I was dumbstruck. I simply hadn’t realized until now that my daughter’s situation was life-threatening

As told to Sharon Gelbach

Over 30 years ago, our lives had been blessedly commonplace; I headed a yeshivah in central Israel, my wife was a teacher, and we had a houseful of children. I was out of the country on a fundraising trip for the yeshivah, when I received an urgent call from my wife — our 14-year-old daughter Tali* was ill with hepatitis and I was needed back home. I was surprised; my wife knew how busy I was, and besides, another one of our kids had had hepatitis just a few weeks earlier, and it had passed like any other childhood illness. The following day my wife called again; Tali wasn’t getting any better and the pediatrician was worried. I could hear the anxiety in my wife’s voice. After I hung up the phone, I booked the next flight home.

When I arrived home, late at night, I found Tali lying in bed, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued, her skin an unhealthy shade of yellow. My wife was distressed, and I tried to reassure her. The next morning, as soon as I walked into the clinic, the secretary told me that the doctor was waiting for me. “Your daughter’s condition is not getting any better; take her to the hospital right away,” he said.

After several days in Hadassah Hospital, which had an excellent reputation for treating liver diseases, the department head and his deputy approached me. There had still been no improvement in Tali’s condition. The department head said her liver was liable to suffer irreversible damage. The only solution: a liver transplant.

In those days, back in the ’80s, Israeli hospitals had almost no experience with organ transplantation. The doctors strongly recommended moving Tali to a hospital overseas.

I was dumbstruck. I simply hadn’t realized until now that my daughter’s situation was life-threatening. Now I was told I had to organize complicated surgery in chutz l’Aretz! I had no idea where to begin.

Luckily, my brother-in-law was with me, and he was able to think rationally. He also had a cell phone, which wasn’t standard then.

“What about your good friend from London, Jackie Levison ? Let’s call him and ask him if he knows anybody who can help,” he suggested.

Reb Jackie Levison, a close talmid of the Ponovezher Rav, was a well-known baal chesed and askan, and I figured it was worth a try. I called him and told him the whole story. Feeling a little foolish, I added: “I don’t know if you’re even familiar with stories like this, but I’m calling you because the Brisker Rav ztz”l taught us that with issues of pikuach nefesh, a person has to investigate every possibility, even the most remote.”

Jackie sympathized with my plight and immediately went into action mode. “Reb Yosef! We’re going to get your daughter the care she needs,” he said, speaking quickly. “I’m in close contact with the best medical askanim in London. And my wife and I regularly host families who come to London for medical emergencies. Don’t worry about a thing, just come and we’ll take care of everything.”

Jackie jotted down the details of Tali’s physicians and other information to pass on to the askanim and repeatedly reassured me that everything would be taken care of.

I was intensely relieved, but I didn’t want my well-to-do friend to think I was looking for charity. “Look, Jackie,” I started, “I just sold my apartment because we were looking for a bigger place, but we didn’t buy yet, so I have all the money in cash—”

But Reb Jackie cut me off midsentence. “Chas v’shalom, don’t bring a penny! We’ll take care of everything here.”

Once again, I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t believe that the first stage of my salvation had come so quickly and easily.

The following day, thanks to a lot of behind-the-scenes askanus and maneuvering, we were already airborne — Tali, on a stretcher, accompanied by a doctor from Hadassah, my wife, and myself. All the kids had had been farmed out to different family members. Everything had happened so quickly, it felt like a dream.