Just a few days before my planned interview with the Dunners, Rabbi Aba Dunner visited my hometown of Montreal as guest speaker at a dinner to benefit Yaldei, an organization doing miracles for special-needs children and their families.

Rabbi Dunner had planned to spend several days in Montreal; he hoped to generate much-needed funds for the network of mikvaos, cemeteries, and Jewish communal institutions he runs across Europe under the umbrella of the Conference of European Rabbis.

A funny thing happened, though: Rabbi Dunner never got around to raising funds. His speech at the dinner — a blend of moving personal recollections drawn from his own experiences with a special-needs brother, and gentle humor — was an injection of chizuk to many in the audience, and throughout the remainder of his visit, he was inundated with visitors, families, and groups desperate for words of hope.

Why? Because there is something unique about his brand of chizuk: While it is laced with emunah, timeless words of bitachon and faith, it’s also delivered with humor.

And more than people want to cry, they want to laugh.

That seems to be the Dunner way.

Bringing the House Down

Sitting together with Reb Aba and his son, Reb Zev Dunner, is great fun. The study in Zev’s Lakewood home seems too small to contain the sheer exuberance and personality of the pair, each alive with ideas, inspiration, activism, and ... yes … jokes.

Most appropriately, they first met on Purim. “My wife gave birth to Zev on Purim day,” Reb Aba reminisces. “In those years, we would host a Purim spiel for London Jewry to benefit Zeirei Agudas Yisroel. We had hundreds of people gathered in the audience, and just before the curtain rose, I turned to my brother Shloime, z”l, and I told him to open the show by asking me ‘What’s new?’ He protested that it wasn’t in the script, but I assured him it would be okay.”

The play began and Shloime asked Aba, “Vuss hert zich eppes neias?”

“My wife gave birth to a little boy,” replied the proud father.

He recalls, “The entire audience rose and started to applaud, shouting out mazel tov wishes.” Then he looks over at at his son. “That was Zev’s welcome. We’ve never really stopped laughing.”

The story isn’t over either. “The president of our shul, a real yekke, with not much of a sense of humor, came over to me after Purim and said ‘Aba, there is something I don’t understand. When you were preparing the skit, how did you know that your wife would give birth to a son?’ He was genuinely perplexed. Obviously, the concept of an ad-lib was alien to him.”

I can’t resist asking what the play was about. “Oh, I think that year I was impersonating a chassidishe fellow on holiday, how it takes him forty minutes to adjust the deck chair to exactly the right height, and after working so hard so he can relax, he stands there, facing the sea, in the beautiful air, frustrated because he can’t get the footrest the way he wants it.

“You should know,” Reb Aba adds, “that those plays weren’t just attended by ‘leitzanim.’ Every single chashuveh rav came to the play, including my father, ztz”l, and they all enjoyed the show. Those were different times. One year, we were cowboys and Indians.”

At this point, Zev interjects. “You have to realize that when my father was young, there were real cowboys and Indians running around.”

Their dialogue is seamless, as if they’ve rehearsed the conversations beforehand. But like the audience at those long-ago Purim plays, these two men are prominent movers and shakers. Their humor might mask the very considerable burdens that lie on their shoulders.

Reb Aba is himself the son of an accomplished father. His father, Rav Yosef Tzvi Dunner, known to decades of Londoners as “The Rav,” was av beis din of Union of Hebrew Orthodox Congregations, the umbrella organization of English Jewry, and the rav of London’s Adath Yisroel congregation.

“We knew from a young age that we weren’t in this world for ourselves,” Reb Aba reflects. “Both my parents made it clear that our purpose is to help others as much as possible.”

Living For Others            

Today, father and son are both in perpetual motion, constantly doing for the Jewish people. Reb Aba, as executive director of the C.E.R., is involved at all levels — administrative, financial, and practical — in the campaign to equip Jewish communities in Europe with proper religious infrastructure. Currently, in addition to the regular workload, he is dealing with crises facing the institutions of shechita and bris milah, which are coming under attack in various European countries. Additionally, his wide-ranging connections and diplomatic skills have pegged him as a key figure on the team working to free the yeshivah bochurim imprisoned in Japan.

Zev matches his father’s exhaustive schedule in his role as director of Torah Umesorah’s Project Seed.

“He,” says his father with obvious pride, “is realizing the vision of Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz, Torah Umesorah’s founder.”

When did Reb Aba, who was never far from the center of Jewish activism, first foresee a future for his son Zev in the “klal” business?

“Oh, early on. He had this confidence — he was always on the debating team and winning; he had this clarity and eloquence.”

He’s also not scared of a challenge.

After going through the British yeshivah system, Zev Dunner decided that he wanted to learn in Lakewood’s Beth Medrash Govoha — certainly not the normal trajectory for a British bochur at the time.

How did Reb Aba feel about his son’s decision to break with convention?

“It’s a source of great pride to me that the only common denominator between my children is their last name. We encouraged each of them to follow their own path.”

In Zev’s case, that path traversed several continents. After his marriage, he settled in London, where he assisted his brother, Pini, the founding rabbi of the Saatchi Synagogue. He worked for a program that connected religious Jews with study partners, similar to the American model of Partners in Torah, and attended a weekly shiur by Rabbi Dr. Akiva Tatz for young people eager to learn the basics of kiruv rechokim.

Like his father, Zev briefly tried his hand at commerce. “Then one day I met Naftali Schiff of Aish in the U.K and I told him that I didn’t feel like it was my destiny to sell baggage. He asked me if I wanted to move to Eretz Yisrael and work for Aish. I discussed it with my wife and we decided to give it a try, so we picked up and went.”

How did the elder Rabbi Dunner react?

They both laugh, and Zev resumes the narrative. “When I told my father I want to move, he said, ‘Rubbish, the whole family is here in England, why not stay here?’ Then, a few weeks after I settled there, he came to visit me at Aish. I took two of those white plastic chairs and carried them out to the balcony overlooking the Kosel. “Welcome to my office,” I said to him. My father looked at the Wall and then at me. ‘Okay, you’ve won,’ he said.”

After four years with Aish, Reb Zev opened a yeshivah of his own. His parents came for an extended visit, and backed him wholeheartedly. “My mother, a’h, believed that the way to do effective kiruv was through the stomach — a theory that has never been disproved, by the way — and she cooked for the boys, huge meals.”

At the time, Torah Umesorah was seeking an inspired leader for the outreach organization Project Seed and Rabbi Chaim Nosson Segal suggested the dynamic young Englishman for the position.

During that first year with Project Seed, Zev’s family remained in Eretz Yisrael, while he traveled to different American locales each Shabbos, chatting with local Jews and getting the lay of the land.

“I became friendly with many out-of-town rabbanim over the Shabbos table,” he recalls. “Those connections with the sincere, wonderful Yidden across this country help us until today.”

Eventually, he assumed the position as director of Seed.

“That was a job I was really excited about,” remarks Reb Aba. “To me, Torah Umesorah was a ‘brand-name’ organization with a rich history and people of the caliber of Dr. Joe Kaminetsky associated with it. I told him, ‘Zev, if I were twenty years younger, I would be competing for the job.’$$separate quotes$$”

And so Zev Dunner returned to Lakewood, this time with his growing family, to assume responsibility for one of the organization’s most important divisions. As the name connotes, Project Seed’s mandate is to lay the groundwork for vibrant Jewish life in locales with less-established religious frameworks. Their two choice methods: sending young men and women on summer programs, or establishing kollelim, which serve as the beginnings of eventual day schools.

There hasn’t been a dull moment since.

Role Models

It might come as no surprise that the Dunners’ drive toward securing their fellow Jews’ future draws from their family history.

“We had a living example of activism before our eyes,” Reb Aba describes the passionate figure who serves as his role model. “My father was a young man in Germany when he broke off from Poalei Agudas Yisroel to form his own group, since he didn’t agree with their ideology.”

Was Zev close to his revered grandfather?

“Extremely,” is the answer. “My father always took us to visit and we loved going to speak with him. You could converse with him about anything; he seemed to be familiar with every subject under the sun. I remember when I was going out with my wife, and my parents were abroad. After each date, I would go speak with the zeideh, and he guided me.”

Reb Aba describes his father’s chinuch methods: “He was head of the London Teacher’s Seminary for over a half century, and was widely recognized as a master pedagogue. He would always say that there are no failed children, only failed parents. He treated each of us as individuals, and the success of my siblings is only due to his appreciation for the uniqueness of each one.

“But at the same time, as supportive and encouraging as he was, he was extremely principled,” Reb Aba qualifies. “He let us know that there was a right way and a wrong way. I remember walking into shul one Shabbos morning fairly late, around Ashrei, and quickly catching up to the tzibbur, as I was slated to serve as chazzan. When I approached the amud to lead the davening, my father waved me away. ‘Ashrei?’ he asked, and shook his head disapprovingly, as if telling me that it was unacceptable to come strolling in late and then serve as chazzan.”

Reb Aba smiles. “Look, I was already married at the time, and the whole shul saw, but I wasn’t hurt. He was right. Today, educators might question that approach, but when your children know that every single decision you make is motivated by love for them, then there are no questions.

“I remember how whenever I would return from Russia, I would go visit my parents and they would ask me to tell them all about my trip. They would sit spellbound as I would recount what I’d seen and heard, letting me know just how much they appreciated what I was doing.”

Reb Aba recalls another mentor: his rosh yeshivah, Rav Moshe Soloveitchik of Lucerne. “In him, we saw a gaon in learning, yet someone who invested time and energy in askanus, worrying about Yidden across the globe. He was a role model.”

Reb Zev was extremely close with his maternal grandfather as well. Reb Uri Kohen of Holland was a member of the resistance during the war, providing food to fellow Jews at great personal risk, and later, when in his sixties, he opened a traditional cheder in Amsterdam. In the 1980s he was among the courageous souls who traveled to Iran, trying to save Jewish children.

“Jewish activism was in his blood,” says Reb Aba.

Today, father and son share a rebbi. While living in Eretz Yisrael, Zev grew close to Rav Moshe Shapira, and it’s Rav Moshe who inspires him in his present role. Today, Rav Moshe also serves as a guide to Reb Aba’s organization, the Conference of European Rabbis, and it was at his behest that Reb Aba has dedicated himself to building mikvaos in the cities and towns of Eastern Europe.

Zev Dunner touches on the uniqueness of Rav Moshe. “I used to attend his shiurim, and when the question of moving to America came up, we went to discuss it with him. I was amazed at his familiarity with the ins and outs of the American kiruv world. He knew how many chavrusos there were in Partners in Torah!”

Reb Zev credits many of the people around him with enabling him to invest his time and energy in his latest project. “My wife bears most of the burden of my traveling, and her selflessness makes it possible. That this house is open to all sorts of Jews is testimony to her, and in truth, I feel that our children have benefited tremendously from being exposed to ‘bnei aliyah’ of this type — struggling, searching Jews who are genuinely trying to find the Ribono shel Olam, even though they may not look or act like us.”

He also derives great chizuk from the leadership of Torah Umesorah’s Vaad Roshei Yeshivah, and is particularly close with Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky, the Novominsker Rebbe, and Rav Hillel David.

“And of course, I get real time advice from Daddy whenever I need it.”

What Time Is Shabbos:

That advice, and Reb Aba’s considerable life experience, are invaluable tools helping Reb Zev pursue his current passion: the fate and future of Israeli yordim to America, the next great frontier in kiruv. To meet the needs of this demographic, Torah Umesorah has recently opened a school, called Masoret Yehudit, in Florida, specifically geared to the children of Israeli immigrants.

Reb Zev grows animated as he describes the possibilities. “You don’t understand; the typical Israeli living in America is just waiting to be noticed. When you’re walking in the mall on Friday and you see the Israeli fellow standing there, selling Dead Sea products, he wants you to greet him so that he can ask you, ‘What time is Shabbos?’$$separate quotes$$”

He explains. “For most of them, leaving Israel is an economic decision, not an ideological one. Once they are away from home, where everything was polarized and a religious Jew meant Shas or Agudah or politics, they are much more receptive and friendly.”

Florida, with its high concentration of Israelis, was the natural place for the school’s establishment. To launch it, Torah Umesorah brought in a talented Israeli-American couple from Israel, Rabbi and Mrs. Yehuda Kornfeld. The Kornfelds immersed themselves in the task of creating a home not just for the students, but for their families as well.

The Israeli community in South Florida is disorganized and fragmented and the new school — with a vision that goes well beyond the children — is slowly emerging as the cohesive force that is so sorely missing.

“The Israelis there have trouble integrating. They send their children to public schools, which are their only economic options, but they really don’t want that. They can’t handle the thought of their children marrying non-Jews. The secular Jewish afternoon schools and Talmud Torahs don’t work for them, because one thing the Sephardic Israeli wants is authenticity. You can’t fool him.

“He comes into a fancy office where a bare-headed rabbi welcomes him warmly and he is underwhelmed. He wants a real rabbi, with a simple office and a beard. Even if he passionately disagrees with chareidim, he recognizes that they are the ‘real deal.’$$separate quotes$$”

With obvious pride, Reb Zev tells me about the school’s recent Purim play. “Over one thousand people came, not just school parents, but members of the Sephardic-Israeli community. We worked in affiliation with five local synagogues, and gave that whole community a taste of simchas Purim.”

The success of the pilot project is convincing. Currently, Reb Zev and his colleagues have set their sights on Los Angeles, hoping to recreate their success with a similar institution there.

‘It’s not just educating children: it’s reaching out to an entire demographic,” he enthuses. “There is power in numbers, and now, we are galvanizing entire communities together under this banner, Masoret Yehudit. It’s thrilling, how much we can do, but also a daunting responsibility.”

Reb Aba sheds some perspective of his own. His public career took him through the annals of the British Agudah. One day, his life changed. He was in conversation with his dear friend, the late Lord Jakobovits, and Reb Aba pointed out that there were so many rabbis across Europe operating as individuals, when they could benefit from organizational structure.

“You do it,” Lord Jakobovits replied. “Create something for them.”

Reb Aba took on the challenge, and assumed the monumental task or organizing and solidifying the rabbinic base under one umbrella. Today, the Conference is widely respected and effective: in addition to running a conventional beis din, it has a traveling beis din, which visits areas and communities that don’t have a beis din of their own and they arrange for giyur and gittin (conversions and divorces) under the auspices of Dayan Ehrentreu of London. The Conference also  maintains a Brussels office, near the headquarters of the European Union, with the express purpose of making its voice heard on legislation that affects the wider Jewish community. At present, it is engaged in diplomatic battles to protect shechitah and bris milah, both of which are under attack.

“Once I started to work with these rabbanim across the continent, I saw firsthand the tremendous difference that a person can make, how dedicated and enthusiastic rabbanim can literally build Jewish families, from the bottom up,” Reb Aba reflects. “That’s what my son is doing, baruch Hashem.”

Father and Son

Today, father and son are in constant contact, speaking once, twice, or even three times a day. They share a sense of achrayus to their nation, a dynamite sense of humor, and … a tremendous amount of pain.

They’ve been through a lot together.

While the Dunner children were worrying about their beloved father, Reb Aba, who was hospitalized with a serious illness, their mother — a relatively young and healthy woman — passed away suddenly.

“We never had time to properly mourn,” reflects Zev, “since we were so focused on my father’s recovery.”

As Reb Aba slowly regained his strength, the family was dealt another devastating blow. On Purim, three years ago, their brother Benzion Dunner — surely one of the greatest supporters of Torah in the modern era — was killed in a car accident, leaving behind a young wife and nine children. Once again, the Dunners had to come together to comfort each other.

‘We tried to support my father through that time,” Zev remembers. “He was still weak and weary, so once again, we were forced to move on. But we all carry the pain constantly.”

Perhaps that’s the secret of the laughter that flows between them, father and son. It isn’t mindless hilarity: it’s a conscious decision, a choice they made — simchas hachayim isn’t a luxury but a necessity.

And no doubt, that is the secret reason why the crowds that look to Reb Aba for chizuk. He isn’t blind to suffering, deaf to the cries. Rather, he’s chosen another path, to rise above the anguish and keep smiling.

“When we were children, we would look at my brother Shimmy, struggling with Down syndrome and his own limitations, and we would ask my father, ‘Why?’$$separate quotes$$” Reb Aba relates. “My father, the rav, would always say, ‘Hashem doesn’t give people bad days, just difficult days.’

“Our job isn’t to understand. I drive my car every morning, and I don’t open up the hood to try to figure out how it works. I drive and trust that the vehicle will do its job. We aren’t here to figure things out, just to keep driving, not to get miserable.”

And as Reb Aba rests his gaze on the son next to him, he brightens. “And I have much to be grateful for.”

Reb Zev made a bar mitzvah for one of his children some years back, and his father came from England to participate in the simchah.

Reb Zev remembers it still: “He got up and delivered a speech that made me uncomfortable, speaking about my strengths and capabilities. After he spoke, a friend came over to me and said, ‘I waited my whole life for my father to say something nice about me, and he never did. Now he’s dead. You don’t know how blessed you are.”

***

A final question: Is there any one thing that Zev saw in his parents’ home that he has tried to bring into his own?

“There are many, but if I have to choose one, it would be the warmth, the simchas hachayim. It was a given and I try to create that atmosphere here, in my own home as well.”

There are many intangibles in the room that I wish I could bottle up: concern for the klal, determination, energy. But if there would be one that I could grasp and release in to all Jewish homes, it would be this: the sense of acceptance, of unwavering emunah, fused with a commitment to be happy, to keep on laughing.

And in this context, that’s the greatest song of faith.

(Originally featured in 'A Father to Follow' Special Supplement, Pesach 5771)