed about long and hard – the part about the yeshuos. Every brochure that came out was an object of scorn and derision on my part. Until one day my turn came.

• • •

Everything was in order. The suitcases had been meticulously packed and weighed. The handbag was ready, too. R’ Yosef and his wife intended to leave at dawn. They were traveling to Eretz Yisrael with

a stop in Europe along the way in order to take care of a few important matters. They were seasoned travelers, accustomed to airports, passport control and the rest. They hoped everything would go smoothly this time.

It was quite late in the evening when a friend called.

“You’re traveling to Europe tomorrow morning, right? Listen, I have three packages that I need urgently to send to three important customers over there. This is so min hashamayim! I’ve been terribly worried about this since yesterday. This is critically important for me.”

“No problem,” R’ Yosef said graciously. “Bring it over here and I’ll stick it in my trunk. I’m always glad to do a favor. If I’m going anyway, let someone else get some benefit out of my trip, too. Why not?”

He couldn’t think of a single reason “why not,” but he’d know soon enough.

The friend brought over the packages. They were three fancy boxes filled with an assortment of creams, cosmetics and leading perfumes.

“The industry is in a slump now,” the friend explained, looking somewhat dejected. “People don’t have extra money, so luxuries like these become second or third priority. But that, unfortunately, is how I make my living. I can’t afford to lose these three customers.”

“The wheel of fortune keeps turning,” R’ Yosef said encouragingly, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Today you’re on bottom; tomorrow you’ll be on top. In any case, you can relax. Your customers will get their goods. We don’t use this stuff; we don’t know anything about it.

page 12 story supplement Rosh Hashana 5770

We won’t even be tempted to peek.”

They chuckled at R’ Yosef ’s joke and the friend left, feeling optimistic.

R’ Yosef placed the three packages in his trunk, completely forgetting that he’d already weighed his bags and that they were just under the permitted weight.

“That will be an additional three hundred dollars, sir,” the clerk at the check-in counter said.

“Three hundred dollars? Whatever for?” R’ Yosef protested. He’d never had overweight bags.

The clerk pointed to the digital numbers on the screen. There was no denying that the items on the scale weighed more than airline policy allowed.

“Moishe’s boxes!” R’ Yosef cried out, slapping his forehead. “I forgot all about them! Alright, I guess there’s no choice. I’ll transfer them to my handbag.”

He quickly removed the three bags and placed them in his handbag. Then he returned the large suitcase to the scale. Now it was precisely the permitted weight, just as he had made sure at home.

The couple continued on to security. R’ Yosef was cool and collected. He still didn’t realize what was awaiting him.

The law is that passengers leaving the United States by plane are forbidden to bring any liquids on board the plane. There are no exceptions whatsoever. There is no sympathy; no excuses are accepted. No liquids allowed on board, period. And here he was, walking with his handbag containing three boxes of creams and perfumes…

“This passenger needs special treatment,” declared the x-ray technician as R’ Yosef ’s handbag went through the machine. He immediately motioned for a border policewoman standing nearby to come over.

“There’s something very suspicious about this package,” the technician told the policewoman. “Very suspicious!”

R’ Yosef clutched his head in both hands. Oy vey! Now

it was too late!

The policewoman waved them aside.

The problematic handbag was placed on a counter. R’ Yosefs heart skipped a beat. Three expensive packages… what would they do with them now? Should they miss the plane because of them? Would the authorities confiscate them?

The first thing the policewoman withdrew from the handbag was a container of cottage cheese.

“Don’t you know we don’t allow liquid on board?” she shouted at them.

“Is cottage cheese a liquid?”

“It’s somewhere in between a liquid and a solid, and we’re very strict about such matters!”

If cottage cheese was a liquid, what would she have to say about the cosmetics?

“We’re never going to get away with this,” R’ Yosef ’s wife said in Yiddish. “They’re going to confiscate the packages for sure. I feel so bad for your friend. It’s going to be so awful for us to have to break the news to him. We need to do something beyond derech hateva… How about contributing to Kupat Ha’ir?”

Reb Yosef was willing to try anything at this point, even a contribution to Kupat Ha’ir. First let’s see the yeshuah, he thought to himself. Then we’ll see about a contribution.

On the spot, he promised a considerable sum to Kupat Ha’ir.

In the meantime, the policewoman had pulled out the first package. Her eyes glittered with greed. She opened the box, taking care not to ruin the elegant wrapping. She withdrew a bottle of perfume and placed it carefully on the counter, looking at it with undeniable pleasure. Next came a bottle of shampoo, a container of cream, and tubes of lotion, all with fancy labels. The box was still not empty. The policewoman peered inside.

“Whose is all this?” she asked.

“Ours.”


“What’s in the other two boxes?”

“The same thing.”

She opened another box, peeked inside, nodded and closed it up. Their hearts were pounding wildly.

“You are not to touch a thing now. Is that clear?” she asked, her voice harsh.

They nodded apprehensively.

“John, keep an eye on them, okay?” she called to another cop.

Where was she going? Whom was she going to call? Were they going to be arrested?

She returned five minutes later, holding a roll of tape imprinted with the logo of the airport’s security division. She returned all the items to their place, closed the boxes back up and taped them up well. She withdrew the third box and taped that one up, too.

“As far as I’m concerned, this is okay,” she said, not bothering to provide an explanation. “I taped the boxes up so that no one else should stop you. If you run into any problems, point out the tape with the logo and you’ll be okay.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.

R’ Yosef and his wife took everything and moved aside.

They were shocked. Just like that! No explanation, no reason, no warning for the future… nothing! She just taped them up and let it go! As they reorganized their bag, a different woman, seemingly in her eighties, put her bag through the x-ray machine.

“What are those things in there?” the technician asked, summoning the policewoman once again.

“Oh, come on!” the elderly woman protested. “I’m eighty years old! What do you think, I’m out to poison the country?”

They withdrew from her handbag a pouch containing a bottle of shampoo, a bottle of perfume, and some creams.

“This is a liquid, ma’am, a li-quid! Don’t you understand? Liquids are forbidden on board!”

The woman protested and a crowd gathered. The police woman mercilessly dropped item after item into the garbage can. The woman had a fit of hysterics; the technician tried to shush her; and the people standing around did their best to console her.

“They confiscated my perfume, too.”

“I also had my shampoo and creams taken. What can you do? That’s just the way it is.”

“Be glad nothing worse happened. You can always buy new shampoo and perfume. The main thing is your health.”

“It’s not the end of the world. They don’t allow liquids on board, period.”

“They don’t let anyone get away with it. They’re not picking on you. That’s the rule for everyone.”

“What can you do? The only thing they allow on board is prescription medication or baby bottles.”

“That’s the way they are here. They wouldn’t even let me take cottage cheese on board!”

R’ Yosef and his wife listened in amazement, barely able to believe what had just happened.


For One ShekelTo hear this story firsthand, call 011-972-8 -9744445

"I don't smoke in any case," Yossi said amusedly. "I wouldn't go near a cigarette. Not me, not my friends, not my class… they've got the wrong address. But I don't care. They know it and they decided to have us participate in any case."

It was shortly after Purim. The Chaviv Society, an active member in the war against smoking, had conducted a campaign that assured every child who refrained from smoking on Purim an entry ticket into a drawing for a new bike. Bitter experience has proven that many young smokers begin their destructive smoking habits on Purim. Chaviv had made it its goal to put a stop to this phenomenon. Yossi would never have dreamed of placing a cigarette in his mouth but he had no objection, to put it mildly, to participating in the drawing for the prize, a top quality bike.

"My whole class is entering,' he told his mother a day or two after Purim. "Not a single one of us gave in to the temptation to smoke," he added with a wink.

"I think my entire cheder entered,” he reported a day later. “Everyone’s talking about it.” Some kids had already begun weaving dreams about winning the coveted prize. The boys who imagined themselves sure winners were already conducting negotiations regarding how many “turns” they’d give the others on their new bike. Anticipation for the drawing was running high.

The news spread among the children very quickly. “They’re not making one drawing with everyone’s name in it. First they’re making a drawing with all the chadarim that participated in the campaign. The next stage will be a drawing between all the classes in the winning cheder. After that, a drawing will be held with the first names of all the boys in the winning class. If there’s more than one boy in the class with the winning name, there’ll be a fourth drawing, and only then will the winner of the bike be chosen.”

(Editor’s note: Is this fair? Doesn’t conducting a drawing with first names increase/decrease the chances of children with more common/less common names?)

All this meant that Yossi had to win four drawings in order to get the bike. Four! It was almost too long to wait, but for a kid longing for a bike, nothing is too hard.

Yossi felt his breath catch in his throat when the announcement went out regarding the first drawing. Thousands of excited kids all over the country felt the same way. Finally, the results were in. Yossi floated home on a cloud. His cheder had won the drawing!

Now he had to wait for the drawing that would determine which class the lucky winner was in. The boys at cheder could talk of nothing else.

The second drawing brought Yossi that much closer to the bike. His class won! You could hear the shouts of joy throughout Modi’in Ilit.

The boys began looking for segulos and kabbalos to take on in the hope that the extra merit would give them an edge in the drawing. Some sat down to crash-study mishnayos by heart; others began chessed projects. Some pressured types talked and talked but actually did nothing.

Y o s s i contributed a shekel to Kupat Ha’ir and was filled with a sense of calm. Kupat Ha’ir! The adults

e boys began looking for segulos and bbalos to take on in the hope that the tra merit would give them an edge in e drawing. Some sat down to crash-udy mishnayos by heart; hers began chessed ojects. Some essured types ked and talked t actually did thing.

o s s i ntributed a ekel to Kupat ’ir and was filled th a sense of calm. pat Ha’ir! The adults


spoke of it with such confidence. He had personally heard so many amazing stories about people who had contributed and merited yeshuos. And the brochures that came before every Yom Tov were filled with stories of the most amazing miracles that came about in the merit of contributions to Kupat Ha’ir. There was certainly no better segulah.

Yossi kept his segulah a secret from his friends. He hoped no one had the same idea as him. What if one of them contributed more than he had, G-d forbid?

Yossi no. 2, our Yossi’s good friend, was going from one boy to another, saying earnestly, “You’re a tinok shel beis Rabban and your tefillos are beloved in Shamayim. Please bless me that I win the bike!” The children overcame their natural selflishness and blessed him even though they all wanted the bike for themselves. The tension mounted.

The day of the drawing arrived. Yossi wavered between extreme ecstasy at the thought that he was a sure winner and the terrible fear that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe someone had done an even better segulah. The Rebbe, watching from the side, beamed with pride at today’s generation of chareidi kids, who considered hishtadlus to be all sorts of holy deeds such as prayers, contributions to tzedakah and studying mishnayos. When he had been a child, Hakadosh Baruch Hu had played no part in drawings. Who had thought about the Ribono shel Olam in the same breath as a brand new bike? Today Hashem was part of everyday life. If a person felt unwell but didn’t want to go to the doctor, he contributed money to the poor. If he feared the results of a medical test, he sought a blessing from tzaddikim. And when there was an exciting drawing, kids sought ways to please Hashem.

The young man who came to conduct the drawing tried to hide his smile under his fuzzy moustache, but the kids saw it, the way they see everything. They felt a little self-conscious of their unbridled enthusiasm for the bike, but one look at the faces of the kids from other classes was enough to restore their excitement. Why, even the kids from outside were going crazy from the tension! The Rebbe scanned the boys’ faces. He could learn so much about his young charges at a

moment like this!

Zevi was murmuring chapters of Tehillim. Yossi was rocking back and forth in his seat. Nachumi was biting his nails. Moishy was teasing the boy sitting near him while Reuven was cool and collected, almost indifferent. Which of them, if any, would be the lucky winner?

It was time for the third drawing, the one with the boys’ first names. There were lots of “doubles” in this particular class: a few Moishys, three Yankys, a number of Yitzchaks and a number of Avrumys. The children unwittingly grouped themselves according to their names. Which group would win?

One folded piece of paper was drawn. You could have heard a fly bump into the window pane. The boys barely breathed.

Yossi!

Once the first name of the winner was known, the tension mounted even more. Three Yossis swallowed hard. Three Yossis chewed their nails. Who would be the winner?

Yossi number 2!

Yossi number 2 glowed like the sun at midday. Cries erupted from all over the classroom. “It’s because I blessed him!” “No, it’s because I blessed him!” Everyone felt he deserved a share of the prize; after all, everyone had blessed him and the prayers of tinnokos shel beis rabban are beloved in Shamayim.

Our Yossi went home feeling terribly dejected. He had given a shekel to Kupat Ha’ir, but the blessings of all the children in his class had outweighed his shekel. What a pity.

At home, he received a discourse on the subject of emunah. “Hashem knows what’s best for all of us and He loves us deeply,” his mother explained. “Contributions to tzedakah do not circumvent His will, chalilah. They merely increase His love for us and pierce the gates of Heaven. We dare not question Hashem’s decisions. You merited giving a shekel of your money to the poor and the merit of that mitzvah still exists – and it’s thousands of times more valuable than the best

ries se I one one beis

had f all

ekel.

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bike on the market.”

“All the children in our family learned an important lesson today in the merit of Yossi’s shekel,” Yossi’s father said to his mother. Neither of them could have guessed the surprise ending to the story.

Yossi’s family traveled to Yerushalayim for Shabbos. Both sets of grandparents live there, in the same neighborhood. Whenever the family travels to Yerushalayim for Shabbos, they stay at the home of the maternal grandparents and eat one seudah at the home of the paternal grandparents.

On Friday night, at the seudah, Yossi’s grandmother turned to him and said, “Yossi, would you like a speed bike? Chezky (that was Yossi’s mother’s younger brother) is all grown up already and doesn’t ride them anymore, and they’re just lying around unused.”

Yossi stared at his grandmother in amazement. He was so shocked he couldn’t say a word. A speed bike! Incredible! The shekel to Kupat Ha’ir…

Everyone began talking at once, telling Sabba and Savta about the contribution and Yossi’s disappointment. Savta was pleased; Sabba even more so. “Great! The bike was literally waiting for you here, on a silver tray. It’s not brand new but it’s in excellent condition and it looks nice, too.” Yossi began

to picture his friends’ shocked reactions.

On Shabbos morning, the family went to eat at the home of their other set of grandparents. As Yossi’s grandmother was serving her savory cholent, she said, “Yossi, you ride a two wheel bike already, don’t you? We have two nearly-new speed bikes that no one’s using any more. It’s a shame you shouldn’t enjoy them. On motzoei Shabbos, before you go home, stop by here to pick them up.”

She looked totally confused when her “innocent” remark was greeted by a torrent of exclamations from Yossi and his siblings.

“Three bikes for one shekel,” Yossi said, swallowing a bean before bursting into laughter.

His parents exchanged incredulous glances.

“Three bikes for one shekel!” Yossi repeated, unable to digest the news. “Can you believe it?”

And if not for the fact that this was exactly what happened, we wouldn’t have believed it, either.

mother in amazement. He n’t say a word. A speed bike! Kupat Ha’ir…

g at once, telling Sabba contribution and Yossi’s

was pleased; Sabba even e was literally waiting for t’ t b d b t it’ i

repeated, unable to digest the news. “Can you believe it?”

And if not for the fact that this was exactly what happened, we wouldn’t have believed it, either.

you here, on a silver tray. Itexcellent condition and it l

t’s not brand new but it’s in looks nice, too.” Yossi began


Eight Children Experience A MiracleYou can hear this story from a firsthand source at 011-972-52-7631189

“Don’t you think it was a bit late to start out on such a long trail?”

Avrumi Weiss, completely preoccupied with keeping his eyes on the trail, paused for a moment and looked behind him, waiting to hear his friend Menachem Levin’s reply. The trail was rocky and very narrow and he and his group were walking single file. The sky was illuminated with the stunning colors of sunset. The sun, a round golden ball, was slowly sinking behind a chain of mountains.

Menachem wasn’t there! Behind him was only the narrow, steep trail. None of his friends were anywhere to be seen.

Avrumi turned back around in a panic.

“Wait up!” he called to the boys in front of him. “I don’t see anyone behind us!”

The boys stopped short. They quickly crowded together and took stock of the situation: they were eight twelve-year-old boys alone somewhere in the Judean Desert. Their friends were nowhere in sight.

“They’ve got to be close by. Let’s shout.”

They shouted – once, twice, three times. The only response was an echo of their own voices.

“When did you notice that they weren’t behind you?”

“Just now. I called you immediately.”

“So when did they disappear? How come they didn’t notice that we weren’t with them? Where did they go, all of a sudden?”

Seven pairs of shoulders shrugged helplessly.

“We must have gotten separated at a spot where the trail branches out in two different directions,” Avrumi Weiss said logically. “But how can we know which one? We know which trail we’re following. The guide showed us which color markings to look for and we’ve been following those. If we see new markings, we won’t know which of them to choose.”

“So let’s just continue on this trail and walk as fast as possible. It’s got to lead somewhere.”

They continued walking, fear creeping into their hearts. It was still a little bit light and they wanted to hurry. It wasn’t easy, though; the path was rocky and falling or tripping could prove dangerous. There was no adult with them.

“When they notice that we’re missing, they’ll set out on the trail with flashlights and find us,” one boy said.

It began to grow dark. Shadows danced in front of them, scaring them out of their wits at times. The path seemed to grow more and more complicated.

“What are we gonna do when it gets completely dark and we can’t see the markings?”

“We’ll sit tight and wait for someone to find us.”

That moment loomed closer and closer as their hearts pounded faster and faster.

“There’s a different color here!” the first boy in line cried out fearfully. “Our marking isn’t here! We must’ve made a mistake!”

Once again, they clustered together, looking despairingly at the three lines drawn on the boulder


in front of them. Until now, they had been following white-green-white markings. The marking on the boulder was white-red-white. Somehow, they had switched to a different trail.

“Let’s backtrack to the last white-green-white marking,” a different boy suggested.

They knew the rules, but walking in the darkness on an unfamiliar trail in the vast desert all alone was a different story.

“Let’s just sit here and wait to be found.”

“But if we’re not on the right path, how can they find us?”

The thought was a terrifying one. The thought of waiting, all alone, had been frightening – but at least the thought that they’d surely be found soon would have gotten them through the difficult moments. If they weren’t on the path at all, they didn’t even have that hope.

Still, they sat down. There was no way they could find their way back to the right trail in the darkness. Besides, walking in the dark was dangerous; one wrong move could mean plummeting from a cliff. It was safer to stay in one place and wait.

“Let’s sing something,” Avrumi suggested.

“Gam ki elech b’gai tzalmaves…” the boys sang. The words were very appropriate. The boys’ teeth chattered with fear and cold and the song died down.

“What do you think they’re doing now, on the bus?”

“Probably saying Tehillim and crying.”

“So let’s join them.”

Indeed, the boys on the bus were very, very

frightened. The entire group had switched to a different trail at some point, on the instructions of the guide and paramedic who was with them. Frightened by the approaching darkness, he’d led the group to a shorter trail than the one originally planned. No one had noticed that eight boys were missing. By the time they had realized, it had grown dark. The rebbes were out of their minds with fear. The darkness, the many dangers, the thought that at any moment, one of the missing children might tumble off a precipice and be torn to shreds… The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and terrible. The guide, too, was at a loss for what to do.

“I think we ought to inform Zaka,” the guide said. He called, and the children on the bus recited Tehillim with great intensity. The rebbes’ faces were grim. A few children began to cry.

“Two hundred and fifty shekels to Kupat Ha’ir,” said one of the rebbes, his face white. “Our students are hysterical and I’m heading there, too. I just want to see them back here safe and sound. I can’t bear to think what could happen now.”

The others nodded in silence. Such a scenario is every teacher’s nightmare.

• • •

In the meantime, back on the trail, the eight boys sat waiting. They huddled close together, trying to draw strength from each other’s presence.

“Maybe they let our parents know we’re lost,” one boy said.

“My mother will have a heart

attack on the spot.”

A loud howl made them gasp. It’s one thing to hear a tour guide provide a zoological explanation about the jackals in the area; it’s quite another to hear one howl when you’re alone in the desert, trembling with fear and completely without protection.

“There are snakes here, too,” Avrumi reminded everyone.

“Hashem is watching over us. Let’s call out to Him!” And they did, from the bottom of their hearts.

The moon rose, bright and round. “I never noticed how much light the moon gives off,” one boy said as the darkness eased somewhat.

“I think I see a marking,” Avrumi announced, scrambling to his feet. “The moon suddenly shone on a certain spot and I saw it! I think those are our colors!”

The boys made their way ever so carefully after him until they reached the stone. (They should not have done this! In a situation like this one, one must stay in the same place and wait for help to arrive, or until morning! It’s dangerous to walk a trail in the dark!) Sure enough, there was a white-green-white marking. At least they were on the path. At least they’d be able to be found. What a relief!

“From here, the trail is much easier, and the moon is shining brightly. Let’s walk a little further.”

They inched their way forward, one step after another, holding on to one another. And taking great care.

“There’s a street lamp! And a p u b l i c t e l e p h o n e , in middle of n o w h e r e ! ” T h e y c o u l d n ’ t b e l i e v e their eyes.

“I’m not c a l l i n g h o m e , ” one boy s a i d

firmly. “All my mother needs is to hear that I’m stuck in the desert. I told you, she’ll have a heart attack. I’m not calling.”

“She’ll hear that you’re alive and well.”

“That won’t be enough for her. I can’t bear to think what she’ll go through until she sees me back home safe and sound.”

“I’ll call my father. He should be home now and he’s familiar with the trails here. Maybe he’ll be able to tell us what to do.”

The boy’s father listened with mounting alarm as his son explained their predicament. He called the principal of the cheder on his cell phone and received the number of one of the rebbes on the trip as well as that of the guide. The boy remained on the line from the public phone as his father spoke to the guide. The rebbes’ sigh of relief could be heard miles away.

The boy explained once more, to the best of his ability, where they were. A member of Zaka who arrived at the area left with one of the rebbes. They walked quickly, equipped with a powerful flashlight, in the approximated direction.

In the meantime, the boys sat under the streetlamp. They felt much better than before. They’d made contact. The guide knew where they were; he was looking for them. They’d be found soon. They chatted and even sang, unaware that the light and their voices were attracting hungry jackals. The danger was still very real, but they didn’t know it.

Half an hour passed and then another. An hour and a half; two hours. They were quite far along the trail; the searchers had to walk quite some distance to reach them. The boys knew they had to be patient but still, it was scary. The eerie silence, the darkness and shadows, the howling of the jackals. They were only twelve-year-olds, after all!

“Shhh, there are jackals in the area! Be quiet!”

The guide’s whispered warning was the sweetest sound in the world. They had been found!

“The angel of tzedakah protected us,” they write. “We got through the most difficult hours safely. We were saved with open miracles. All of us emerged unscathed.”

Theres a street lamp! p u bt e l e ppin mminn o wT hc o ub ethe

“I’mchos


"I Didn't Contribute And I Merited A Yeshuah!"To hear this story firsthand, call 011-972-52-7684650

14 Nissan in the afternoon.

The M family had already finished with birkas hachamah, eating chametz and sreifas chametz. Even the suitcases were packed already. The kids were bathed and dressed in their Yom Tov finery. Soon they’d travel by taxi to their grandparents for the entire Yom Tov .

Soon they’d travel by taxi… it sounds so simple. Reality proved to be far more difficult. Since the M’s had so many packages, they needed a car with a rooftop luggage carrier. They tried one company after another with the same response: We have no cars available now, sorry.

There was no car with a rooftop carrier; there was no car without one, either. There were simply no cars to be had. Time was marching on. Every few minutes, Mr. M made a new round of phone calls. No luck.

The children began losing patience. In her mind’s eye, Mrs. M pictured herself beginning a mad race against the clock to prepare leil haseder at home. The kids had made such detailed plans for their week-long stay at their grandmother’s house. Cousins and trips and delicious food…would all those plans go down the drain because they couldn’t find a taxi? Her husband tried all the companies in the Yellow Pages once more. No luck.

The words Kupat Ha’ir hovered in the air.

“This time I’m not contributing to Kupat Ha’ir,” Mr. M said firmly. “I’ve had it with that. Hashem took the Yidden out of Mitzrayim even though they didn’t contribute to Kupat Ha’ir first. They even made it all the way to Har Sinai without contributing, too. We can’t allow Kupat Ha’ir to run our lives. We’ll manage just the way Yidden

have always managed in the days before Kupat Ha’ir. Don’t ask me to contribute because I just don’t feel like it!”

The children fell silent. Mr. M tried once more. No taxis were available.

In the meantime, Mrs. M called her parents. “There’s a little bit of a delay, but don’t worry,” she told them, though she felt terribly worried indeed. “We’re all ready to leave but we can’t find a taxi. Meir went downstairs to try and flag one down and we keep trying on the phone, too. We’ll find one eventually. Don’t worry.”

Less than five minutes later, Mr. M came upstairs, a broad smile on his face. “I found a taxi, and it even has the rooftop carrier we need for our suitcases! Let’s go, kids; start bringing our packages downstairs!”

Within minutes, everything was securely fastened and everyone settled in the car. They were off!

“See that? We didn’t contribute – and we merited a yeshuah,” Mr. M said along the way, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Enough of this craze. Enough! It’s possible to find a taxi without contributing to Kupat Ha’ir.”

“But Abba, it’s tzedakah,” one of the children protested timidly.

“Of course,” their father replied. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a move without Kupat Ha’ir. It isn’t true that you can’t find a taxi or lost glasses or a new job with out first contributing! If the roof is leaking and the roofer can’t find the leak – Kupat Ha’ir. Before registering at a yeshivah – Kupat Ha’ir. Before walking down the aisle to the chuppah – Kupat Ha’ir. It shouldn’t


be that way! It never used to be that way and there’s no reason to introduce new customs our parents and grandparents never had.” He was very firm in his opinion.

“And here’s the proof,” he went on. “We needed a taxi. All the taxi companies we tried said they had no taxis available. How much of a chance was there that we’d find a taxi on our street – and one with a luggage carrier, yet? It’s a typical Kupat Ha’ir story. If we had contributed, the arrival of the taxi would have been just the type of proof they always use. Contribute and merit a yeshuah. Well, look at that – we didn’t contribute and we merited a yeshuah anyhow. A taxi turned onto our block and everything turned out just fine without Kupat Ha’ir.”

The children listened attentively. This was something new: we didn’t contribute and we merited a yeshuah. The main thing was that they had merited the yeshuah and they were on their way to their grandparents for the entire week of Pesach.

The trip was over quickly. Mrs. M’s parents greeted the family joyfully. Everything was ready for them.

“Looks like you found a taxi pretty soon after you hung up with me, didn’t you?” Mrs. M’s mother asked her daughter, glancing at her watch.

“That’s right,” she replied. “And one with a luggage carrier, too!”

“Call Kupat Ha’ir and tell them about it,” Mrs. M’s father said with a smile. “I heard Ima talking to you on the phone,” he explained. “I understood that you were having trouble finding a taxi, so I called Kupat Ha’ir and contributed twenty shekels. I see it worked!”

He couldn’t understand why his son-in-law was standing there, his mouth

agape, while his daughter and all his grandchildren exchanged

sidelong glances.

having trouble finding a taxi, so I called Kupat Hair and contributed twenty shekels. I see it worked!”

He couldn’t understand why his son-in-law was standing there, his mouth

agape, while his daughter and allhis grandchildren exchanged

sidelong glances.

This story was harder to write than any other. It was obvious from the handwriting in the letter that the writer was an intelligent person. The content was sincere and extremely touching. A follow-up telephone conversation left much food for thought.

There are some wonderful people among us who are willing to share very personal, painful parts of their lives for the sake of inspiring others to give tzedakah. Fortunate are they.

It wasn’t easy for her to talk about the difficult time when she began having epileptic attacks. The fear, the helplessness, the attacks themselves, the horrific feeling when they were over… She was all of thirty-five years old, with a house full of small children to care for. And soon they’d be starting to look for shidduchim for the older children.

The doctors were not optimistic. They prescribed strong medication that sapped her of her strength and came along with serious side effects – but failed to reduce the frequency or intensity of the attacks.

“It’s a tragedy,” whispered the few people who knew. “Simply a tragedy. All of a sudden out of the blue, such a tzarah! She was a perfectly healthy woman raising a brood of kids, bli ayin hara, and all of a sudden – epilepsy!”

There are some conditions that come with “tax” in the form of shame and humiliation, the woman wrote in her letter. She was afraid to leave the house lest she suffer an attack in public. Even at home, she was always either recuperating after an attack or dreading the next one.

Each attack was potentially disastrous. She would fall suddenly, with no warning. It could happen anywhere, anytime. Her head could get hurt from anything that was in the way. Would there be someone available to administer first aid if necessary? It was impossible for her husband to remain chained to the house as well.

The biggest fear of all, she related, was that she would have an attack in front of the children. Witnessing even just one such attack would leave them traumatized for life.

Although epilepsy is not a life-threatening condition, it is very frightening. “It wasn’t pain I was afraid of,” she explains. “It was the loss of control, the inability to


The Most Potent MedicationName Withheld for Obvious Reasons

protect myself. It’s impossible to explain the feeling.”

She felt frightened all the time. She was afraid to go to sleep at night. Her husband missed kollel lots of times, came late to davening, missed important simchos. Her condition put a stop to life as they had known it.

And still they could not find the right medication for her.

At one point, the attacks began to occur at relatively regular intervals. Strangely enough, they were preceded by an indefinable inner feeling that grew stronger and stronger as the attack loomed closer. The doctors had no explanation for this phenomenon but as time went by, it became obvious that she was right on the mark.

Every time she experienced that inner feeling, her fear increased to unfathomable proportions. Would the attack come today? Tomorrow? Two days from now? Suddenly, she could think of nothing else, do nothing at all. Fear very nearly paralyzed her.

One evening, when that nameless feeling told her she’d be having an attack very soon, and the dates – the breaks between one attack and another – fit as well, she was afraid to go to sleep.

“I don’t dare put my head down,” she wept. “I know an attack is imminent; I just know it. I don’t have the strength to endure another attack.” There was no medication she could take to ward off an attack.

Suddenly, she had an idea. She discussed it with her husband and he agreed to go along with it.

“If I don’t suffer any attacks from now through Rosh Chodesh Iyar (an entire month), we’ll contribute so-and-so much to Kupat Ha’ir.” Although it wasn’t a large sum by any means, it was more than they could easily afford.

She went to sleep with a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in a long time. She woke up happy and rested and spent the day doing everything a healthy wife and mother

does, a feeling of immense gratitude to Hashem surging through her. The inner bad feeling had disappeared without a trace.

Days passed. The calendar indicated that it was time for another attack. She felt nothing – but the month wasn’t up yet.

“The promise is helping,” she whispered, afraid to “ruin” the miracle. “The attacks aren’t coming! They used to come on a regular basis. Now - nothing!”

The entire month of Iyar passed. Rosh Chodesh Sivan found her excited but a little bit perturbed. She’d had such a wonderful month. Was the situation going to revert back to its former terribleness?

“If I don’t have an attack during Sivan, we’ll contribute again,” she said, and her husband agreed. He preferred to be pressured financially than to see his wife taste one sixtieth of death, or maybe more.

Another day passed and then another. There were no attacks. The doctors could not understand it. Their medication hadn’t helped – and a contribution to Kupat Ha’ir was helping?

“You don’t need to contribute large sums of money,” she writes in her letter. “They just need to be significant for you. Everyone should give as much as he can. The most important thing is to lift your eyes up to Hashem in prayer and to trust Him completely.”

Sivan passed uneventfully as well.

Two “smooth” months passed without fear, without the steady nightmare, without weeping through the night. Can the greatness of this chessed be fathomed? May Hashem continue to help.

“Only someone who’s been through something like this can understand,” she concludes in her letter, the words bringing tears to our eyes. “May no one ever understand.”



The Tzedakah Of The Gedolei Hador

PESACH 5768

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Yeshuos Rosh Hashana 5770