The Novominsker Rebbe was taken at the moment he was needed most. Three years later, his two sons share their perspective of the rebbe who was a father to so many

Photos: Naftoli Goldgrab, Mattis Goldberg, Mishpacha and family archives

The car drove slowly down the unpaved road, tire marks forcing a patterned design, pebbles scurrying for dear life. The throngs escorting the vehicle kept growing and the song swelling from their throats continued to grow as well. “Yamim al yemei melech tosif,” they sang: Let the days of the king increase, may he live, may he lead, may he continue to inspire.

Necks craned, hoping to catch one final glimpse of the radiant face, the gray-white beard, the twin eyes of smoldering black. His visit had been the highlight of camp, and they were reluctant to let it go.

But suddenly, inexplicably, the passenger’s window rolled down — what was the Rebbe looking at? His gaze focused on one boy standing off in the distance.

“Moishy! Moishy!” the Rebbe called.

Moishy looked up, smiled, and waved. The Rebbe smiled as well, waved in return, and closed the window.

The crowd continued singing and the Rebbe sat contentedly back in his seat. Within the scores of people, he had spotted Moishy, a talmid of his beloved yeshivah. The car rolled on, grinding through a final jagged path, adjusting itself to a more cultured highway, and driving off into the sun. And Moishy trotted to the dining room, a jump in his step.

The Rebbe had waved to him.

I

t’s a story of humility, love, and a complete negation of honor, some of the signature qualities of Rav Yaakov Perlow ztz”l, better known as the Novominsker Rebbe. His story is a trail of snippets of greatness tucked within the simplicity of everyday experiences. Authentic joy at the sight of a talmid working as a camp counselor is just one of them.

He was a once-in-a-century personality, a gadol in Torah, ahavas Yisrael, and avodas Hashem. But there was one singular feature that permeated the Rebbe’s legacy.

He was a gadol in leadership. Not through power or dominance, but through abject selflessness and so much pride in his people.

American born and American raised, he was an impressionable young teenager when the news of unfathomable tragedy began trickling in. He was there when the survivors limped ashore, broken bodies, bleeding hearts. A young Yaakov Perlow watched, and something inside him stirred.

There was nothing he could do about the past. It was finished, gone, over. Six million souls ago. But there was still a future.

There was, wasn’t there?