The passing of Rabbi Moshe Blaustein leaves a generation without their rebbi

Photos: Family archives

Whether he had a crowd of children transfixed by a story at a Pirchei event, or he was doing a Shlumpy Shapiro impersonation to make one little boy happy, for Rabbi Moshe Blaustein it was all part of the same mission. It was all about imbuing Yiddishe children with a love for Hashem

When I came home from shul this past Erev Rosh Hashanah, I was greeted with the news that Rabbi Moshe Blaustein had passed away.

It was the final day of a very tragic year and yet, this report hit in a way that no other had. Absent was the thump of dread, the chilling fear, the jab of anxiety. Instead, a thousand bags of Bissli swirled in my mind’s eye. Piles of RC Cola, mountains of raffle tickets, coach bus loudspeakers booming with the most hilarious impersonations.

And now it was all no longer. Gone in a wisp of nostalgia.

If you grew up in Toronto, you knew Rabbi Blaustein. At more than six feet tall, he was a towering figure, with a powerful voice and a dynamic personality to match.

But that’s not why you knew him.

You knew him because — whether you lived “down south” or “up north” — at some point, you either went to Pirchei, Eitz Chaim, Camp Eitan, Camp Agudah, joined the siyum mishnayos trip, or nearly any program that had to do with children’s chinuch.

Rabbi Blaustein was there, front and center, leading bentshing, telling stories, handing out raffle tickets, injecting all the ruach that would lead you to adulthood with a lasting love for Yiddishkeit.

To those nodding their heads, I’d ask you to close your eyes for a moment and picture the scene at the Bayit social hall where the annual Pirchei event was held. Hundreds of boys from across the spectrum were there. Some came in Maple Leaf T-shirts, others wore vests and velvet caps and had never even heard of hockey star Mats Sundin (vehr iz dos Mats Sundin?)

What did we share in common? Nothing — other than the man who stood at the mic and made all of us laugh.

We all knew his name, he had a seat in every shul, was cherished by every rav, and was able to uplift everyone — regardless of language and culture — with his trademark humor and brilliant smile.

I remember the story he told at one of those Pirchei events. It was about Rav Shlomo Heiman ztz”l, rosh yeshivah of Torah Vodaath. On a freezing cold winter day, only four boys showed up to his shiur, yet he delivered it with the same fiery passion that he exhibited when speaking before dozens. “Why?” he was asked. “Because,” he explained, “I wasn’t just speaking to these four talmidim. I was speaking to them, and to their talmidim, and to their talmidim as well.” All four became eminent marbitzei Torah.

It’s a short and very famous story, but the way Rabbi Blaustein related it is what made it memorable. He stood at the microphone, and without any introduction, began making a loud “wind sound” — WHOOOOOSH. We all sat still. He then went on for some 20 minutes, describing the snow, the ice, the tripping, the falling, the finally getting to the yeshivah’s doorstep.

And then the thunderous, “I WASN’T JUST SPEAKING TO THEM. I WAS SPEAKING TO THEIR TALMIDIM. AND TO THEIR TALMIDIM AS WELL!!!”

Classic Rabbi Blaustein.

Now, generations of talmidim have lost their favorite rebbi.