Benzion Fishoff’s secrets for healing rifts and nurturing peace

Photos: Meir Haltovsky, Fishoff Family, Mishpacha archives

I first met Mr. Benny Fishoff when he wanted to compile a manuscript for the benefit of his grandchildren: about how a 16-year-old bochur says goodbye to his family, never to see them again, yet helps rebuild a shattered people. But every night when he closed his eyes to fall asleep, he would see the faces of his loved ones, hoping he was doing their memories justice. With the release of B’Ahavah, Benny, you can be the judge

In Shamayim, every person has a book —  the record of his accomplishments, his challenges, his good days, and harder days.

In This World, it’s a bit trickier: Who gets to have a book? How does it work?

It’s a good question, and, as promising an opening as that was, I don’t have a clear formula with which to answer it. I can only tell you about this book, about what it was like to sit with Mr. Benny Fishoff a”h — and not just for me, but for most of the people who had the privilege — and the attempt to get the experience down on paper.

Over the last few years — during the time I forged a personal connection and then, in the past two years since his petirah — I’ve often pondered what it was about him. Charisma is the poorest, hollowest word to describe it. Graciousness is a bit better, and generosity of spirit even closer.

But it was more. Here was an older Poilishe gentleman, with the gentle humor and honesty and pikchus unique to that sort of Jew, and the term that kept popping up in my mind was “baal mussar.”

He was an unlikely candidate for the title, for sure. He wore elegant suits, enjoyed good restaurants, and good jokes. So how could he be a baal mussar, with the associated severity and ascetism?

Because he was. He just was.

He was a master of self-control, seemingly immune to anger, conceit, pettiness, or bitterness. He rejoiced in other people — he radiated dignity, and he could convey it by simply saying hello. His greeting came along with the flash of warmth in his eyes, the smile that told you that you mattered, the way he could listen to someone a quarter of his age with genuine interest.

When he spoke, it was not only wise, it was also kind — not an empty, trite compliment, but words that restored something inside of you. (Later, I would learn about the copies of Mesilas Yesharim at his bedside, on his office desk, and with which he traveled, but that’s not the type of mussar I mean, in any case.)

I had always known the name “Benny Fishoff,” sort of a legendary askan before we started to manufacture legendary askanim. The generation that had lost it all and that had been forced to start again didn’t have the luxury of also rebuilding the wider community, but he found a way to do that, too.