Gateshead’s quiet farewell to a legend: Reb Chaim Boruch Katz

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haim Boruch, you weren’t even 50 when you left This World, but in your relatively short life, you became a mainstay of our community.

You were born on Simchas Torah 48 years ago and closed the circle when you slipped away quietly on the first day of Pesach — two of the happiest and most elevated points in the Jewish calendar. That link exemplified who you were: a deep, thinking intellectual with a joyous spark that reached everyone you came in contact with.

You were an authentic, true-to-goodness “Yiddisher Yid,” living your unique brand of Yiddishkeit with infectious bren and geshmak. There’s almost no area of community endeavor you weren’t involved in. You ran the mikveh with dedication and self-sacrifice. You learned Yoreh Dei’ah in Gateshead Kollel and trained as an expert shochet, and also became a beloved alef-beis rebbi. You were a key player in the matzah bakery and ran the annual pre-Pesach hagalas keilim. You were a world-class, highly sought-after baal tefillah, davening the tefillos of the Yamim Noraim from the age of 23, first in London and then Eretz Yisrael.

You sat on the kehillah committee, working to improve the town you loved. You spoke at countless sheva brachos, invariably bringing the crowd to tears of laughter with your jokes, often delivered in a faultless Geordie accent. You delivered captivating shiurim in Beis Chaya Rochel seminary, in addition to a weekly Pirkei Avos shiur and hosting Melaveh Malkah for The Chabura , a local hub of learning and friendship,, exposing the beauty of Yiddishkeit to others.

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eder night was undoubtedly your night. Observing you say al achilas matzah was a lesson in dveikus and dikduk hamitzvos, and poignantly, one of your last interactions with your son on Seder night was checking the shiur k’zayis he had prepared.

You connected to rabbanim and talmidei chachamim, especially the late Gateshead Rav, Rav Betzalel Rakow, Rav Shmuel Wosner, and Rav Chaim Kaufman, rosh yeshivah of Tiferes Yaakov. Your eyes would twinkle as you’d recall the great maggid Rav Sholom Schwadron visiting Gateshead when you were a young boy.

“I sat on the steps leading up to on the Aron Hakodesh where he was standing,” you related, “and I drank in every word and tnu’ah of his rich Yerushalmi Yiddish.”

The Gateshead Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Avrohom Gurwicz, cherished his connection with you, relishing the conversations he held with you as you ran the hakafos in Gateshead Yeshiva on Simchas Torah. The regular visits he paid you during your illness were a testament to the feelings of warmth he had for you , and at the hespedim after Yom Tov, he spoke of his personal loss.

You managed to be so much to so many people, but perhaps your impact was most keenly felt in Ahavas Yisroel, the shul in which your revered father, Rabbi Avrohom Katz, serves as rav, and in which you acted as the rav hatza’ir. If there ever was an “amcha” man — the common man’s rabbi — it was you. In this space, your incredible breadth of knowledge in so many areas of Torah, irrepressible love for your fellow Jew, and wacky sense of humor all coalesced to gently push those within your circle of influence to greater heights in Torah and yiras Shamayim.

You created a committed following within those walls, touching so many lives. The nightly round-the-table Mishnayos shiur, the Ein Yaakov shiur, and the intimate winter Shalosh Seudos were all vehicles for your sacred mission. You adored the authentic old-time “alter Yid,” and you chose to deliver shiurim like those delivered in the shtiblach of yore.

You could take the most abstract and little-known Mishnah, and in your signature captivating style, make it alive and relevant. When you gave over a vort, you’d be jumping out of your seat or hopping from foot to foot, consumed by the sheer enthusiasm of the moment. When you discussed the haftarah at your Shabbos table, you’d animatedly bring the story to life with the full historical context of the Navi’s words.

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ollowing the stellar example set by your parents,
you embraced the mitzvah of hachnassas orchim, often hosting people who would otherwise have nowhere to go. But you made them feel like family,
not guests.

Even with your larger-than-life, kaleidoscopic personality, you were self-effacing. As much as you relished holding the microphone and entertaining a crowd, you didn’t consider yourself the gift that we all knew you were.

Your levayah on the second day of Yom Tov, a day when hespedim are not allowed, played out exactly as you’d wanted. Unbeknownst to the huge crowd walking in silence, your last wish was being fulfilled. Your tzava’ah, found on Chol Hamoed, contained clear instructions, one of which stated that there should be no hespedim or “divrei preidah” at your levayah. With a Divine wink, Hashem arranged it all.

A baby born to your youngest sibling was named after you mere hours before the levayah departed from your home. From within the bleakest of situations came a ray of life, emblematic of the way you always found a reason to be b’simchah.

The void is enormous, the loss keenly felt. But the trove of memories will live on. The shiurim you gave, the songs you sang, the tefillos you led, and the nonjudgmental love and warmth you spread to one and all will carry your legacy forth.

Yehi zichro baruch. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1062)