Seeing Deeper

Rav Mendel’s perception always permeated beyond the surface. He saw depth in every encounter, meaning in each experience or interaction. All elements of creation, even the silent and inanimate, whispered eternal messages that only his ears perceived. From between the lines of everyday living, Rav Mendel revealed a universe of living truths.

Rav Mendel once mentioned to Avrohom Owsianka (today, Rav Avrohom, rosh yeshivah of Yeshivas Beis Medrash L’Talmud) that he very much enjoyed walking past a massive construction site situated near the Philadelphia yeshivah.

“Why?” Avrohom asked.

“Because,” Rav Mendel explained, “when I see how much can be accomplished in gashmiyus, I have some glimpse into how much can be accomplished in ruchniyus.”

Rav Mendel’s shiur was unconventional on many levels, and the seating arrangements were no exception. The desks were arranged in a semicircle and Rav Mendel sat in the middle. Often, he would stop mid-thought and share an insight.

Reb Raphael Mendlowitz, now the tenth grade rebbi in Yeshiva Gedolah of Greater Washington, remembers Rav Mendel telling them, “Gei tzum fenster, go the window.” The talmidim quickly got up. “What do you see?” he asked them.

They peered out carefully and then reported, somewhat uncertainly, “The janitor is washing his car.”

Rav Mendel shook his head. “I will teach you how to see.”

The talmidim turned to face him.

“The janitor takes water. He takes soap. He pours it on the car. Then he takes a shmatteh and he scrubs it dry. It looks so nice. Then… he does it all again!” Rav Mendel looked at them meaningfully. “That,” he said, “is how to learn a Tosafos!”

“Gei tzum fenster!” Rav Mendel instructed on another occasion. “Look at the squirrel!” A squirrel was scurrying across a telephone line. “You see,” said Rav Mendel, “a person can’t do that. Why not?” The talmidim waited.

“Because a human has fear. A squirrel has no fear. And a person understands the consequences of every step he takes. A squirrel doesn’t.

“That,” Rav Mendel concluded, “is how you should live. By realizing the tachlis of every step you take.”

It was an approach he had surely absorbed from his time with Rav Yerucham Levovitz.

“I used to take long walks with Rav Yerucham,” Rav Mendel shared. “He once stopped and pointed to a horse and asked me, ‘What do you see?’ I said, ‘A horse.’ Rav Yerucham countered, ‘It’s a creation made for the purpose of serving a person.’ ”

Reb Chaim Zev Levitan, today the rav of Bais Yosef Meir of Monsey, New York, once joined Rav Mendel on a train ride from Philadelphia to New York on a Friday morning. It had snowed the night before and they passed by acres of sprawling land, bedecked in glistening, pristine snow. Then, the train tracks led them over a busy road. Here, the snow was slushy and gray-black.

“You know what this teaches,” Rav Mendel commented. “It teaches that what comes from Shamayim is rein uhn shein — pure and beautiful. But to the degree that man touches it, it turns black.”

“When I go on the Verrazzano Bridge,” Rav Mendel once said, “I think, Such a bridge Avrahom Avinu made for Klal Yisrael!”

In Rav Mendel’s vision, the tons of steel and cement connecting Brooklyn with Staten Island were merely a metaphor for the spiritual bridge forged by our ancestor, connecting us with our Father in Heaven.

Reb Yeshoshua Cooper, the menahel of Mirrer Yeshiva K’tana of Brooklyn, was in Rav Mendel’s shiur when the Honda S500 car was first introduced. A catalogue featuring the exciting new model was left in the yeshivah’s dormitory, and Yehoshua was intrigued. Sometime later, he was driving Rav Mendel, when he caught sight of this very car. Rav Mendel recognized the flash in his talmid’s eyes and wondered what had piqued his interest.

“Nu, vuhs iz?” he queried, “What’s on your mind?”

Yehoshua explained that this was the latest model car on the market.

“You know what I see when I look at that car?” Rav Mendel responded. “I see a junkyard with a huge pile of car debris. At the top is that car, lying upside down with its four wheels pointing up.”

“A mechanech once told me,” shares Reb Dovid Klugmann, a prominent member of the Lakewood community, “that he’s in chinuch today because of one line Rav Mendel told him. Rav Mendel had said ‘The difference between a Cadillac and a Chevrolet is over the hood. Under the hood it’s all the same.”

The realization that external distinctions have so little relevance in the grand picture reframed his entire perception of gashmiyus.

Rav Mendel was once walking with a talmid when they saw a man jogging. “What do you see?” Rav Mendel asked.

“I see a man exercising,” the talmid responded.

“The pasuk says ‘Adam l’amal yulad,’ ” Rav Mendel said. “Man is made to work. In the olden days, making a living meant working hard. You were either schlepping water or schlepping firewood or making shoes with your bare hands. Today, you don’t need to work that way to make money. You can sit at the computer, make a few phone calls, and that’s enough. But the pasuk says ‘adam l’amal yulad’! And so people are frustrated. They need to work! Therefore they exercise. It’s their way of ‘doing work.’ ”

“I prefer an older doctor over a younger one,” he told Rav Avrohom Owsianka. “We learn from a medrash in Koheles that there are seven worlds through which we traverse during our lifetime (relating to the seven hevels referenced in the first pasuk of Koheles). Through each phase of life, we enter a new ‘world.’ I therefore want a doctor that is my age so that he can relate to my world.”

Rav Mendel’s “world” was far beyond the reach of any of his talmidim, but by pointing to the squirrels, the cars, the bridges, and the joggers, Rav Mendel brought a young generation one step closer to “his world.”

For the Love of His People

Rav Mendel cared for every Jew as one does for a closest sibling. His determination to offer a fellow Jew support overwhelmed any personal concerns. His personal sphere of comfort was irrelevant when another Jew was in need. 

“When I was in yeshivah,” recounts Rabbi Cooper, “there was a Yid, a very sorry soul, who used to frequent the yeshivah. He rarely showered and had a terrible stench to him. One day, following shiur, I was walking Rav Mendel to his room in the dormitory (his family lived in Brooklyn and he joined them for Shabbos), speaking with him in learning, when we encountered this fellow. Rav Mendel gave him a very warm shalom aleichem and continued on. Then the man started to yell, ‘Hey, Rabbi! Last time I was here they said you were in the hospital! I thought you died! I’m so happy you’re alive!’ ”

A young Yehoshua Cooper gave what he describes as the faintest of chuckles. Suddenly, Rav Mendel began walking rapidly, clearly irate with his talmid. “Rebbi!” Yehoshua called, quickening his pace to keep up with Rav Mendel, “Ich hub gurnesht gemeint — I didn’t mean anything negative!” But Rav Mendel paid no heed. Yehoshua desperately followed in tow, begging for forgiveness, until Rav Mendel reached the door to the building and spun around.

“Der Yid,” he said, “iz shenerer fuhn der shenster senator — that Yid is more beautiful than the most dignified senator.” Then he added, “And are we any better than him in the eyes of the Borei Olam?”

This unfortunate individual enjoyed a tremendous amount of Rav Mendel’s attention. He would say, “min darf einzappen der reiach fuhn an ani — You have to heartily absorb the smell of a poor person.” This is based on the midrash that teaches that the bird offered by a poor person in the Beis Hamikdash was burned together with its feathers, emitting a strong stench. This is because Hashem loves the smell of a poor person.

Rav Mendel would also frequently give this Yid rides in his car, and refused to open the windows out of the concern that this might offend him (there was no air conditioning in the car either).

A talmid once asked Rav Mendel why he went so far out of his way to accommodate this man. Rav Mendel responded that “There are Yidden who were born to carry a pekel, an abundance of difficulties. This is not to atone for his own sins but for the sins of Klal Yisrael.”

But one needn’t have been in such desperate straits to merit Rav Mendel’s concern. Reb Yehoshua Cooper shares another incident, this one involving a fellow talmid.

One day after shiur, Rav Mendel asked Yehoshua to remain in the classroom. He wanted to discuss a certain bochur who seemed to be struggling. “Rebbi!” Yehoshua exclaimed, “I did everything I can do! There’s nothing more I can help him with!”

Rav Mendel stood up abruptly and began walking out the room. Then he spun around. “Vult ehr gevehn dein bruder vulst du oichet azei gezugt? — If he was your brother would you also speak that way?”

Rabbi Cooper shares yet another incident.

“One summer, together with a group of bochurim, I went to visit Rav Mendel in Camp Shivtei Yisrael in Livingston1950 Manor, an arm of Mikdash Melech, Rav Mendel’s sons-in-law’s yeshivah. When we arrived, we were told he wasn’t there — he was driving in from Brooklyn — but would be coming in about half an hour. Presently, his car pulled up and we ran out to greet him. He was so excited to see us and we offered to help him bring in his belongings. He looked at me and said ‘Listen, behind the driver’s seat is a box of bananas. Please get it and hand out bananas to as many campers as you can.’ ”

A thoroughly perplexed Yehoshua crouched behind the driver’s seat and was utterly nonplussed to find some one hundred bananas, many of them nearly rotten.

“Rebbi! Vuhs iz mit di bananas?” he asked, “What’s with the bananas?”

“No, no, it’s good. Give them out to the campers,” Rav Mendel said.

When Yehoshua again pressed for an explanation, Rav Mendel relented. “I was leaving Brooklyn, about to get on the Verrazzano Bridge,” he said. “To the side, I saw an old Russian Yid, selling fruit. I got out of the car and bought a few apples. Then he gave a krechtz. I asked him what happened. He shared how he had gotten a good deal on a box of bananas, but no one is buying any. They will soon go bad. And so even if he makes money today, he will barely break even because of the loss on the bananas. So,” Rav Mendel finished simply, “I bought the box. I don’t want them to go to waste so I’d like to hand them out to the campers.”

At the wedding of one of his granddaughters, in June 1982, Rav Mendel went suddenly missing. He was eventually located in the kitchen, listening to the caterer’s radio. The Lebanon war was raging and he wanted to know how the Yidden in Eretz Yisrael were faring.

Every Jew is a world unto itself. But for Rav Mendel Kaplan, builder of bridges, a million worlds intersected effortlessly.

Whoever and wherever they were — we are all brothers.

Fine-Tuned Melody

R

av Yisrael Mendel Kaplan was born in the year 1913 in Baranovich, Poland. At the time, Baranovich had a population of approximately 30,000, with its Jewish community numbering around 25,000.

Rav Mendel’s father, Avraham Kaplan, worked as an attorney, while devoting many hours to Torah and tefillah each day. His mother, Esther Kaplan, was a deeply pious woman with a fiery passion and determination. In fact, she was actually the impetus behind the establishment of the famed Baranovich yeshivah.

There was a tzaddik who lived in Baranovich, a scribe named Rav Chaikel Sofer. “One day,” Rav Mendel recounted, “my mother said to him, ‘What will be with Baranovich? We need a yeshivah, we need living sifrei Torah!’ ”

Rav Chaikel took these words to heart and dedicated himself to the task of establishing a yeshivah, traveling from town to town to recruit bochurim, while Esther Kaplan canvassed the neighborhood, soliciting food for them.

Mendel himself joined the yeshivah shortly after his bar mitzvah. Even at this young age he was quickly recognized as one of its star pupils. “Mendel’s mind works like a fine-tuned violin,” Rav Elchonon Wasserman once said. “Everything he says comes out beautiful and true.”

Rav Mendel studied under Rav Elchonon for a number of years. At a certain point, he decided to transition to Grodno where he could study under Rav Shimon Shkop, a leader of the yeshivah world at the time. He remained in Grodno for two years.

Following his time in Grodno, he went on to learn in the Mir. While there, he was notified of a shidduch suggestion for him made by Rav Elchonon. The menahel in the Baranovich yeshivah, Reb Tzvi Hirsch Gutman, had a daughter named Sarah Baila. He consulted with Rav Elchonon regarding a suitable match for his daughter and Rav Elchonon suggested Mendel Kaplan.

The shidduch was made and the wedding, held in the backyard of the home of the Baranovitcher mashgiach, Rav Yisrael Yaakov Lubchansky, took place on the 12th of Adar, 1935. After the wedding, the couple moved into the same building as Rav Elchonon. They were blessed with three children, Tzirel (Benoliel) a”h; Yeruchem ztz”l; and Rochel (Lopian). Each Shabbos, they would visit the Wassermans for kiddush and the children would climb onto Rav Elchonon’s lap.

But the tranquil times soon gave way to upheaval as World War II tore across Europe. Baranovitch, located in Eastern Poland, fell under Soviet rule pursuant to the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, and was thus subject to the tyrannical Communist regime. Rav Elchonon instructed all his talmidim to flee to Vilna, the capital of then-independent Lithuania. Scores of other yeshivos did the same.

But when the Soviets annexed Lithuania, the perception of safety and refuge immediately shattered and the yeshivos once again had to take flight. The Kaplans joined the Mir on its famous journey through Japan and Shanghai. In Shanghai, they celebrated the births of another two children, Shimon a”h and Chaim Ozer a”h. Tragically, Chaim Ozer passed away at the age of two, buried in Shanghai. On his gravestone were inscribed just four words “Oi lanu ki chatanu — woe unto us for we have sinned.”

Eventually, the Kaplans succeeded in securing visas and settled in Chicago where their youngest child, Esther (Hutner), was born. Rav Mendel took a teaching position in Beis Medrash L’Torah (which later moved to Skokie), which he retained until 1960, when the Kaplans relocated to New York. There, Rav Mendel held a variety of teaching positions, including a two-year stint at the Kamenitz Yeshiva in Boro Park. In 1965 he was hired by Rav Elya Svei ztz”l and ybdlch”t Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky, the roshei yeshivah of Philadelphia, to become its first-year maggid shiur, a position he maintained until the end of his life.

Just a Spoonful

Rav Mendel’s humor and joviality couldn’t fully conceal his greatness as a talmid chacham of epic proportions. But he was the ultimate anav, revealing as little of this greatness as he could. We will never know just how vast his knowledge was.

Rav Mendel arrived on American shores with credentials nearly unparalleled by any other rabbinical figure of the time. He wasn’t merely a student of Rav Elchonon Wasserman — he was a ben bayis in the Wasserman home. He had learned b’chavrusa with Reb Naftali Wasserman, Rav Elchonon’s son, an exceptional talmid chacham. But when the Baranovich yeshivah’s menahel, Rav Zvi Hirsh Gutman, asked Rav Elchonon about Naftali’s suitability as a shidduch for his daughter Sarah Baila, Rav Elchonon urged him to consider Mendel Kaplan instead, saying “Naftali iz a gutte bochur ubber tzu Mendele kumt ehr nisht — Naftali is a good bochur but he is not near Mendele’s level.”

Captivated by the tales that Rav Elchonon shared about his own rebbi, Rav Shimon Shkop of Grodno, a young Mendel had set out to Grodno, so he too could study under Rav Shimon. There, he learned b’chavrusa with a bochur named Yitzchok Dov Koppelman, later to become the legendary rosh yeshivah of Lucerne, Switzerland. He spent some time learning in the Mir as well, where he became especially close with the famed Mirrer Mashgiach, Rav Yerucham Levovitz, and the two would take walks together. (Rav Mendel’s oldest son, born fourteen months after the Mashgiach’s passing, was named Yeruchem).

Rav Mendel was also among an elite group of students who studied under the Brisker Rav while in neutral Lithuania.

Still, one could observe Rav Mendel for years and never guess what a towering figure he was. He referred to himself as a “melamed”, and that reflected his pedagogy. He didn’t revel in high-level discussions with the “top” bochurim but rather spent whatever time necessary explaining even the simplest concepts to whoever needed clarity and assistance. One of the “alter Mirrers” once said of him, “He came to America with wagonfuls of Torah but handed out spoonfuls.”

Rav Mendel never engaged in the common practice of writing the words “laHashem ha’aretz u’melo’ah” in his seforim before writing his name. When a talmid once asked him why, he responded, “I’m not holding by laHashem ha’aretz u’melo’ah. I’m holding by writing my name.”

After the Six Day War, when the Kosel came under Israeli jurisdiction, Rav Mendel informed his talmidim that he had sent a kvittel to be placed in the Kosel. “I wrote my name,” he said, “then a bakashah for refuah (for a grandchild who was unwell), parnassah, Torah, and yiras Shamayim.”

Rav Mendel looked around, aware that the order of his requests suggested misplaced priorities.

“S’takeh nit shein — it in fact, isn’t right,” Rav Mendel acknowledged. “Ubber tzum Kosel shikt mir nisht kein shkorim — but to the Kosel we can’t send lies.”

If we don’t fully appreciate Torah more than parnassah, we dare not profess to at the spiritual epicenter of the world.

“One Chol Hamoed Pesach, I went to visit Rav Mendel,” Rav Avrohom Owsianka recounts. “I had a date later that night but wanted to spend time during the day with my rebbi.” They made up to meet in Crown Heights at the home of a friend of Rav Mendel’s named Rav Gedalia Zupnik.

While there, Rav Zupnik brought up a pointed halachic question and Rav Mendel seemed puzzled, floundering to provide a meaningful response.

Disconcerted, Rav Zupnik changed the subject and began discussing a Maharal. Again, Rav Mendel appeared confused. “Maharal? Why should I fool myself into thinking I understand Maharal?” he said.

The conversation ended on an awkward note, and Rav Mendel, together with Avrohom, left the Zupnick home. Rav Mendel then faced his talmid.

“On your date tonight, don’t do what I just did. I was expected to be able to immediately engage in the sugya being raised but I demurred. I was acting with anivus. But a woman must know who her husband is. It’s not the time and place for anivus.”

In reality, Rav Mendel most certainly knew the Maharal — and a whole lot more. “I once spoke to the gabbai of the Baba Sali,” shares Reb Dovid Klugmann, “and he shared many wondrous, supernatural stories that he had witnessed. One of them happened when he was driving the Baba Sali and they ran out of gas. The Baba Sali said ‘Sa, sa (go, go)’ and the car drove on, without fuel.

“I told this story to Rav Mendel and he was unimpressed,” says Reb Dovid. “He said, ‘If you know the mechanics of things, mir kehn duhs beiten — you can manipulate them.’ ”

Rav Mendel encouraged talmidim to read excerpts of the writings of the Leshem, a great kabbalist and the grandfather of Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv ztz”l. “Even if you don’t understand it,” he said, “It will lift you up fuhn der erd (from the ground).”

It was clear to those close to him that Rav Mendel was well versed in Kabbalah, though he never discussed it.

“Rav Mendel was niftar two days before Pesach,” says Reb Raphael Mendlowitz. “It was bein hazmanim. He was flown to Eretz Yisrael where he was buried on Har Hazeisim; there were barely any hespedim and hardly any shivah. And that’s exactly how Rav Mendel would have wanted it.”

Light unto the Nations

While Rav Mendel saw the innate beauty of a Jew and how it outshone any external elegance exhibited even by the most prestigious of non-Jews, he nonetheless placed profound emphasis on seeing the tzelem Elokim in all humankind.

Yehoshua Cooper was once driving Rav Mendel somewhere when they spotted a teenage girl standing together with her dog at the side of the road. “Pull over and offer her a ride,” Rav Mendel instructed. A flicker of fear flashed on Yehoshua’s face and Rav Mendel smiled. “You’re afraid of dogs?” (Rav Mendel was European and always struggled with English. When he’d say the word “afraid,” the “r” had a guttural tone, sounding more Yiddish than English). Squaring his shoulders, Yehoshua invited the hitchhiker into the car, along with her dog. Once she entered the vehicle, Rav Mendel turned to her. “Listen to me young lady,” he said, “this is the second time I’m seeing you on the road. How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen,” the girl responded.

“You don’t belong on the highway,” said Rav Mendel. “Where do you live? Show my student. He will drive you home.”

And he did.

One summer Erev Shabbos, Rav Mendel asked Yehoshua if he would be willing to spend Shabbos in the mountains. Yehoshua had family there and agreed.

“Okay, so you will drive me?”

Yehoshua agreed but felt nervous. It was a long drive and these were the pre-GPS days. He asked Reb Uri Mandelbaum, the yeshivah’s menahel, what to do.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Reb Uri said, “Rav Mendel has an incredible sense of direction.”

Once behind the steering wheel, they started heading down the regular route when Rav Mendel turned to his talmid. “I want to go a more scenic route,” he said and proceeded to direct him down an unfamiliar highway. Yehoshua followed his rebbi’s instructions, but pretty soon, it was evident that they were completely lost.

“You are nervous (nerrrvous)?” Rav Mendel asked. When Yehoshua nodded, Rav Mendel pointed to a group of construction workers conducting roadwork.

“Pull over and ask them for directions,” he said. Yehoshua gulped. These men were enormous, shirtless, and not at all friendly looking.

“Um, maybe we can wait for the next gas station?” he asked.

“No, no, let’s ask them.”

Yehoshua reluctantly pulled over and approached one of the workers.

“Uh, can I ask directions to—”

“Get out of here!” the man snarled. Yehoshua scrambled back to the car.

“Rebbi, I don’t think this is a good idea….”

“You’re getting nervous?” Rav Mendel asked for the second time that day. “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

And so Rav Mendel walked toward the men, who in turn began to yell and curse. Rav Mendel ignored it, and approached the largest of them, who appeared to be the leader of the group. In his deeply accented English, Rav Mendel said, “Are you a person or an animal?!”

“Wh-what? What did you just say?” the man asked, confounded.

“You’re hot,” explained Rav Mendel, “You’re sweating. What do you get paid, minimum wage?” The man stared at him. Rav Mendel continued.

“An animal works for nothing. Why are you working? You know why? Because by fixing this highway, people will benefit for years to come. You are helping thousands of people. That’s why you’re working so hard.” The construction worker was listening intently.

“So now, I too need help,” said Rav Mendel. “I need directions. Why wouldn’t you help me as well?”

The man’s hardened demeanor melted away. With all the patience and geniality in the world he gave precise directions, and then rebbi and talmid were on their way again.

Reb Raphael Mendlowitz shares a similar story. In this instance, Rav Mendel actually put his arm around the construction worker’s shoulders. “I am old enough to be your grandfather,” he said. “So you have to show respect.” Then he continued, “You are probably working very hard. You should know that you are building a highway that thousands of people will use. Will any of them say thank you? No. So I will say thank you.”

The construction worker was only too happy to give directions after that.

“Because of this,” Rabbi Mendlowitz concludes, “whenever I see construction workers fixing a highway, I stop and say thank you.”

“We once asked him why he picks up hitchhikers,” says Reb Dovid Klugmann. “He responded ‘Ich tu vi der zeideh Avraham — I do as the zeide, Avraham, did”.

Avraham Avinu sought to be a light unto the nations.

And so did Rav Mendel Kaplan.

Exalted Union

As the maggid shiur in Philadelphia’s first-year beis medrash, Rav Mendel’s talmidim were just about eighteen years old. He nonetheless felt it necessary and appropriate to share insights and perspectives on marriage with them. Sometimes the messages were enigmatic, only to be understood years later. At other times, their wisdom was immediately apparent. But always, his incisive perceptions carried a depth that remains with his talmidim to this day.

Rav Mendel saw incredible depth in marriage. He once told Reb Dovid Klugmann, that “In Kabbalah, the greatest thing is “ish v’ishah.” He would impress upon his talmidim the unique role and valor of the Jewish woman. Once, while the talmidim were in his home, he shared with them that there was a certain chassidic rebbe who would have “three hundred kavanos while washing netilas yadayim.” Then he pointed to his wife, Rebbetzin Sarah Baila a”h. “But she — everything she does is l’Sheim Shamayim.” Meaning that a woman’s devotion and sincerity can secure what a rebbe needs hundreds of lofty kavanos to bring about. Rav Mendel then added, “Az zei arbeten biz zei fallen avek — for if they work until they collapse, can it not be l’Sheim Shamayim?”

On another occasion he said, “The same perfection a yeshivah bochur gets learning mussar seder an entire zeman in yeshivah, his mother gets by cleaning and preparing the home for Pesach until she is falling off her feet.”

“You can live with your wife for fifty years,” Rav Mendel once said, “and you still won’t comprehend the extent to which everything a wife does is for her husband.”

Rav Owsianka posed a question to Rav Mendel regarding the proper protocol for walking with a date as they left the home. Should he allow her to walk before him? Or is it preferable to follow the dictum of the gemara in Brachos which criticizes Manoach for walking behind his wife?

Rav Mendel’s response was somewhat cryptic. “She’s worried if she can trust her life in your hands, and you’re asking such questions?”

“Rav Mendel was giving me a perspective,” says Rav Owsianka. “He was telling me, ‘Focus on what’s going on! This is a serious moment, and you should be thinking toward the future. If you have these questions, you’re not in the right mindset!’ ”

Similarly, Reb Yehoshua Cooper recalls approaching Rav Mendel to find him looking somewhat distracted.

“A chassan just came to speak to me,” he said. “She’s thinking about putting her life in his hands — and he’s busy with the color of his tie!”

“Obviously the chassan wasn’t speaking to Rav Mendel about the color of his tie,” Rabbi Cooper explains. “Rav Mendel meant that he was concerned with peripheral matters, and not focused on the larger picture — as his kallah presumably was.”

Rav Owsianka shares how Rav Mendel once said to his talmidim, “Your wives will be just like your mothers!”

“He was telling us was that a bochur tends to have glamorous perceptions of his future wife. Rav Mendel wanted to dispel this and make us think realistically. Just as we know our mothers have imperfections, so too will our wives.”

Touched by His Warmth

Rav Mendel was a master at chinuch. He blended brilliance with unconventionalism, creating a model of teaching that shaped perspectives and withstood the sands of time. His students saw in him both an awe-inspiring rebbi as well as a loving fatherly figure. Hundreds of his students were marked by that touch of warmth and incision, by a man that believed in their futures even as he helped them navigate the present.

As a 12th-grader in Beis Shraga in Monsey, Raphael Mendlowitz was considering several options for beis medrash, including Philadelphia. He turned to Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky for advice, who listened intently, then responded with conviction.

“Her tzich, ein bochr’l — Listen here, bochur’l. In your life you will hear many shiurim. But a mehalech hachayim, a way of life, you can get from only two people. Rav Dovid Kviat (r”m in the Mirrer Yeshiva of Brooklyn) and Rav Mendel Kaplan. Since you didn’t ask me about the Mir, I say you should go to Philadelphia.”

Rav Yaakov’s classification of Rav Mendel as a rebbi who gave his talmidim a “mehalech hachayim” was perfectly accurate. His shiur ran for an hour and forty-five minutes, much longer than a typical beis medrash shiur, and the content was always brilliant and dynamic. Often, in the middle of the shiur, he’d inexplicably say, “Breng mir der groise sefer — Bring me the ‘big’ sefer,” his moniker for Chochmah U’mussar, written by the Alter of Kelm. Rav Mendel would read the talmidim excerpts, sharing the deeply stirring and tangibly practical insights of the Alter, before resuming the shiur.

And then came the stories. Rav Mendel was a master storyteller. Many of his tales were about his rebbi, Rav Elchonon Wasserman, stories he had personally witnessed. And he never referred to him as Rav Elchonon.

Rather, it was “Der Koivetz.”

Rav Elchonon authored the sefer Koivetz Ha’aros (Compilation of Insights) and the shiurim he delivered in the yeshivah were compiled into a sefer titled Koivetz Shiurim. Hence Rav Mendel’s simple reference: “Der Koivetz.”

Rav Elchonon was his Torah, his Koivetz.

There could be no better honorific.

Raphael heeded Rav Yaakov’s advice, joining the Philadelphia Yeshiva and Rav Mendel’s shiur. But while he respected Rav Yaakov’s direction, he didn’t immediately appreciate it.

“I was coming from Beis Shraga where the shiur was intense. Here, Rav Mendel kept sharing stories in middle of the shiur! I couldn’t get used to it!”

In fact, it bothered him so much that he considered leaving the yeshivah. And he wasn’t the only one. Other newcomers also made their dislike of Rav Mendel’s shiur known, until Rav Elya Svei, the rosh yeshivah, caught wind of the murmurings. It was parshas Chayei Sarah that week, and on Friday night, Rav Elya addressed the bochurim. He quoted the Rashi which explains that the Torah’s lengthy repetition of Eliezer’s narration to Lavan and Besuel was because “Yafah sichasam shel avdei avos lifnei haMakom mi’Torasam shel banim — the ‘sichah’ (casual conversing) of the servants of the Avos are more dear to Hashem than the Torah of the children.”

“Halevai!” Rav Elya cried out, “Halevai we can understand the stories of Rav Mendel. How fortunate we are that we have Rav Mendel who can give over the mesorah this way!”

“Someone gave me advice,” says Rabbi Mendlowitz. “He told me to write down all the stories that Rav Mendel shared. I started doing that and it changed everything.”

Rav Elya once shared an even more dramatic perspective on Rav Mendel’s stories. Speaking at a sheva brachos held in honor of Rav Mendel’s daughter and new son-in-law, he shared how Rav Chaim Volozhiner once had an exceptionally brilliant and diligent student, whom he frequently engaged in conversation, sharing stories with trivial details and irrelevant morals. The talmid was baffled by the persistently idle discussions and his confusion soon turned into deep frustration. Why was his rebbi taking his precious time to share unnecessary stories? Fed up, he left the yeshivah. Years later, he began to learn Kabbalah. As he navigated through the mystical principles, it suddenly occurred to him that each story Rav Chaim had shared with him was a metaphor for a different notion. But at some point, his comprehension of the Kabbalistic theories began to flounder — the insights were beyond reach. He realized that had he stayed in Volozhin and listened to more of his rebbi’s stories, he could have accessed so much more.

“Here we have Rav Mendel who shares stories!” Rav Elya exclaimed. “Every story he tells has tremendous lessons in avodas Hashem and carries over the mesorah!”

Rav Mendel often shared anecdotes about Rav Elchonon, Rav Yerucham, or at times, the stories he heard from them about their rabbeim.

In an uncanny portrayal of the strength of mesorah, Rav Mendel once impersonated the Chofetz Chaim. He had never met the Chofetz Chaim, but he had heard Rav Elchonon quote the Chofetz Chaim while mimicking his intonation.

“The Chofetz Chaim told his married talmidim that they should forgo making Kiddush on wine and rather make Kiddush on challah,” Rav Mendel shared. “They asked him why and he said ‘Because money takes time and time is Teeeiiirah.’” He elongated the word “Torah,” (verbalized with the Lithuanian dialect as “Teirah”) as if reluctant to let go of the precious term.

Through Rav Mendel, the talmidim tasted the love of Torah that radiated from the holy Chofetz Chaim.

Rav Mendel’s ability to relate to a new generation was perhaps most evident from the very first days of his job as a rebbi, back in Chicago, Illinois. Rav Mendel entered the classroom of young teenagers, his dress, demeanor, and accent eons apart from their American mores and mentality. Haltingly, he began to speak, but the linguistic and cultural barrier yawned wide between him and the students.

The session was grossly unsuccessful.

The following day, Rav Mendel appeared in class with a Chicago Tribune tucked under his arm.

“Today, I will teach you how to read the newspaper,” he announced. He then proceeded to study the news section (with students helping with the reading), analyzing each of the current events reported. For two full hours he held their attention as they gained newfound insight into the world around them — and into the enigmatic new teacher that stood before them.

Rav Mendel’s ability to build bridges was now patently evident.

As was his uncanny power of perception. One of his students was a boy named Chaim Benoliel, hailing from Seattle, Washington. “This boy will one day be “machzir atarah l’yoshnah (return the crown to its original glory) for the Sephardim,” Rav Mendel commented. The years passed and Chaim Benoliel went on to become a supreme talmid chacham, and Rav Mendel ultimately chose him as a son-in-law. Rav Chaim continued his learning at Yeshivas Bais Hatalmud in New York, under gedolim such as Reb Leib Malin ztz”l, and later established Mikdash Melech, the first Sephardic yeshivah gedolah in the Western hemisphere, located on Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway. He served as its rosh yeshivah together with his brothers-in-law Rav Dovid Lopian ybdlch”t and Rav Yeruchem Kaplan ztz”l, and in 1988, opened a branch in Yerushalayim for English-speaking Sephardim from around the world. Rav Benoliel’s indelible mark on the Sephardic community continues to be imprinted to this day.

Rav Mendel left Chicago around 1960, holding various teaching positions before assuming the role of maggid shiur in Philadelphia. For a few years, he taught in Boro Park’s Yeshivas Kamenetz, where Rav Lipa Geldwerth shlita, rav of Kol Torah in Brooklyn, was a talmid.

Rabbi Geldwerth recalls an instance where a boy had clearly drifted off during the shiur and was smiling to himself dreamily. “Men harget unsere boyes (boys) in Vietnam un du shmeichelst?” Rav Mendel asked sharply. “They’re killing our boys in Vietnam and you’re smiling?”

“What he meant,” explains Rav Geldwerth, “was to impart who we are and why we are here. You received an exemption as a divinity student! Why does the American government free you from service? Because you have a higher calling! That’s why you are not in Vietnam! The government understands you’re special — do you? You have to live up to that exceptionalism. If you’re not paying attention to the shiur, if you’re not engaged in your learning, then what, in fact, exempts you? What makes you different from all those drafted into the US army and sent overseas? Your comrades are dying and you’re smiling?”

In middle of a Tosafos in Maseches Bava Basra, Rav Mendel suddenly stopped and asked “Why didn’t the Chazon Ish ever go to the Kosel?” He let the question hang for a few minutes and continued to teach. Then, just as inexplicably, he answered, “Because he didn’t have a camera!”

It was his subtle and humorous way of conveying that while we were gifted with the ability to visit the Kosel, we must maintain our regard for it as a sacred Makom haShechinah.

Sometime in the ’70s, Pepsi produced a 64-ounce bottle termed “The Boss.” One day Rav Mendel entered the yeshivah library, where he found a few boys who had just finished playing a spirited game of basketball sitting at a table drinking from “The Boss.” Sizing up the scene, he walked over to the bottle and bent over slightly. “Antshuldigs, ich hub nisht gevust,” he said in deep apologetic tones. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I didn’t realize you were the boss. Had I known, I would have asked for a raise! Zeit moichel, zeit moichel (Forgive me, forgive me.”) He took a few steps backward, bowing slightly before leaving the room.

He didn’t have to say anything. The bochurim got the point. Later, they shared that they were never able to drink from “The Boss” again.

A fundamental part of Rav Mendel’s success as a rebbi was the deep, sincere care he felt for his talmidim.

“To be matzliach as a rebbi,” Rav Mendel told Reb Raphael Mendlowitz, “you have to know your talmidim’s birthdays.” And, as always, he shared a story. “A very wealthy man once brought his son to learn in the Volozhiner yeshivah. He said to the Netziv (rosh yeshivah of Volozhin at the time) ‘This is my ben yachid, please take care of him.’ The Netziv responded, ‘In this yeshivah, we have 250 ben yachids.’ ”

Rav Mendel concluded with another piece of advice. “Daven for the talmidim,” he said.

Long after graduating, Reb Dovid Klugmann spent Yom Kippur in the Philadelphia yeshivah. At the time, Rav Elya Svei’s health was declining. Wanting to inspire a spark of familiarity, Reb Dovid approached him and said, “Yom Kippur is a yam (ocean) of rachamim, right?” quoting a phrase Rav Elya would repeat over the years, in the name of earlier gedolim. Rav Elya looked up and answered, “And Rav Mendel was not a yam of rachamim?”

“I once met a man who worked for the Jewish Board of Education,” shares Reb Dovid Klugmann. “A part of his job was to create contests for students to compete in. He told me that Rav Mendel once commented to him — ‘a weak boy, not only has to work harder, he has to feel bad for not succeeding?’ ”

The contests were discontinued.

A world-renowned rosh yeshivah once asked Rav Mendel for some advice in chinuch. “When a student wishes to speak to you,” Rav Mendel said, “never keep him waiting long. You don’t know what problems he might have on his mind.”

“I aim my shiur at the weaker boys,” he once told a fellow maggid shiur “Not at the good heads, not at the medium heads, but at the weak ones.”

He disapproved of publicly awarding high achievers at the graduation ceremony, as is customarily done. “They don’t need the encouragement, it is the weaker ones who do,” he would say.

For this reason, he never marked report cards; instead, he wrote a personal message to each student.

As would be expected of a yam of rachamim.

From One World to the Next

Two nights before Pesach, 5745, Rav Mendel was visibly exhausted. He had spent the day involved in Pesach preparations, investing significant time and effort into providing Yom Tov provisions for the poor and needy, a practice he prioritized every year. Now, at the day’s end, he set his fatigue aside and headed out to deliver food packages to several families. Seeing how worn out he was, his rebbetzin tried to stop him.

“You don’t push off mitzvos,” he responded.

He returned later that night and heard a grandson struggling to fall asleep. He filled two glasses with water and handed one to his grandson. They each made a shehakol and took a sip. Rav Mendel tucked his grandson into bed, then lay down to rest himself.

It was the sleep from which he never rose.

As an ocean of depth, brilliance, joy, and rachamim swelled upward, embraced by the Heavens from which it came.

Rav Mendel’s family requests that readers with additional stories, photos, or lessons to share them via Mishpacha

Behind the Book

Reflections by the author of Rav Mendel and His Wisdom

By Rabbi Yisrael Greenwald

I

continue to be overwhelmed by the enduring impact of Rav Mendel and His Wisdom, even after all these years. It’s humbling to see how the book is considered a classic across a wide spectrum of readers. Reb Elya Svei, the rosh yeshivah of the Philadelphia Yeshiva where Rav Mendel taught, once told me it is a sefer to be read and reread. A menahel of a baal teshuvah yeshivah said he believes it’s the most important book for a baal teshuvah to read after becoming religious. And a legendary high school rebbe once called it “the Mesilas Yesharim for our generation.” Even today, I continue to hear from young bnei Torah who tell me how they’ve read and gained from the book. (And thank you, Mishpacha, for letting me sneak in a plug!)

As a talmid, I loved Rav Mendel’s succinct wisdom, his practical life lessons, his originality, and above all, his menschlichkeit. But as a biographer, I must make a confession: Rav Mendel would say that a biography tells you as much about the biographer as it does about its subject. That’s why, he explained, his own rebbi, Reb Elchonon Wasserman, never wrote a biography of the Chofetz Chaim — despite deeply wanting to. He felt he couldn’t portray his sacred rebbi objectively; his descriptions would inevitably be bound to his own perception and appreciation.

To better understand this, a friend once asked Rebbi for his opinion of the biography on Rabbi Aryeh Levine. Rav Mendel said that Reb Aryeh was truly a gadol in every respect, but that the book’s emphasis on his chesed reflected the particular admiration the author had for that trait. The subjective nature of such works was well understood by Rav Mendel’s son, Reb Yeruchem zt”l — a great rosh yeshivah, baal mussar, and embodiment of his father’s teachings. In the introduction to the biography, Reb Yeruchem wrote:

“And Esther would captivate all who saw her” (Esther 2:15). Chazal (Megillah 7a) explain this to mean that she found favor in the eyes of people of every nationality. Each nation’s people believed she was one of them. Rav Mendel would explain that each nation has its specific quality and character, and Esther possessed the positive qualities of all the nations, so each saw in her their particular uniqueness. So it was with Rav Mendel. Everyone had his Rav Mendel. To a lamdan, he was the lamdan; to a mensch, the mensch….

Whatever quality one had in himself, it was that quality he saw in Rav Mendel. Every talmid and friend felt that he was my Rav Mendel…. He was whatever the situation or person warranted or needed.

With that in mind, I trust it is understood that the biography isn’t an authoritative documentary on Rav Mendel’s life. It is what I, as one of many talmidim, was able to perceive of him.

And while I hope to have portrayed a truthful image, the one thing I can never fully describe is Rav Mendel’s love for his talmidim and our reciprocal love in return.

I loved Rav Mendel because he loved me. He cared for me deeply and believed in me. (In the context of kiruv and chinuch, he would often say the best thing you can do for a person is to hold him in high esteem.) I can still hear the warmth and respect in his voice when he answered my phone calls: “Ah, Reb Yisrael” — with a tone that made it clear it was his greatest pleasure to speak with me.

I’ll never forget the long walks we took together, speaking about all facets of life. His loyalty to his students even took precedence over the institutional policies of the yeshivos where he taught. Once, when one of the roshei yeshivah asked me to run a youth Shabbos program in another neighborhood, I had some reservations. I turned to Rav Mendel, and he offered this insight: “You should know that a rosh yeshivah has the right to advise a student to do something that is not in his best interest, but in the best interests of the yeshivah.” (I often get asked for Rav Mendel stories which didn’t get into the biography. This is one of them.)

Rav Mendel looked after me even after his passing. Shortly after I left full-time learning to work on my children’s book on hilchos loshon hara, We Want Life!, Rebbi appeared to me in a dream. He told me I must learn more Torah. (I then asked him, “Rebbi, please tell me what they hold of me in Shamayim.” He smiled and replied, “These questions you are not allowed to ask.”) The next day, I committed to learning several more hours daily. Just a few days later, I was in a serious car accident — from which I miraculously survived with only a few fractured bones.

Nearly forty years have passed since I first wrote the book. With time, perhaps I’ve gained some added nuance and maturity. In the original text, I described Rav Mendel as “always calm and composed. The slight smile fixed at the edge of his lips expressed an inner tranquility — a tranquility experienced by anyone who encountered him. As one former student recalled, ‘When you walked into a room where Rav Mendel was, you immediately felt relaxed. When you came to him with a problem, your problem started to melt away as soon as you saw him.’ ”

But this calm wasn’t due to any stereotypical “kalte litvak” disposition. Rav Mendel was a baal mussar, constantly working on himself. By nature, he was deeply sensitive and emotional. During the Six Day War, his students waited eagerly for his divrei hisorerus about the perilous situation facing Klal Yisrael. Several days passed without a word. Then, in the middle of a shiur, Rav Mendel suddenly lowered his head and began to cry bitterly — his entire body trembling. After several minutes, too choked up to continue, he quietly closed the Gemara and walked out of the room. The same happened when a student once asked him to speak about the Holocaust during class.

He cared for Klal Yisrael, and all the more so, for his talmidim. He fasted for students who had become irreligious — years and even decades after they left yeshivah. He would always inquire about their welfare. Once, when a former talmid’s name came up, a classmate referred to him dismissively as an “oisvorf — outcast.” At this slur against a fellow Jew, Rav Mendel’s face turned red with agitation; those present relate that they never recalled seeing him so perturbed. Slowly, Rav Mendel regained his composure and said in a deliberate tone, “By Jews, the word ‘outcast’ does not exist. ‘Ki lo yidach mimenu nidach  — For no one will remain banished.’ ”

Despite his hardships, Rav Mendel radiated joy, bitachon, and an irrepressibly positive outlook on Yiddishkeit, people, and life itself. When a very serious Torah scholar once asked him, “Rav Mendel, why are you always smiling?” Rav Mendel looked surprised. “Why — that’s our purpose in life!”

Because, as he would say, “Vert men kain mohl nisht fahrloiren.” No situation is ever hopeless. No one is ever lost beyond hope.

Rabbi Yisrael Greenwald is a dayan on the Melbourne Beis Din and the author of numerous works, most recently What Happens After Your Bar Mitzvah (Judaica Press).

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1063)