These days it’s not very difficult to map out the chronology of a person’s life — facts, dates, travels. But a book isn’t just a chronology of someone’s life experience. It’s an attempt to convey the subject’s personality as well. I realized early on in the research stage that capturing Mrs. Lubling’s personality would mean capturing the perceptions of those who knew her — fragment by fragment, impression by impression, story by story.

Fortunately, so many people were so happy to share their memories of this very beloved woman. But there were inevitable frustrations along the way. I spent almost a year chasing a person who promised that he had “great stories about Mrs. Lubling.” When we finally set a time to speak (at 4 a.m. Israel time), he spent 45 minutes reminiscing about his father, then threw in a line or two about Mrs. Lubling.

Then there was a businessman who was rumored to have good material; I played phone tag with his sympathetic wife at least once a month for close to two years, even setting my alarm for 3 a.m. one memorable night because he’d possibly be available then (he wasn’t). I gave up — it didn’t seem to be bashert — and wrote the book without any material from him. Then, right before submitting my second draft of the manuscript, I decided to try again.

It turned out he would be available during his commute to work the next day, precisely when I would be taking my son to a long-awaited medical appointment (was there some cosmic irony in the timing? Probably). My son will always remember how I found a quiet corner in an adjacent waiting room to scrawl down the memories that poured out of this man, and how I retold them in awe after our appointment was safely concluded.

Then there was “that story” — a classic legend about Mrs. Lubling and her pearl necklace. Virtually every person I spoke to retold a different version of this famous account. I even heard a rendition from a Bnei Brak chassidishe yungerman who had stopped in to visit his mother just as I was completing an interview with her. Eyes fixed on the lace tablecloth, he said, “You’re talking about Mrs. Lubling? Here’s a really unbelievable story about her….”

Eventually I interviewed an eyewitness, and I finally got the authentic version… only to have it questioned by a woman who often hosted the protagonist of the story: “This can’t be true, there’s no way it happened, we hosted him almost every Shabbos and we never heard about this.” I was about to despair. Then, a few days later, the woman called me back. “I called someone in England who was involved in the case,” she said, wonder in her voice. “And he told me — it happened! It did!”

Here’s the story.

More than 40 years ago, Rabbi Dovid Mendlowitz hosted a guest named Reb Yisroel Levine. At first glance, Reb Yisroel’s life seemed a litany of suffering. He grew up in Communist Russia, but managed to hold on to his Yiddishkeit by his fingernails. Though his marriage dissolved when he was young, and he had little in the way of material possessions, he clutched tightly to the hope that he would one day move to Eretz Yisrael and bring up his only son to keep Torah and mitzvos.

His son, however, received permission to leave Russia before him, and joined a secular kibbutz on his arrival. Whatever feeling he had for religion was extinguished by the rabidly anti-religious kibbutz ethos.

When Reb Yisroel finally made his way to Eretz Yisrael, he reunited with his son — and was crushed. The hope he’d held on to for years had been snuffed out. What was there left to live for?

The State offered the newly arrived immigrant basic furniture and some sort of low-cost living quarters, but he bristled and refused their offers. “You took away my child!” he said. “You took away my future! Why would I want to receive anything from you?”

Reb Yisroel found a place to live in Jerusalem’s Shmuel Hanavi area and a calling in the nearby Mir Yeshivah. He helped out in the yeshivah kitchen and forged close relationships with several longtime Mirrer talmidim, spending virtually every Shabbos with his new friends. The Mir became his adopted family and home, and he found his place as an essential thread in the fabric of its community.

Then the toughened Reb Yisroel began, uncharacteristically, to complain of weakness and pain. The doctor who examined him realized he was gravely ill with an advanced form of lung cancer. He was so precariously weak, his body so ravaged by disease, that the doctor wasn’t sure whether there was anything to be gained by attempting to treat him.

The medical askanim involved in the case contacted Mrs. Lubling, and true to form, she refused to submit to the medical establishment’s dismal prognosis. Instead she arranged for Dr. Yashar Hirshaut to treat Reb Yisroel in New York.

Rabbi Dovid Mendlowitz still recalls his stalwart guest with awe. When waves of pain hit Reb Yisroel, he looked up and spoke directly to his Maker. His words were simple but noble. “Ribbono shel Olam,” he said, “You’ve given me so much pain my whole life. I want to thank You for everything — for all the pain — I know it was meant for my good. But please, Ribbono shel Olam, it’s been enough already. I’d be grateful if You don’t give me any more, please.”

Rabbi Mendlowitz drove Reb Yisroel to many of his medical appointments, and Mrs. Lubling joined them. Even though she was usually very even-keeled, something about this man — so utterly alone, with no one in the world save for a son who’d severed their connection — moved her, and her emotions quivered just below the surface on those trips to Manhattan.

The medical team tried their hardest, but after a few months of grueling treatments, they conceded defeat. They had tried every avenue and explored every possibility, they told Reb Yisroel, but this was the end of the road.

Reb Yisroel, his body frail and battered from the metastasized tumor and the rounds of toxic treatment, still retained his strength of spirit. “I want to go back to Eretz Yisrael to die,” he declared. “That’s my place.”

Mrs. Lubling made the arrangements for him to fly home. She joined Rabbi Mendlowitz in the car on that last trip with Reb Yisroel, quiet and pensive. She had done all she could, and now there was no way she could help this principled Jew who had asked for so little and suffered so much.

Wait; there was something she could still do. As they entered the check-in area, Mrs. Lubling found the El Al flight manager. She pulled the uniformed woman into a corner and described Reb Yisroel’s travails and the reason for his trip.

“I want him to fly first class,” Mrs. Lubling said. “His bones are so brittle at this point, and he’s suffered terribly. He needs a comfortable seat, so he can finally get some rest.”

The manager shrugged. “You want first class, you have to pay,” she said.

Mrs. Lubling tried again, this time with tears.

The manager wouldn’t budge. “The plane is full, and I have work to do,” she said, turning back to the counter.

Mrs. Lubling reacted almost as if by instinct. In one smooth motion, she reached to her neck and unfastened the string of pearls she always wore. Seconds later, the flight manager was beckoning to Rabbi Mendlowitz. “Here, bring the passenger over, we have a first class seat for him!” she said.

Only someone who’d been watching the entire exchange would have noticed the gleaming strand of pearls now providing the finishing touch to the manager’s El Al uniform.

Excerpted from Angel of Mercy

One of those clichéd formulations in today’s shidduch world is, “She’s A but not B, X but not Y — put-together but not trendy, friendly but not loud, smart but not brainy,” and so it goes, a diluted recital so as not to paint anyone as too anything. As I learned more about Mrs. Lubling, I began to love the way she defied that formula. She fully inhabited her roles, without any apologies or half-ways.

She was feisty and independent, gutsy and unafraid. She was also a proud student of Sarah Schenirer who treasured a postcard her mentor had sent her back in Poland. She recited Tehillim aloud by her patients’ bedsides and also attended black-tie events with billionaire donors — in her sheitel, suit, and best jewelry, of course. She spread a very wide net, building warm relationships with doctors, secretaries, even doormen without even the slightest dilution of her identity and ideals.

Here was a fully actualized, very frum woman who was not shy or retiring. She was very aware of her talents; she knew she could accomplish things that no one else could. And that knowledge obligated her to keep speaking up, in her accented English, for the patients who needed her help.

At a critical juncture for the administration of NYU, the board, of which Mrs. Lubling was a trustee, was summoned to a meeting. The hospital was considering a merger with another major medical center, and its board members needed a full picture of the proposed merger in order to decide whether to move ahead.

They filed into the boardroom, sat down around the table, and listened attentively as a leading board member guided them through an intense 40-slide presentation prepared by the financial analysts, crunching all the projected numbers — profits, synergies, increased revenues and rewards, and expected timeframes.

Then the floor was opened to questions. One board member asked about the finer details of the projected earnings. Another had a complex question about insurance coverage. Another asked whether there was a plan in place for any necessary public relations expenses related to the merger.

Then Mrs. Lubling raised her hand.

“In the entire presentation,” she said defiantly, “all I saw was information about money. There was nothing — nothing! — in any of those forty nice pictures about patient care.”

The room went very quiet, and everyone averted their gaze from the board member who’d confidently shepherded them through his presentation.

Mrs. Lubling, however, had no compunctions about speaking truth to power. “Isn’t the whole point of a hospital to treat patients?” she demanded. “How can you talk about the benefits of a merger and never once consider what it will mean to your patients?

“Too big is no good,” she went on, shaking her head in disapproval. “Think about your patients and you’ll realize what’s best for the hospital.”

Excerpted from Angel of Mercy

Mrs. Lubling had a rare ability to command very prestigious doctors what to do and what time to do it. At her request, doctors squeezed in her patients before or after hours, or during their lunch breaks, or after they’d already come home from a long day at work. One interviewee heard her tell a doctor, “I don’t care if you’re in pajamas. I need you to come to the hospital to examine my ‘cousin.’ ” And he came.

There’s a legend about an NYU doctor who hid in the broom closet when he learned Mrs. Lubling was nearing his office — he just couldn’t fathom squeezing in one of “her” patients that day. But most of the doctors and VIPs in her personal Rolodex considered it a privilege to work with her.

What was her “secret sauce?” Some doctors described her professional attitude, the way she followed up after every procedure with real respect for their knowledge and skill. Askanim described how she arranged prompt payment for every patient she brought in — an observation corroborated by several of her drivers, who described the way she fundraised en route to the hospital. She would phone the frum world’s leading philanthropists and say, “Tattele, I need ten thousand dollars for a surgery. Really, I need thirty thousand, but I’m only asking you for ten. So can I come by tonight to pick up the check?” By the time the car pulled up at NYU, she’d raised all the funds she needed.

But others pointed to something deeper than respect or money.

Mrs. Lubling was a rare creature in the high-stakes and budget-conscious hospital world — she spent hours walking the halls, visiting patients, advocating for better treatment or beds or surgery slots, yet didn’t receive any salary, kickbacks, or promotion for all those hours. Her sole motivation was helping others.

The doctors, secretaries, nurses, and board members couldn’t help but be awed and moved by the most altruistic person they had ever met, and they responded in kind. As one politician put it: “You know she isn’t getting paid. You know what she’s been through. How can anyone possibly say no?”

Once, Mrs. Lubling brought a mother and small child who’d just arrived from Cleveland, Ohio to pediatric gastroenterologist Dr. Joseph Levy. They had hastened to New York without making an appointment, but she told them not to worry and promised to personally escort them through their medical journey.

“Come with me,” she said, and took them through the warren of halls leading to his office. “We don’t have an appointment, but we need to see the doctor,” she told the secretary.

“Dr. Levy,” the secretary called into the examining room, “we have a problem.”

Dr. Levy walked into the reception area and blanched. “Mrs. Lubling, I can’t stay late today!” he said. “I have an anniversary party for my in-laws, and if I come late my wife will kill me!”

“That’s okay,” Mrs. Lubling said serenely. She patted the seats where she had settled her visitors. “You go to your party. We’ll spend the night here, and you can come forty-five minutes early tomorrow morning. We’ll be your first appointment.”

The doctor stood there for a moment, jaw tight. Mrs. Lubling didn’t budge. Then he sighed. “Okay, Mrs. Lubling. I’ll see your patient before I leave.”

Just as he feared, Dr. Levy arrived late at the anniversary party, drawing a harsh glare from his wife. He took the microphone and addressed the crowd.

“You’re probably wondering how I dared come late to such an important event,” he said. “Let me tell you about a selfless patient advocate, a woman in her nineties. She’s the reason.”

He went on to describe the encounter, detailing Mrs. Lubling’s stubborn insistence on putting her patient first, and her readiness to spend the night in his waiting room. When he concluded, the entire family — including his wife — stood up and applauded for the feisty nonagenarian who’d held him up in his office.

Excerpted from Angel of Mercy

One of the most moving parts of the research process was watching as, at some point during our conversations, almost every interviewee got soft-eyed and emotional. Of course they all began with descriptions of Mrs. Lubling’s spine of steel, her refusal to give up or take no for an answer; but then they began to describe her sweetness and oversized heart, the gifts and compliments she constantly bestowed, the way she really cared. Ultimately it was a fusion of both of those traits — her unbending persistence and her overwhelming compassion — that spurred her to advocate for her patients with incredible boldness and determination.

Hospitals are inadvertent stages for some of the most wrenching human dramas. But the staff, understandably, can get wrapped up in protocols, procedures, and the real need for efficiency. Sometimes Mrs. Lubling had to remind them about the human element of their work — even if it meant visiting the operating room mid-surgery or berating a doctor for not immediately updating a patient waiting for the results of a fateful scan.

It’s hard to imagine an unauthorized visitor barging into a sterile operating room, but I heard multiple people describe Mrs. Lubling doing just that. It was even more fascinating to hear from doctors who not only tolerated it, but felt privileged to be on her team.

During one of their routine hospital visits, Mrs. Lubling and her devoted bikur cholim partner Mrs. Judy Klein arrived at their first stop of the day: the operating rooms. “There’s a woman here whose husband is having major brain surgery,” Mrs. Lubling said. “We need to check on them.”

They scrubbed up and entered the operating area. There they found a woman standing tensely, swaying as she cried through chapter after chapter of Tehillim. Mrs. Lubling introduced herself and gently asked how things were going.

“It’s been hours since they took him in,” the woman said, her anguish spilling out with her tears, “and I still didn’t hear anything. I have no idea what’s going on in there.”

Without hesitation, Mrs. Lubling took Judy Klein by the hand and pushed open the OR doors. The two women marched inside. There on the operating table lay a man, his head swathed in bandages.

“Surgery’s over,” the nurse announced. “They were able to remove the whole tumor — it was a big one, somewhere between the size of an orange and a grapefruit.”

“Why didn’t you tell the wife?” Mrs. Lubling asked accusingly. “Very nice that you do your job here in the operating room, but you know she is waiting outside, so worried. How can you keep her waiting like that?”

They then went out to the waiting area. “I checked, the surgery just finished,” Mrs. Lubling told the woman. “It went well and they were able to remove the tumor. The doctors are very happy.”

“Thank you so much! Thank you!” the woman said. The tears kept coming, but her forehead seemed a little less furrowed. “Thank you for telling me. I was so worried — it was taking so long and I was terrified that something had gone wrong in there.”

“Come, sit down,” Mrs. Lubling said, patting the chairs. “You still have a long wait until they bring him into the recovery room, you might as well sit.”

Then she and Judy sat down, too, and stayed with the trembling woman until she regained her composure. They wished her well and headed up to make their usual rounds of the hospital for a long, exhausting afternoon.

That evening, at 10:30, Judy’s phone rang.

“Mammele, Judele, I can’t sleep,” Mrs. Lubling said. “Please let’s go back to the hospital and check on this veibel and her husband, the one with the brain surgery.”

“What?” was all Judy could manage.

“I beg you.”

“But Mrs. Lubling, it’s so late!”

“Okay, but I am dressed and ready. When can you come?”

Judy envisioned the 80-something-year-old Mrs. Lubling standing fully dressed at her phone, consumed by worry for this couple she barely knew. She grabbed her car keys and left the house.

The streets were quieter now, and the trip to Manhattan was swift and smooth. They headed back down to the operating rooms, where Mrs. Lubling ascertained that the woman had not yet been allowed to see her husband. It may have been close to midnight by then, but there was nothing sleepy about her righteous indignation.

“This woman is waiting since the morning to see her husband!” she protested loudly to the nurse manager. “You have to let her in already!”

There was no saying no to Mrs. Lubling, and within minutes the woman was permitted into the recovery room to see her husband. Her relief was palpable. Finally, after so much fear and uncertainty, after so many hours shut out by the barrier of the OR door, she had made it to the other side.

Judy had hoped to go to sleep early that night — it had been an exhausting afternoon — but she didn’t make it home until after 1 a.m.

“But you know what?” she told her husband as she recounted the woman’s endless wait and Mrs. Lubling’s sixth sense — from miles away — that she was needed. “Mrs. Lubling was right. She always is.”

Excerpted from Angel of Mercy

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 948)