Rabbi Shlomo Bochner channeled the pain of empty arms to help thousands of childless couples build their families

Photos: Naftoli Goldgrab

I was once at one of those dinner planning meetings where people eat sushi and talk vaguely about what should be done, and someone said that they really needed a guest speaker in order to draw a crowd. The organization’s head asked why his speech wouldn’t be as interesting as any paid speaker’s — didn’t he know the challenges better than anyone else? Couldn’t he tell the organization’s story best of all? Yes, someone said politely, he was right in theory, but l’maiseh, that’s not how it works. People want to be entertained, or moved, and they need a name from outside the back office.

The director was frustrated, and a little miffed. “Then how come,” he asked, “at every Bonei Olam dinner, Rabbi Bochner’s speech is the highlight of the night?”

I don’t remember if there was an answer, but now, I think I get it. Rabbi Shlomo Bochner and his wife, Chanie, aren’t telling the story of an organization. It’s their story, and Bonei Olam is part of it. Two people, two hearts, with one shared challenge and one shared goal. Everything else came later.

Rabbi Bochner doesn’t just look like your typical Boro Park businessman, that’s actually what he is — a Bobover chassid with decades of experience in the garment industry as a designer and buyer. And even as he talks of his personal journey — the loneliness and challenge and heartache — there is a certain hesitation. It’s clear he has to push himself to talk.

You may have read that men don’t share emotions easily, don’t share personal feelings with each other. If this is true (it is), then it’s even truer of heimishe men.

At times, he will look to his wife to fill in the words for him, but she doesn’t: She wants him to talk, to convey this story. She needs him to say it, to tell how their own pain became healing for others, and in this way, it healed them too.

The Bochners got married in 1979, with the same dreams of every young couple — the large family, the noise and laughter and action — so the expectation hung around for a while. Sometimes it takes longer. Don’t panic. There are amazing doctors. A few more years of quiet are not the worst thing.

But then it was a few more years and a few more years on top of that and the chorus of reassurance started to fade, and then it was just Reb Shloime and his wife in a car on their way to yet another appointment with their doctor, who asked how the day was going and was it raining and also, he thought they should think in terms of closure because they would not have children.

It was quiet in the car on the way home. What was the point?

Depressing thoughts, Reb Shloime concedes now, but that’s what he was feeling.

As they headed down the FDR Drive toward Brooklyn, Chanie spoke first. “Shloime, for 20 years now, we’ve been working and gathering information. We know all the treatments, we have cell-phone numbers that no one else has, we have connections and experience. It’s time to share it with others.”

Now, sitting in their tasteful home, Rabbi Bochner looks at me and says, “What can I say? I wasn’t there yet. She was. She was ready.”

Like the next day type of ready. Reb Shloime came home from selling coats to see a group of women gathered around his kitchen table.

“I didn’t doubt that she was right about the need, I knew that infertility was taboo in the community in the late ’90s, the elephant in the communal room. It needed someone to take it on, but I didn’t think I was that someone. I’m not a fundraiser or administrator,” says the man now responsible for a ten-million-dollar budget.

He remembers a conversation with one of the prominent poskim of the time, an older, respected rav. Reb Shloime asked his sh’eilah, a fertility issue with serious halachic ramifications. The rav looked up and said honestly, “Ich veis nisht vus di redst, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Boro Park was the loneliest place in the world for a couple facing infertility — it was like we were living on our own planet.” His features soften for a moment. “But there was one person who understood. My rebbe. That was it.”

The Rebbe, Rav Shlomo of Bobov, heard the pain of his young chassid.

“His advice was always to go b’temimus, to go with traditional Yiddishe tools and not try to do more than humanly possible. He let me know he understood the pain and loneliness, and we had many long conversations.”

Once, the chassid was traveling to Eretz Yisrael and he sought the Rebbe’s brachah. “Shloime,” the Rebbe said gently, “go to the kevarim, go to the mekomos hakedoshim, say some Tehillim… and more than that you can’t do.”

More than that you can’t do.

Once, when disappointment had already given way to despair, Reb Shloime came in to the Rebbe, who remarked, “A Yid has to be b’simchah. The Torah says so.”

“Rebbe,” Rabbi Bochner asked, “is it really possible to be b’simchah in this situation?”

The Bobover Rebbe placed his hands over his face, lost in thought. Then, he spoke. “You know what, Shloime? You’re right… but af al pi kein… a Yid has to work on it.”

Al af pi kein…the secret of the Bobover Rebbe’s radiant smile, and the secret of this couple, seated across from me, and the smiles they’ve brought to thousands of families.