The indomitable spirit of Benny Fishoff 

Photos: Meir Haltovsky, Family archives

If you live in a world with other people, and if you have any sort of interaction with them, you should probably read about Reb Yechiel Benzion (Benny) Fishoff.

When writing a tribute to a niftar, one reaches for those with the closest relationships: family, the talmidim or intimate friends, longtime neighbors who will share cherished memories. When it comes to Benny, there is a confidence that I can speak to anyone and they will have precisely the same reaction.

Because this isn’t about what he did, or where he came from, or even what he was.

This is about what he did to other people: the way he made you feel, the respect he conveyed with just his eyes, the warmth he exuded with his handshake, the appreciation he expressed with his smile.

It wasn’t Dale Carnegie or a LinkedIn seminar on creating connections. That wasn’t the secret of Benny Fishoff’s appeal. It was something much purer, much more holy: the humility and sweet sincerity of one raised on and saturated with the Torah of Gur, the cognizance of the Master of the Universe, of man’s frailty, of the gift of life itself, of the spiritual oxygen that is faith.

It was the genuine sense of wonder at each moment — Why was I fortunate enough to survive? Why have I been blessed with such remarkable children and grandchildren? How could I have been privileged enough to merit closeness with the Rebbes of Gur, friendship with people like Rabbi Sherer and Rabbi Friedenson?

Ahhh, dear Reb Benny, my 99-year-old friend… did you even know what you meant to everyone around you? How wherever you were, that was a delightful place to be? How every conversation with you left us feeling a bit taller, more committed to treating others as you treated them? You laughed when I told you that Rabbi Meir Zlotowitz would say, “When I grow up, I want to be like Benny Fishoff,” thinking it was a cute comment, a compliment, perhaps, but not realizing how profound a statement it was.

People spoke to you and they wanted to be like you, capable of elevating others, your light radiating to whomever you spoke with, in just a few minutes.

It’s almost a puzzle how you did it.

You lost your parents at an early age, yet every time we met you asked, “How are your parents? Please send regards,” capable of investing a person with instant relevance that comes within the context of family, even though yours was gone. You were a survivor who transcended the horror, yet you were able to be generous and accepting of the rough edges in those who’d come of age fighting for every crust of bread, who’d spent their teenage years on the run. You were noble and kind, but you understood those who did not achieve that impossible feat.

I look through notes of our many conversations, now, and in each part of the colorful and intricate narrative that formed your life, there are side-lessons, comments you made that show how you viewed others.

This, Reb Benny, is your legacy.