As executive director of the Conference of European Rabbis (CER) and a member of one of London’s most prominent families, Reb Aba Dunner has imbibed a concern for the klal in the very air of his childhood home. That unceasing dedication has spurred him in recent months to continue soldiering on for the benefit of the greater Jewish community, despite a staggering succession of devastating losses. In a soul-baring conversation that is highly emotional and at times humorously self-deprecating, Reb Aba describes his upbringing as the son of the eminent Rav Yosef Tzvi Dunner ztz”l, discusses his current focus with the CER, lovingly remembers his famous philanthropist son Bentzi, and muses about the way he’s found strength and inspiration in the words of the siddur

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ne of the perks of a job that involves interviewing interesting people is that you get to, well … interview interesting people. Sometimes, these conversations are humorous and entertaining, sometimes inspiring. My talk with Rabbi Aba Dunner was all of these things: funny, moving, fascinating. Reb Aba is a tall man of laughing eyes and stately demeanor. His trademark is the pair of glasses that sit halfway down his nose, and which he uses to great effect: for drama, humor, and emotion.

Our conversation was a journey of laughter and tears. Memories of an illustrious father and a remarkable son, recollections of an accomplished life filled with interesting twists and turns, and in between, an unforgettable lesson in emunah and bitachon.

“The Rov”

“In our home, there was no such thing as individuals; we grew up with an acute awareness of the klal and their needs. But even so, even with the incessant demands on my parent’s time, we never missed a dinner together with my father. He was there for each and every one of us, available and ready to discuss any issue that was important to us.”

For five decades, Londoners knew Reb Abba’s father as “the Rov,” but who was Rav Yosef Tzvi Dunner? In every sense a true German Rov, a link in a mesorah of punctiliousness and order, Rav Yosef Tzvi was a student in the Hildesheimer Seminary of Berlin, where he studied for the rabbinate under Rav Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg. After graduating from the seminary, in 1936, he was appointed Rov in Koenigsberg — earning the distinguished title of chief rabbi of East Prussia.

During the atrocities of Kristallnacht, German soldiers arrested the Rov, who was then taken to watch as a sefer Torah was burned. Disgusted by the sight, he immediately vomited. This incensed the Nazis. “We know you have a custom to spit during your prayers when you mention our religion,” they shouted, “and that’s what you just did.”

The Nazis wanted to move the prisoner to the Dachau concentration camp, but that entailed crossing through Poland — and at the time, the Polish government didn’t allow passage for the transport of political prisoners. This saved his life, for as Rav Yosef Tzvi languished in German prison, awaiting deportation to a labor camp, his wife worked tirelessly to save him. Her letter to Rabbi Dr. Solomon Schonfeld, in England, bore fruit. Rabbi Schonfeld sent a much-coveted rabbi’s visa, enabling the rabbi to come to England, and in 1938, Rabbi Dunner, his wife and one-year old Avraham Moshe — or Aba, as he is called — arrived in England.

“On the way, we passed through Amsterdam, where my father had many relatives. They were well-established, and urged him to stay with them. My father told them that had they seen what he had seen, they would also flee. ‘This is a new Germany,’ he told them, ‘and they are capable of anything.’ They didn’t listen to him. Sadly, they were all deported.”

The immigrant family settled in the coastal town of Westcliffe, where the Rov opened a small shul. His time in Westcliffe was cut short because in 1940 the English government interned him, along with other German nationals, on the Isle of Man. For the rest of his life, the Rov would recall that six-month period as a peaceful one.

“He spent his time learning, teaching, and bolstering the spirits of his fellow prisoners in short!”

After his release, the family moved to Leicester (pronounced Lester). Reb Aba still recalls the shul in the front room of the family’s home. “Even after we left, my father maintained a close bond with many of the Leicester Yidden, relationships that endured for decades.”

But the family was growing and they had no parnassah. “A friend of my father suggested that he apply for the position of rabbi of the IRG kehillah in Zurich, and my father submitted his name for consideration. Then he learned, however, that a dear friend of his — Rabbi Dr. Theo Weiss — a chashuve Rov, had also applied, so my father immediately withdrew his candidacy.”

The London Years

I

t was the Getter brothers who served as the shlichim to help the Dunners, inviting the Rov to move to London and establish London Teachers’ Seminary, one of the first institutions of higher learning for girls. Ultimately, the Rov led the school for over fifty years.

Once the family moved to London, the Rov’s fame spread, and he was invited to join the Kedassia beis din. Then, when Rabbi Schonfeld retired, in 1960, Rabbi Dunner succeeded him as head of the Union of Orthodox Hebrew Congregations, the umbrella organization of English Torah Jewry, and assumed the leadership of Rabbi Schonfeld’s shul, Adas Yisroel.

The family grew; with time, all of the Dunner children rose to prominence in a variety of fields. Reb Aba had distinguished himself in a long and productive career as a klal activist. Reb Eliezer is the head of the Sheiris Yisroel beis din Bnei Brak. Dayan Aron Dovid is the renowned member of the Kedassia beis din. A daughter is married to Reb Simcha Bamberger, known as “Mr. Daf Yomi” of Manchester; Rav Boruch is one of the heads of the Manchester Seminary; Reb Shamshon, a Maggid Shiur in Manchester; Reb Mordechai, a London askan and noted ish hachesed; and Rav Yehuda Aryeh, Rov of Divrei Shir in Bnei Brak and a member of Rav Wosner’s beis din. Reb Shlomo — whom Reb Aba calls a “true tzaddik,” was a London Agudah leader who passed away several years ago. What was their secret? The remaining sibling: Shimmy.

“My parents were selfless people, there for everybody, so we all grew up living for others, but what really made the difference in our upbringing was Shimmy.”

Shimmy?

“Yes. Back then, in 1942, the whole issue of special-needs children was shrouded in secrecy. Children who were born with disabilities and developmental or emotional delays, even from the finest homes, were sent off and never heard from again. Not by us. My brother Shimmy was born with Down syndrome, and my parents embraced him. Though back then his condition was mystifying, we too loved him fiercely, and in a way, he was the center of our household. If my siblings have developed into wonderful people, it’s in great part because of Shimmy.”

Today, Reb Aba adds, Shimmy is sixty-three years old and still very much a part of the family!

Reb Aba shares a story about his parents’ readiness to accept challenges. “There was a poor woman who gave birth to a child with Down syndrome, lo aleinu, in one of London’s hospitals. When she realized the condition of her newborn, she fled the hospital, leaving the baby behind. As she was Jewish, the nurses contacted the Rebbetzin — my mother, and informed her about this little Jewish boy. My mother came down to the hospital to deal with it.

“Now, at the time, all of us were married and my parents were no longer young. I would notice how, each morning at Shacharis, my father looked extremely fatigued, and was barely able to stay awake during tefillah — very uncharacteristic of him! I finally asked him, ‘Daddy, why are you so tired?’ ‘Oh,’ he explained, ‘it’s because we have the baby in our room.’

“I had no idea what baby he was referring to, but then I learned that they had welcomed this abandoned child into their own home — all night long, my father would walk up and down and sing, trying to soothe the crying child. My parents made a bris for the child, and my father called him ‘Zev’ — the name of his own father-in-law!

“In time, we convinced my parents that they needed to make other arrangements for this child, that they no longer had the energy necessary to deal with him. Only when they found him a place in a reputable Orthodox facility in Eretz Yisrael, did they agree to part with Zev. Every time my father went to Israel — and he went every single year to supervise the matzoh baking for the kehillah — he would travel across the country, to Afula, not by car or taxi, but taking a series of buses, to visit Zev, who called him Saba.”

Reb Aba shakes his head. “You should know, my mother was never mochel us children for not offering to take Zev into our own homes …”

Rabbi Dunner reflects. “From Shimmy’s situation, we knew early on that it’s an imperfect world. But from seeing the way my parents handled it, we learned that we still have to strive for perfection.”

His Own Way

T

he conversation turns to Rabbi Dunner’s own career — one which, at every single juncture, involved klal work. “That was my father’s example, as well. As much as he wanted us to be immersed in learning, he always sent us to the Agudah camp in the summer, wanting us to enjoy camaraderie and warmth of a Torah vacation amidst holiday spirit. I always enjoyed those summers, and developed a taste for working with people.

“When I grew older and had to decide on a career, I naturally turned toward that sort of work. My first taste was when Dr. Schonfeld sent me to Eretz Yisrael to develop a dream of his; to create ‘kehillah’ life in that country, similar to that which we had in Europe. He believed that a united network of shuls and community organizations could connect the Yidden in the development towns and give them an infrastructure. I remember how I had a British Army jeep, which I drove to Italy and brought over on a boat. Back in 1959, that was a novelty — no one had them! I drove the vehicle across the country, to Beit She’an, to Chatzor. I learned a lot then about Israelis and the state of observance over there. I remember how horrified I was to drive by a cinema and see a sign advertising the featured film, called ‘Hasandak.’ It took me a minute, but I realized that it was meant to be a translation of The Godfather. I was so hurt by the thought that sandak — such a heilige word, with such sacred connotations — was being used to represent such a profane idea. It was then that I understood the opposition of our gedolim to modern-day Hebrew.

“After a few months, it was clear to me that the idea would never take off. It was great fun running around for Dr. Schonfeld, but it came to an end when I became a chassan to the daughter of Reb Uri Kohen, of Holland, a hero of the Jewish underground during the war. After the war, he built the cheder-school in Amsterdam, creating a comprehensive chinuch network.

“My shver, z”l, was a magnificent person. He called me over and said, ‘Listen, Aba, it’s wonderful that you are so active for such worthy causes, but you aren’t marrying my daughter until you have a real job!’

“I settled in London, worked for Agudah, and was part of the group that established the Jewish Tribune, one of the first Orthodox newspapers in the English language in Europe. At the time — 1961 — we had nothing, no funding, no subscribers, no connections; so I went around selling pre-subscriptions in order to raise the capital with which to begin.”

Reb Aba has this way of peering through his half-glasses at you, and you sense that a quip or humorous anecdote is on its way. “There was this fellow whom I asked to purchase a subscription. He scoffed, saying ‘when I will see the paper, then I’ll give you money.’ We ultimately did it without his help, and then he subscribed. I didn’t send him a paper though, and he called, begging for his newspaper. I told him he could borrow it from a neighbor …”

He grows serious. “You’re in this business; listen to a powerful story. At a founding meeting of the newspaper staff, the Sunderland Rov, Rav Babad, burst into tears. We asked him the reason for his weeping and he said. ‘I cry for those four inches.’ He explained. ‘You are a Torah newspaper and you will carefully research and prepare your stories and articles, ensuring that everything meets a high standard. But there, on the front pages, you will have an empty space, just in case there is some last minute, breaking news. But if you will have nothing to write, then you will fill it with ‘shtussim,’ nonsense … and for that, I cry, those four inches!’”

While working on the newspaper, Rabbi Dunner continued to rise through the ranks of the Agudas Yisrael organization in England. In time, however, he met the person whom he refers to as his rebbi in klal work, the one who gave him dimensions and a vision: Rabbi Moshe Sherer.

“It started when I learned about the situation in Sweden. There were many Jewish children there, survivors and children of survivors. These were descendants of the most prestigious families of Hungary, Poland, and Czechoslovakia, but after the war, these families had stayed in tranquil Sweden and raised their children without religion.

“I got active over there, making Shabbatons and other events for them, but we needed funding. Someone mentioned the name of Mr. Manfred Lehman, z”l, of Lawrence, New York, who was an exceptional person and himself a product of a prominent Swedish family. I contacted him and he immediately rose to the call, funding our activities. As our relationship progressed, he decided to bring me to New York for a ‘treat,’ and I excitedly made my first visit to America. Here, I first met Rabbi Sherer.

“I spent my two weeks in America in his office, sitting and watching — and learning what true dedication to the klal means. I remember how, one day, I was listening as he spent hours involved in a complicated effort to procure funding for busing for the various New York City yeshivos — chassidish, litvish and modern Orthodox. When he succeeded, I asked him how much Agudah takes as a brokerage fee for negotiating the grant and co-coordinating everything. He looked at me in astonishment, and then rose from his place. He walked around his desk up to where I was sitting and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Aba,’ he said, ‘don’t talk to me that way; either you understand what we are doing here, or you don’t — we are not in this for money!’

“He also broadened my horizons in other ways. He arranged meetings for me with every one of the gedolim in America, advising me to hear their views on klal issues and incorporate their ideals into my work at Agudah in England. I had the privilege of meeting Rav Moshe Feinstein, Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky, Rav Yitzchok Hutner, Rav Mordechai Gifter, Rav Gedalya Schorr, and Rav Yaakov Yitzchak Ruderman, ztz”l. Those experiences were priceless, and I owe them all to Rabbi Sherer.”

After several years in Agudah, Reb Aba moved on from there as well. “In a sense, that was Rabbi Sherer’s fault as well; after seeing how he operated, I longed to imitate him, but in England, we had neither the resources nor the manpower to achieve such a goal, and I felt frustrated.”

There were several positions open to the resourceful and dynamic young rabbi. At the time — 1972 — he was serving as a gabbai tzedakah to one of London’s prominent philanthropists, Reb Willy Stern, and Mr. Stern offered him a full-time position in the business. Rabbi Sherer offered him an executive position with the Agudas Yisrael in America, Reb Shlomo Lorincz offered him a position in the Israeli Agudah, and his dear friend Mr. Manfred Lehman offered him a job in his African office.

“I went to my father to discuss my options with him. I told him that my wife didn’t want to leave the European continent, feeling that with her parents in Holland, and my own in England, we would lose out on valuable opportunities to spend time with them. My father heard and suggested that I accept the job in London, offered by Willy Stern.

“I spent a few years in his business, but I simply wasn’t cut out for it, and one day Lord Jakobovitz called me. ‘Aba,’ he said, ‘we can use someone like you at the Conference of European Rabbanim.’”

The CER is the leading umbrella organization of Orthodox rabbis across the continent, and one of the most effective and vibrant religious organizations in the world.

“Of course, I went to ask my father — who was the head of the chareidi Kedassia beis din — about taking a job with this closer-to-Centrist organization. He advised me to take it.”

“‘Should I worry?’ I asked him.”

Reb Aba looks down through the glasses at me with a twinkle in his eye. “‘No,’ my father replied, ‘they should worry about you!’

“Indeed, as long as my father was alive, he was behind my new position every step of the way. Twice a week I would come to him with all the issues and sheilos, and he would answer everything.”

What does the CER do now? In addition to running a conventional beis din, they have a traveling beis din, which visits areas and communities that don’t have a beis din of their own and arranges for giyur, gittin, and deals with other sheilos, under the auspices of Dayan Ehrentreu. They also maintain a Brussels office, near the headquarters of the European Union, specifically in order to be able to make their voices heard on legislation that affects the wider Jewish community. In recent weeks, they were instrumental in opposing, and ultimately halting, a bill that would have stopped shechitah in many European countries.

At present, Rav Moshe Schapiro, shlita, has advised them to focus all their efforts on building mikvaos across Eastern Europe, and Rav Moshe himself has gone to raise money for this cause.

Rabbi Dunner reflects for a moment on the state of geirus. “It’s a crisis, in Eretz Yisrael it’s a real churban, and so we work very hard on ascertaining that our candidates for giyur are up to par. Our success rate is 70 percent, which is very high.”

The CER is overseeing a most ambitious project to set up a central database of all the destroyed cemeteries across Eastern Europe. “It’s a massive job. There are twenty thousand batei chayim that need to be organized. Our goal is to clean and protect the actual sites, and then set up a program, kind of like a GPS, detailing the names and places of each one. I asked my father, zt”l, about the importance of this project before we began. He said ‘It doesn’t make a difference if it’s the kever of Rav Yisroel Salanter, Rebbe Elimelech of Lizhensk, or a simple shamas — every Yid has the same right to a kever. If a Kohein steps on it, he is tamei, because a Yid is there. It’s his forever, and you should protect each and every one with the same dedication!’”

Does Reb Aba enjoy his job? “I love this job. It’s challenging and demanding, but extremely satisfying. I have the merit of working closely with gedolei Yisrael and with some of the most dedicated Rabbanim out in the field; there is so much work to be done.”

He is looking down at me, through his glasses. “There is nothing wrong with doing a little PR,” he laughs. “The problem is when you start believing your own propaganda!”

The conversation takes a more personal tone as Reb Aba refers to the fact that, besides for the state of the global economy, the loss of one of the CER’s greatest donors also makes it difficult to maintain their many activities.

“My son Bentzi, z”l, bankrolled many of our projects, especially mikvaos. He single-handedly financed our medical ethics conference and, during the period when I was ill and unable to raise money, he covered our entire budget.”

That is the perspective of the executive director of the CER. Reb Aba begins to share the perspective of a father, and his tone changes.

Bentzi Dunner. The name strikes a chord in the heart of any Rosh Yeshivah who had to meet a payroll, any fund-raiser who has had to cover a budget, any father blessed with a large family who had to make a chasunah, and that of simple, ehrliche Yidden who were inspired by the legend of his exceptional philanthropy.

Last year, on Motzaei Purim, Bentzi Dunner lost his life in a terrible car accident; he was just forty-five years old.

 Nisyonos

A

s we discuss the most difficult period in his life, Reb Aba opens with some personal reminiscences, in his candid manner.

“The first blow was my own illness, Rachmana litzlan. I was diagnosed with the dreaded disease, and the prognosis wasn’t good. I underwent chemotherapy, and recall lying there, unable to communicate, but able to hear the doctors around me discuss the improbability of my survival.

“Why did I get through it? Who knows, I can only tell you what I think. At one point, it got so bad that the doctors instructed that I be moved into a new room, essentially giving up hope. As they wheeled me out of my room, my wife inexplicably grabbed my tallis and tefillin and carried them with her to the new room. The doctors wouldn’t allow her into the new room however, so she sat by the door as they operated on me, holding the tallis and tefillin in her hands. In that new room, my healing began. I always believed that the malach hamavess wanted to come in, but the tallis and tefillin made it impossible for him to enter.”

In the middle of this heartrending narrative, Rabbi Dunner peers through his glasses at me, and once again, cracks a joke at a most improbable time. “Also, I heard the angels speaking. ‘Who needs this meshugenne up here?’ they were asking. ‘Leave him down there please!’”

He continues. “During that dreadful period, my wife was always at my side, faithfully attending to my every need and encouraging me. Yet one day, she didn’t come, and my children said that she had developed the flu. She didn’t call either, and my children said that she was hoarse, unable to speak.

“Then, I received a most distinguished visitor; my ninety-four-year-old father, together with, yblct”a, my brother, Dayan Aron Dovid. It was extremely difficult for my father to come to the hospital, and I was moved by his concern and love. ‘I am so sorry that Miriam isn’t here, Daddy,’ I said. ‘She is home, ill.’

“Then my father took my hand, and my brother held my other hand, and they gently broke the news; the news that my wife had passed away suddenly a few days earlier.”

Rabbi Dunner looks right at me. “That was a tough blow. About half an hour after hearing the news, a non-Jewish nurse walked into the room and expressed her condolences. ‘Rabbi,’ she said, ‘G-d doesn’t give a person a test that they can’t handle.’ Never were truer words spoken.

“It was an anguished time for us. I lay there ill, and my children were mourning their mother, but there were always rays of hope, of chizuk.”

Rabbi Dunner’s voice cracks. “Let me tell you a story about what a Yiddishe heart means. My children were sitting shivah for my wife, but during those first few days, I didn’t know. Initially the Rabbanim had instructed them not to tell me anything; for fear that the news could endanger my life. My birthday fell out early in the week of shivah, so from the shivah house, my children went directly to visit me. Not only were they shaved and showered — as directed by Rabbanim — they were also carrying champagne and balloons so that they could celebrate with me.

“They traveled to the hospital by taxi, and the driver turned to them. ‘I may not look Jewish, but I am, and I know what a shivah house is. I have never before seen people leaving a shivah house with balloons and champagne. Can I ask what’s going on here?’

“The children satisfied the curiosity of the driver, explaining that they were in the middle of the week of shivah for their mother as their father was undergoing chemotherapy, and they were going from their own mourning to lift his spirits on his birthday. The taxi driver was silent for the duration of the trip, mulling over what he had heard.

“When they reached the hospital, the children prepared to pay the fare — a rather steep one after the lengthy trip. The driver turned around again. ‘No charge,’ he said simply, and before they could argue, he continued. ‘You haven’t had a single good thing happen to you today — let this be the first!’”

Reb Aba looks at me. “That’s the greatness of a Yiddishe hartz!”

It was a difficult time in his life, and he struggled to recover from his own illness without the support of his wife. Then, he had to deal with the loss of his father.

“It was then right before Pesach and I went to visit my father. He was already very, very weak and could barely lift his head off of the pillow. I recall watching him daven Maariv; he tried valiantly to ‘klap’ on his heart in slach lanu, but had trouble mustering up the strength. I thought to myself, ‘Ribono shel Olam, what chataim does he have already that he is trying so hard?!’

“When he finally finished his Maariv, he lay there, utterly spent, and fixed his beautiful blue eyes on me. ‘Daddy, give me a brachah,’ I said.

“‘You should be gezunt, of course you will be gezunt,’ he said. I held his hand and kissed him. That night he was niftar.”

What followed was the loneliest period of Reb Aba’s life; he had lost his role model and inspiration. He drew comfort from his wonderful children, who dedicated themselves to his well-being.

“Each of them is precious; each of them is extraordinary. Baruch Hashem.”

Bentzi

D

uring that difficult year, Bentzi was already a household name. “He was one of the most prominent businessmen in the country and one of the greatest baalei tzedakah in the world, but he always made his father a priority. He never looked for shortcuts or ways out of the mitzvah of kibbud av.”

Reb Aba reflects on Bentzi’s development as both a businessman and baal tzedakah. “It is interesting how that evolved. When Bentzi was a child, I had a job as the gabbai tzedakah by Willy Stern, and I would often repeat what I’d seen to my own children. I was amazed that Willy himself would listen to the people. Never contenting himself with letting me simply disburse his money, he would open his door wide and make time to hear the stories of his petitioners. His empathy made an impact on me and I would discuss it at home.

“Later, when Bentzi wanted to go into business, I asked Willy — a dear, dear friend — if he had some space for my young son. He graciously allowed Bentzi into his office, and they became quite friendly. Willy was taken by Bentzi’s middos and intelligence, and he took him as a son-in-law.

“Years later, when Bentzi had already prospered, his father-in-law told me that he was humbled by Bentzi’s manner of receiving tzedakah collectors. After Bentzi’s petirah, so many details that he had kept quiet came to light, so many stories of mosdos that he carried, organizations that he single-handedly maintained. He had such empathy… if someone would come complain that they were in financial distress, he wouldn’t merely help; he would call the bank manager, sign for him. This Pesach a fellow who runs a food bank in Yerushalayim told me that, last year, Bentzi paid the entire chicken and meat bill — several hundred thousand dollars! He was unique.”

Reb Aba turns back to last Purim. “Bentzi’s home on Purim night was a spectacle, with live music and lines of people waiting with eager anticipation. The door open throughout the night. That night I myself wasn’t feeling that great, and after davening Shacharis, I went home to rest. As I did, in walked Bentzi with several of his children. He looked tired, but so satisfied.

“I asked him how the night had gone and he said that it had been wonderful. I asked him how much money he had distributed and he told me an astronomical amount. ‘Bentzi,’ I gasped, ‘that’s too much.’

“He looked at me. ‘Daddy,’ he said, ‘I didn’t steal it; I didn’t borrow it. Why do you think the Ribono shel Olam gave it to me at a time when there are Yidden who have no money to make Pesach and others can’t pay tuition, if not to help them?’”

In the midst of this most dramatic story, Reb Aba is looking through his glasses again, a hint of a smile on his lips. “We yekkes are a strange breed; when we are very moved by something our children have done, then we give them a brachah.

“At that moment, when Bentzi said that, with such simplicity, I was overcome with love for him. I rose to my feet, even though it wasn’t easy, and placed my hands on his head; I kissed him, and gave him a brachah.

“It was the last time I saw him.”  Less than twenty-four hours later, Bentzi was killed in a horrific car accident.

“So you parted from your father, and your son, amidst a brachah,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says.

So how did he go on? Where did he derive the strength to continue?

“From tefillah, peirush hamilos. The words gave me strength. A dear friend, Rav Shlomo Freshwater, the Rov of the Sassover beis medrash in London, gave me an eitzah at that time, to ‘adopt a brachah,’ to make it my own by really focusing on it, by allowing its message to penetrate. I chose the brachah of ‘hanosein laya’eif koach — Who gives strength to the weary.’ Sometimes, I repeat the brachah twenty times, saying the words again and again, until they envelop me, until I feel the message inside of me. It’s advice that I would give any Yid, anyone looking for something to hold on to in a rough time.”

Reb Aba has been enjoying better health of late, due in no small part to the devoted efforts of the wonderful woman he married just a few months ago.

During our conversation, she entered the room several times to refill his glass or insist that he eat something. He flashed a grateful smile as she leaves the room. “Yes, Hashem has given me the strength to go on.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 261)