A collection of memories from those in the service of gedolim — away from the public eye, the small interactions of great men

At Home with Everyone

Rabbi Yitzchak Zemmel

In service of Rav Yaakov Edelstein, rav of Ramat Hasharon

For 15 years I learned a weekly chavrusa with Rav Yaakov Edelstein, the longtime beloved rav of the upscale Tel Aviv suburb of Ramat Hasharon, and in that capacity, I was also with him on nights that he would receive the public.

As a brilliant disciple of the Chazon Ish, Rav Edelstein could have spent his life secluded in the beis medrash surrounded by disciples and avreichim. Instead, he threw in his lot with a different crowd, of religious and secular alike, who basked in his warmth and blessings for 67 years until his petirah in 2017. Most people would expect a place like Ramat Hasharon to have a more “modern” chief rabbi, someone who could be a better fit for the locals — yet Rav Edelstein chose to open his home to everyone, even to those who had differing worldviews. People came from all over to get a brachah from him or to hear his sage advice — and it didn’t matter if they were secular, religious, or traditional. He could relate to everyone, and helped so many because he often understood them better than they understood themselves. And for so many years, I was there watching it all happen.

In later years the Rav couldn’t hear so well, so he wanted me to repeat people’s questions to him. During the last year of the Rav’s life, when he was ill, I was responsible for his medical file. That year was a story of its own. The Rav had asked that all questions about treatments should be brought to his brother, Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah Rav Gershon Edelstein, since he didn’t want to pasken about himself. The Rav was treated in Laniado Hospital, and because I live in Netanya, I was with him daily up until the time of his petirah, when he wrote to me his final instruction, to make a siyum on Maseches Makkos. I finished learning the Gemara aloud, made a siyum, and the Rav soon lost consciousness.

In the early years, Rav Edelstein used to receive the public in his apartment, but because the crowd was sometimes a disturbance to the neighbors, the Rav moved the Thursday night kabbalat kahal to the shul. There was another reason as well: If there was one thing this gadol who knew all of Shas could not understand, it was the possibility that a Yid would park in someone else’s parking spot. How could it be? He couldn’t allow running the risk, so he moved over to the shul, where there was a parking lot — and I was present with him on those Thursday nights when he would receive people for hours on end.

When I brought the Rav home after hours of hearing people’s troubles, he would close the door ever so gently so as not to disturb his neighbors, then open a Gemara to recuperate from the tension and the tzaros he had just absorbed. When I’d leave, I’d sometimes notice that he shut his door so soundlessly that it wasn’t even properly closed, so after saying goodbye, I would quietly close it myself.

Rav Yaakov was an extremely sensitive soul. One theme he spoke about often was the power of the tongue. It’s brought down in seforim that even a random, thoughtless comment can become a curse, and people sometimes accidentally curse themselves or their children by making negative or pessimistic comments, and therefore creating negative realities. Even a joke, like a bochur saying, “It will for sure to take me a long time to get married,” can recreate his reality.

I was once with the Rav at an event, when a distraught Yid came over to him, explaining that his son was very ill in the hospital. When he showed Rav Edelstein the child’s full name, the Rav became extremely upset. “You did this! You cursed him! How could you have done this?!”

The Yid started to cry, and admitted that his son had been extremely difficult and caused him endless trouble. In his anger, he had cursed him.

“Run and do hataras klalos, and never curse anyone again!” the Rav told him.

Although he was a rosh yeshivah and respected as one of the gedolim of the Litvish world, for many years he was a close disciple of the hidden tzaddik Rav Moshe Yaakov Rabikof, known as “the Sandlar” (shoemaker) of Tel Aviv and head of a secret group of kabbalists. At some point the secret got out, and the Rav became known as a baal mofeis.

When I was buying an apartment and asked Rav Yaakov’s advice, his response was, “What does your wife say? She is the mainstay of the house, do what is important to her.”

Another time, when we were deciding what to name our son, my wife and I decided together to bring the question to the Rav. My wife wanted the name Yedidyah, while I wanted another name, so we wrote four names on a paper, which I brought to the Rav. I didn’t say a word, but the Rav pointed to Yedidyah and said, “Your wife wants Yedidyah, so why are you asking me?”