AS

a teenager, Aviezer’s exceptional mathematical abilities and sharp business acumen quickly became evident. By age 16, he had already completed his studies and earned a prestigious scholarship to Oxford. However, since university enrollment was not permitted until the age of 18, he found himself with two unplanned years. Initially, he considered using this time to master several languages, but then, at the suggestion of Rav Betzalel Rakow, the rav of Gateshead, he decided to try something that was entirely new to him: immersing himself in the world of yeshivah learning.

“It was clear that this was to be a one-year experience,” says Shmuli. As an only son, it was understood that he would eventually inherit and manage the family business. His uncle, who took an active role in his education, agreed to this arrangement on the condition that Aviezer attend the Eitz Chaim yeshivah in Montreux, Switzerland —chosen in part for its proximity to ski resorts and tennis courts, allowing him to maintain his accustomed lifestyle.

In yeshivah, though, Aviezer discovered something far more fulfilling than skiing, tennis, or even chess. He was captivated by the rosh yeshivah, Rav Yitzchak Scheiner, who later became rosh yeshivah of Kamenitz in Jerusalem. Rav Scheiner’s own life trajectory mirrored Aviezer’s — he, too, had been a gifted youth with a promising future in chess and mathematics until he tasted the breadth and depth of the Talmud.

Later, Reb Aviezer would say that Rav Scheiner introduced him to the true joy of learning Gemara. From the day he met Rav Scheiner, he never went a single day without studying at least one daf of Gemara.

The yeshivah experience left a profound impact on Aviezer. Initially determined to finish Shas within a year, he soon realized the vast depth of the Talmud and how far he was from reaching that goal. His plans shifted, and he delayed his university scholarship for a year. Then another year. And yet again. This pattern repeated itself for several years.

His father, who had envisioned him as a senior manager in the family business, grew concerned and asked his son why he hadn’t returned to his university studies.

Aviezer replied, “Every evening at Maariv, we say, ‘Ahavas olam beis Yisrael amcha ahavta, Torah u’mitzvos chukim umishpatim osanu limadta… — You have loved Your people with an eternal love; You have taught us Torah, statutes, and laws… Therefore, may it be Your will… that we lie down and rise up with the words of Your Torah, and rejoice in the words of Your Torah, forever and ever.’ ”

Who could argue with that? His father accepted his son’s heartfelt answer, granting him permission to continue learning in yeshivah — and what began with hesitation soon transformed into full-blown pride in his son’s choice. Eventually, the dream of 16-year-old Aviezer to learn the entire Shas was fulfilled (and in the course of his life, he merited to complete it multiple times).

(Years later, Rabbi Wolfson invoked the same tefillah to address a different challenge. He had helped guide a struggling relative to the Be’er Yaakov yeshivah, where the young man thrived, even having a chavrusa with the Mashgiach, Rav Shlomo Wolbe. However, the relative’s commitment eventually wavered, and after leaving yeshivah, he decided to marry a woman who was not religious and had no interest in observing halachah. At the sheva brachos, in a room filled with religious relatives and Rav Wolbe as well, the groom stood up and spoke about how “true love” requires compromise.

Without hesitation, Rabbi Wolfson rose to object, quoting those same words from the Maariv prayer, that “You have loved Your people, with an eternal love; You have taught us Torah, statutes, and laws.”

“Hashem’s love for us is demonstrated through the Torah, statutes, and laws that He gave us,” Rabbi Wolfson told the crowd. “So no, love does not demand compromise — it calls for total commitment and adherence to Hashem’s Torah.”)

After several years of intense study, Aviezer advanced to the Ponevezh Yeshivah in Bnei Brak, where he formed profound and lasting connections with the Steipler Gaon and Rav Chaim Greinemann, among other Torah luminaries in Eretz Yisrael. He later joined the yeshivah in Be’er Yaakov, where he developed a close relationship with the renowned mashgiach, Rav Shlomo Wolbe.

Recognizing Reb Aviezer’s deep scholarship and erudition, Rav Wolbe entrusted him with giving classes to the community leaders in Be’er Yaakov, exemplifying how one can successfully balance business pursuits with a life devoted to Torah and spiritual growth.

At this pivotal stage in his life, Reb Aviezer married his wife, Rebbetzin Chana, the daughter of Rabbi Shlomo Ringer of Belgium. Their wedding took place in Antwerp, and despite having no family in Eretz Yisrael, they planned to immediately relocate there. In addition to the physical distance from their families, they faced the challenges of Eretz Yisrael’s economic austerity during that period.

The couple settled in Bnei Brak, where Rabbi Wolfson joined the prestigious Kollel Chazon Ish. There, he engaged in chavrusa with the rosh kollel, Rabbi Yehuda Shapira, who would later become his primary mentor.

But then came a devastating tragedy. Aviezer’s brother-in-law and close friend, Rav Binyamin Ringer, an outstanding talmid chacham and rosh yeshivah in France, who had been his chavrusa in Be’er Yaakov and also his shadchan, was killed in a car accident. In his memory, Rabbi Wolfson composed the now-famous melody to the Hallel psalm “Mah Ashiv,” although it would be years before it went public.

He had a deep appreciation and gratitude for his brother-in-law (the Wolfsons ended up raising two of the four orphans) and he felt this section was appropriate because of the verse, “Yakar b’einei Hashem, hamavsah lachasidav — Precious in the eyes of Hashem is the death of His pious ones.” Reb Aviezer felt this was a fitting description of Reb Binyamin.

R

abbi Wolfson could have pursued many paths — as a rosh yeshivah, a successful businessman, or perhaps even both. Yet, his first mission began in the transit camp of Tel Yam near Herzliya, home to many Moroccan Jewish immigrants in the 1960s.

When the Pe’ilim organization put out a call for religious families to move nearby so the residents could have access to Shabbos and other Jewish resources, the young couple answered. They relocated to the area and hosted yeshivah students who volunteered with Pe’ilim. This marked the beginning of Rabbi Wolfson’s lifelong dedication to outreach.

“From the outset, his young wife, Chana, proved to be a true ezer k’negdo, fully supporting her husband’s efforts and actively participating in his kiruv work, which enabled him to channel his talents toward even greater accomplishments,” says a daughter-in-law. “Years later, she accompanied him into the perilous alleyways of Soviet Russia, guiding the young Russian Jews they brought back to Torah and even marrying them off and helping them build Torah-centered homes of their own.”

After the transit camp closed, the Wolfson family moved to Savyon. Rabbi Wolfson observed that despite the stark differences between the luxurious villas of Savyon and the impoverished shacks of Tel Yam, the spiritual challenges were similar: Both communities required immense effort to bring Jews closer to their Father in Heaven. This time, however, the challenge was reversed — how to reach those who seemingly had everything and showing them that they were still missing something.

Rabbi Wolfson took a gamble. He posted flyers announcing an open chess challenge to the youth of Savyon, offering a significant cash prize to anyone who could defeat him. The only condition: Participants had to attend a half-hour Torah lesson before the game.

During the game, Rabbi Wolfson would serve food, encourage the participants to make a brachah, and subtly incorporate some Torah concepts into their conversations. He played simultaneously against all contestants, skillfully blending chess strategy with undercover Torah lessons. He didn’t really expect anyone to become fully observant from these interactions, though; his primary hope was that as the participants grew older, they wouldn’t harbor animosity toward religion.

Yet in time, it became clear that these modest chess meetings were far more impactful than he’d imagined. Dozens of Torah-observant families and bnei Torah emerged from these interactions. For many, their first connection to Torah began at Rabbi Wolfson’s chess club. And remarkably, no one ever managed to defeat him at the game.

Rabbi Wolfson was never afraid to deliver words of rebuke and moral guidance, even to the wealthy and influential residents of Savyon.

A prominent rav who spent a Shabbos in Savyon many years ago shared a memory. During this rav’s visit, Reb Aviezer delivered a shiur on the Talmudic passage: “The sleep of morning, the wine of noon, and the chatter of children in the streets.”

He gazed at his affluent audience and posed a question: “What is the essence of this Talmudic passage?”

Reb Aviezer went on to explain that the passage refers to those who grow up in a wealthy family, secure in the knowledge that they will always have everything they need. Such people, he noted, often lack the drive to exert themselves in learning Torah or fulfilling mitzvos, instead wasting their youth in idleness. Later, when they inherit their family’s wealth, they become consumed by “the wine of noon” — indulging in fine wines and luxurious tastes while boasting about their business acumen. Finally, in their old age, all that remains for them is “the chatter of children in the streets,” spending their days engaged in trivial conversations about inconsequential matters.

Reb Aviezer’s words struck a deep chord with the residents of Savyon, a community unaccustomed to criticism. Delivered with his customary blend of wisdom, candor, and charm, his message left a lasting impression.

Rabbi Wolfson’s outreach efforts knew no bounds. He utilized his British citizenship to penetrate the Soviet Union long before the fall of the Iron Curtain. Together with a private lawyer, Rabbi Wolfson meticulously researched and exploited legal loopholes that would allow him to teach Torah in a land hostile to religion. For example, Soviet law permitted language classes for citizens above a certain age, and Rabbi Wolfson used this loophole for him and his wife to conduct Torah lessons disguised as Hebrew language classes.

Each session began with a formal announcement that anyone younger than the required age must leave, but this was merely a precaution to appease the KGB; in practice, young people attended these classes as well, with some serving as lookouts to alert the group in case of inspections.

Another major challenge was providing the local Jews with kosher tefillin. Customs inspections meticulously examined the luggage of visitors entering and leaving the Soviet Union to prevent the smuggling in of religious items.

On one of their numerous trips, Rabbi Wolfson carried several pairs of tefillin to distribute. At customs, guards discovered the tefillin and questioned him.

Thinking quickly, Rabbi Wolfson explained that he required two pairs — one for his right hand and one for his left — and that his wife needed two pairs as well. The guards allowed him to enter with the tefillin, but recorded in his passport that he had brought four pairs of “sacred objects” and warned him that he must leave with all four when he exited the country.

Rabbi Wolfson distributed the kosher tefillin to the local Jews and asked them to retrieve old, invalid tefillin from the synagogue’s genizah. When it was time to leave, he carried the passul tefillin back with him, satisfying the authorities while ensuring the kosher pairs remained with those who needed them.

On another occasion, Rabbi Wolfson smuggled a recording of a five-minute message from Rav Shach to the Jews of the Soviet Union. The message was embedded in the middle of a blank 90-minute tape. When customs officials inspected the tape, they played the beginning and the end, found only silence, and waved him through, unaware of the powerful message concealed in the cassette.

In addition to bringing in religious materials, Rabbi Wolfson also helped Jews preparing to leave the Soviet Union by smuggling out their jewelry and other valuables, thus helping them to protect their assets as they embarked on the difficult journey to freedom.

One time, while davening with a clandestine minyan that operated despite being forbidden by law (some synagogues were permitted to remain open, but only for the elderly and without a minyan), Rabbi Wolfson noticed a Jew sitting quietly with a single volume of Mishnah and a Chok L’Yisrael. Hoping to engage him in conversation, Rabbi Wolfson approached, but the man, wary of the ever-present KGB, feigned indifference.

Refusing to be deterred, Rabbi Wolfson glanced at the volume of Mishnah in the man’s hands and commented, “There’s a beautiful question by Rav Akiva Eiger on this mishnah.” He posed the question aloud and then provided the answer.

Hearing this, the man began to weep. “For fifty years,” he confessed, “these Mishnayos have been my only holy texts. In all that time, I have not heard even one Torah insight — until now.”

Rabbi Wolfson often shared this story, emphasizing how we live in an era of spiritual abundance, where it’s so easy for us to learn and gain new Torah insights. “We must never take this for granted but instead cherish the value of every new idea that Hashem grants us the opportunity to uncover,” he would say.

A

fter the fall of the Iron Curtain, Rabbi Wolfson continued his outreach by delivering regular lectures at the Toras Chaim yeshivah in Moscow. For years, he made two annual trips, each lasting several weeks, until the Covid pandemic brought an end to his travels when he was already well into his 80s.

“In the beginning, conditions were very challenging,” one of his sons relates. “On Shabbos, there was no heat despite the subzero temperatures outside. Abba would often recount how he had to melt snow for water to wash his hands, only to find it frozen solid by morning. While the students drank vodka to keep warm, Abba simply wrapped himself in multiple layers of coats. He once remarked how he often worried that as he had received so much goodness in This World, there might be little left for him in the World to Come. He considered the harsh physical conditions he endured in Russia as a way to even out the balance.”

Throughout his life, Reb Aviezer carried the pain of galus and a deep longing for the Geulah. On Tishah B’Av, he would weep bitterly over the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, his tears a reflection of his profound connection to the collective sorrow of the Jewish people. One year, when his family noticed that he was crying more intensely than usual, he told them, “This year, I realized that I’m no longer able to cry over the Churban as I should. And that realization is what makes me cry even more.”

When building his home in Jerusalem, Rabbi Wolfson spared no expense in ensuring the foundations and walls were strong enough to withstand powerful earthquakes. When his family questioned why he was investing so much in something others seemed to overlook (even though Eretz Yisrael is located on an earthquake fault line), he explained, “At the time of techiyas hameisim, Har Hazeisim will shake, and I’m certain that a massive earthquake will occur in Yerushalayim. I want this house to stand firm even then — a testament to my unwavering belief in the imminent Geulah.” As a Levi, Reb Aviezer had another hope as well: to be able to sing in the Beis Hamikdash.

Rabbi Wolfson traveled the world, reaching remote locations and connecting with a diverse array of audiences. To become a more effective teacher, he taught himself several languages, including German and Russian.

For many years, he also taught closer to home, including at Yeshivas Dvar Yerushalayim. And no matter where he taught, through his in-depth analysis of the Gemara and his unwavering commitment to uncovering the truth, he empowered numerous talmidim in Eretz Yisrael and around the globe to develop a profound understanding of Torah.

Despite his towering intellect, he always carried himself with profound humility, engaging with people at their level and making everyone feel valued and respected. Magnanimous and generous with praise, Rabbi Wolfson’s compliments were always sincere and heartfelt, pinpointing the unique qualities of each individual. His discerning eye and boundless goodwill left an indelible impression on those he met.

His humility extended to his extensive charitable work. As the manager of his uncle’s charitable funds in Israel, Rabbi Wolfson concealed his own contributions, often blending them with those of others. He rarely spoke about his own acts of tzedakah, and countless stories of people rescued from financial ruin through his anonymous generosity only emerged after his passing. Even now, much of his charitable work remains unknown.

When his son, Rosh Yeshivah Rav Doniel Wolfson, established the Nesivos Chochmah yeshivah in Jerusalem (known as “Wolfson’s”) Reb Aviezer played a significant role in funding the institution, yet kept his involvement hidden. He rarely visited the yeshivah, preferring to avoid any recognition or honor from the students.

“He literally ran from honor,” says his grandson. “He felt the money didn’t belong to him but to Hashem, who appointed him as a trustee to do good deeds in this world.”

But one thing he did express was his hope that after 120 years, his composition of “Mah Ashiv” would be credited to his merit. He felt that the song, which had inspired so many Jews to connect to Hashem, was a sign that his efforts in Torah and tzedakah had been pleasing in the eyes of Hashem.

There is another cherished melody that Rabbi Wolfson originally composed to the words “Odecha ki anisani.” But then his good friend Yigal Calek, pioneering composer and founder of the London School of Jewish Song, suggested adapting the tune to fit the words “L’maan achai verei’ai adabra na shalom bach” instead. Rabbi Wolfson, deeply moved by how these words resonated with the plight of Soviet Jews in the 1970s, readily embraced the suggestion. The revised composition, “L’maan Achai,” was later featured on the 1976 London Live album. (Rabbi Wolfson and Yigal Calek passed away within hours of one another this past Succos, both leaving a profound legacy of music and inspiration.)

Rabbi Wolfson composed several other powerful melodies, although most of them never reached a broad public. Years ago, when asked why he hadn’t composed more, Reb Aviezer explained that he had planned to save composing for his later years. “I thought that when I grew older and my intellectual abilities would wane, making learning more difficult, I would then devote myself to composing,” he said.

Yet in his later years, although his hearing failed him, his intellect remained as sharp as ever, allowing him to remain deeply engaged in his lifelong passion for Torah and learning.

W

hile Rabbi Wolfson was involved in various business endeavors, one son shares that his children only saw him engaged in one pursuit: the study and teaching of Torah.

“Not only did he never speak to us about his business dealings,” says his son, “but we never even saw him involved in them. Whenever we entered his study, we would find him sitting and learning.”

As his hearing declined, Rabbi Wolfson began using hearing aids regularly — except during the Torah reading, which he insisted on hearing unaided, and on Shabbos.

“He often expressed his hope that the long life he was granted wouldn’t come at the expense of his mental clarity,” his son shares. “And so it was — he remained sharp until his final moments, maintaining his regular learning schedule right up to his last day. Still, from the time he turned 80, he said Vidui every night.”

On Sunday evening of Chol Hamoed, Rabbi Wolfson mentioned that he wasn’t feeling well. He went to his room, where he suddenly collapsed and returned his soul to its Maker.

Although it happened so fast, exactly as he had always hoped for, his family members were summoned and were in his presence as his holy neshamah ascended Heavenward.

“He was escorted like a prince,” says a daughter-in-law. “As it was Chol Hamoed, the chevra kaddisha were wearing shtreimels, everyone was in Yom Tov clothing, it was the most regal and appropriate send-off we could have imagined. And at that moment, I thought to myself, look what became of the decision of a 16-year-old boy. Look at the worlds he built! Imagine him coming to Shamayim and he hadn’t done those things, what would the angels say? They would have asked, ‘Where are all the people you were supposed to mekarev? Where is all the Torah learning? Where is the yeshivah you were supposed to build? Where are all the Russians you were supposed to educate?’ And yet he did do all that, and so much more.”

“One of the responders who came after he passed asked why we hadn’t performed CPR,” recounts his grandson Shmuli. “We told him CPR was going for close to an hour, and he couldn’t believe it. CPR is traumatic for the body, but Sabba appeared so serene and peaceful. Even the slight smile that was so characteristic of him hadn’t left his lips.”

And for those who listen closely, perhaps they can hear that sacred melody emanating from those pure lips: “Precious in the eyes of Hashem is the death of His pious ones.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1038)