Rav Reuven Feinstein has tapped the clarity born of loss to write a new chapter about the bonds of marriage and true faith 

Photos: Marko Dashev, Naftoli Goldgrab

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our children were born to Rav Moshe and Rebbetzin Shima Feinstein.

Three of them were born in Russia, in Luban.

Just one was born in America.

It’s symbolic, sort of, because Rav Reuven Feinstein has taken so much of what made his father and his older brother, Reb Dovid, great and given it American flavor.

The Luban is still there in Rav Reuven, just with a twist of Lower East Side.

The camp’s name is Camp Yeshiva of Staten Island, which is itself the most Staten Island thing ever: no branded names or plays on words, just a clear, direct statement of what the camp is.

Its rosh yeshivah, Rav Sholom Reuven Feinstein, is a sitting at a small table in his bungalow, a few seforim and a bowl of candy covering its expanse.

He indicates the overflowing bowl of Laffy Taffy and Winkies, saying, “You know, you gotta stay on everyone’s good side, right?” and turns back to my observation about the camp’s name.

“The camp was made for a reason,” he says. “The Rosh Yeshivah wanted something with the camp, it’s not just pshat that we needed a place to spend the summer and this is the place.”

It takes me a moment to realize that the rosh yeshivah of whom he speaks is his father. Reb Moshe.

“The Rosh Yeshivah felt that in yeshivah, bochurim hear the shiur, they see the rebbi and speak to him in learning, but they don’t see him living, they don’t see him interacting with his own wife and children, so camp is crucial. Camp is where talmidim get to see the rebbi in real life.”

And real life is the sugya that Rav Reuven Feinstein has made his own.

Today, Reb Reuven stands at the helm of Yeshiva of Staten Island, one of the most respected yeshivos in America.

I’ve seen him lead question-and-answer sessions at conventions, and inevitably, they’re standing-room-only, and also, they’re marked by repeated laughter. Reb Reuven doesn’t do sound bites or clichés; he answers the questions as they come, barely pausing, as if reading from a paper that lists every possible eventuality.

He answers with a directness and candor that’s uniquely his own. Once, the question was about a parent who overreacted when punishing his child: Should he apologize?

“Yes,” said the Rosh Yeshivah, “of course he should.”

“But how should a parent apologize to a child? What should he say?” the questioner persisted.

“I don’t understand the question.” Reb Reuven peered up at the audience. “He should say, ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

More recently, particularly as his brother Reb Dovid has been unwell, his brachos are sought after, and it can take him a while to make his way across a hotel lobby or chasunah hall. I have no formal data ranking the efficacy of these brachos, but I know enough people who’ve received his brachos and sent friends and family members as well.

But ironically, this gadol, a son of the man Rav Elyashiv remarked would have been the gadol hador ten generations back as well, didn’t travel the usual route to his current position on the mizrach vant of Torah greatness. It was quite a road for Reb Reuven: the road through real life.