The Nechoma Greisman Anthology

Section 1: SHLICHUS We are ready to go…

Victory on the I.R.T.

(Reprinted from Di Yiddishe Heim, Spring 5735)

This is a true story, although the names of people and places have been changed for obvious reasons. It took place last October, 1974.

As I entered the subway car, I noticed the heavy-set woman in baggy pants sitting in a corner and knitting a green sweater. She looked Jewish, although I had no way of knowing for sure. My wonder about her Jewishness, and that of almost every woman I saw or met, was by now automatic, since the Rebbe Shlita’s urgent request, no, plea, had been uttered that all Jewish women, as well as Jewish girls from the age of about three, should light Shabbos and Yom-Tov candles.

“Talk to her about neiros (candles). It’s Erev Shabbos, a perfect time,” said a loud, clear inner voice. “Oh, hush,” came the even louder and clearer reply, “It’s Friday, and I’m dead tired, and I want to get these test papers finished. Anyway I’m not even sure she’s Jewish.” (Who was I kidding? I was almost certain she was!)

“So what have you got to lose? Ask — she’ll tell you. If she’s not, then you can do your work with a clear conscience. And if she is, well you’re supposed to be looking for such opportunities.

“But I’m just not in the mood. I bet she lights candles already. If I walk up to her and ask her if she’s Jewish and lights Shabbos candles, she’ll think I’m some kind of nut.”

I gritted my teeth and marched to the farthest end of the car, to drown out the two inner voices and their hot argument. I took out my work, and tried to forget the lady knitting the green sweater. But of course I couldn’t; I felt too guilty. “So you like to call yourself a Lubavitcher chassid. You sure aren’t proving it.

“No one is perfect. What do you want? I can’t talk to every single Jewish girl and woman I see every day. I’d go crazy. I’m so tired. I’m not even entitled to a little personal peace? What kind of impression will I make if I try to persuade someone when I’m not in the mood at all? Just leave me alone.”

I attacked the test papers, and when I was marking the third one, a shadow fell on the page. I looked up. Oh, no! It was the lady, her knitting tucked into her plastic shopping bag. “Excuse me, miss, does this train stop at 23rd St.?”

“I think so,” I mumbled, as I quickly resumed my work. The lady went into the next car. Our car had only a few passengers. Maybe she liked more people around her, I mused.

Now I relaxed. I was surely not expected to follow anyone around into another subway car; not even my exacting conscience could demand that. It’s one thing when you meet someone, but I don’t have to run after every Jewish girl or woman. Let’s be realistic.

I was halfway through the pile of papers when there was an announcement on the subway loudspeaker: “We are having signal trouble. All passengers please get out at the next stop, 110th St. station, and take the local to 96th St. station, where you can get the express train.”

The harried commuters exchanged the resigned look reserved for such exasperating situations.

As I waited in the crowd for the local on 110th St., there was the lady in the baggy brown pants standing right next to me on the platform. “I think Someone is trying to tell me something. This is not a coincidence. How often does G‑d give you so many chances to make up an oversight?” Unbidden, I remembered the lesson I had taught my fourth-grade students only yesterday. We had been discussing the ten tests with which the Al-mighty had tested our forefather Abraham. How carefully I had explained to my young students that we Jews are always being tested to see how strong we are, how willing to do Hashem’s commandments. A test always seems terribly difficult, something almost impossible to do. But once you show your evil inclination who is the real boss, the problems and difficulties almost seem to melt away. I mentally squirmed in embarrassment; what would my students think of me if they knew how dismally their teacher had failed her test...

“It’s now or never.” I took a deep breath and turned with a friendly smile to the lady. “It’s going to take forever for us to get home now; first waiting for the local, then the express. It’s Erev Shabbos, and I have things to do. I hate to be late.”

She nodded her head in agreement. “And after I do my errand downtown I still have to get back to the Bronx.”

“By the way, do you light Shabbos candles?” I said it, and her reaction was perfectly straightforward. “Yes, I do. My daughter, Susan, is becoming religious, and she made me start lighting candles last year. Do you teach in that yeshiva? I saw you get on at 241st St.”

“Yes, I teach fourth grade.” I felt rather silly as my apprehension died in the face of her friendliness. “I love my work but the traveling is a big hassle. By the way, does Susan light Shabbos candles, too?”

“No, only I do. Isn’t only the mother supposed to?”

“Have you ever heard of the Lubavitcher Chassidim in Brooklyn?”

“Sure I have. About seven years ago, a Lubavitcher sent my Susie to a religious summer camp in the Catskills.”

“I’m a Lubavitcher too. Our Rebbe has started a campaign to encourage all Jewish girls, from about the age of three, to light candles for Shabbos and Yom Tov, in addition to married women. Maybe Susan could begin to light candles also?”

“She would be thrilled! She really would. She just loves all Jewish things, that good neshama. Oh, you’re a doll for telling me. I can’t wait to tell Susan.”

I should have felt great, but my chief emotion was self-contempt, when I remembered my thoughts of just 15 minutes ago. I tried to make amends.

“Do you know the blessing over the candles?”

She sighed with a shamefaced air. “I never learned to read Hebrew, so I light the candles, and Susie says the blessing for me.” Out came my memo pad. “I’ll write it for you in English transliteration so you can say it by yourself from now on.”

The lady looked thankful. “This is surely my lucky day. I’m so glad I had to go into the city and I met you.” At this, my inner voice was unbearably chiding and demanding — from now on it would never give me any peace in such situations.

“And what’s your name?” she asked me as we waited for the express at 96th St. I shyly explained that my name would not be mine for long, for I was getting married in a few weeks to a Rabbinical student in the Lubavitcher Yeshiva. Impulsively I added, “Why don’t you and Susan come to the chuppah? We’d love to have you.”

Tears came to her eyes as she wished me mazel tov. “Do you know, I’ve never been to a religious wedding, a chassidishe chasunah, in my whole life. I would love to come. Susan will be thrilled to pieces. Thank you so much. Are you sure it would be O.K.?”

To make a long story short, we exchanged names and addresses, and for the rest of the subway ride Mrs. Friedberg told me about her sad life. Her husband had been killed in a car accident seven years ago, and she had to bring up Susan, now a 17-year-old high school senior, and Adrien, 22 years old, by herself, with government welfare assistance. Her firstborn, a son, had been stillborn. She had been frustrated in her desire to give her daughters a yeshiva education because she could not afford the high tuition fees of the local yeshiva. In anger and disappointment she had turned to the J... Witnesses, who were only too eager to reach and “teach” a new soul. She had turned her back on Judaism; Adrien lived in Manhattan and attended City College. But in their apartment building there was a young couple who had recently become religious through a well-known seminary in the neighborhood. They had befriended Susie, and she was becoming Torah observant with their encouragement and help. The young couple were teaching her about Shabbos and other aspects of Judaism, and Susie brought light and joy to the house.

As we parted on 23rd St., I could think of nothing but my inner conflict the rest of the way home. I knew my misgivings were hardly unique; many people were uneasy and unhappy about approaching an unfamiliar Jew.

We find, or maybe it’s the evil inclination that comes up with, an unlimited number of excuses to deter us from making that contact. The real us knows that it’s a test; that it is our privilege and obligation as a Jew to do spiritual charity. Who would hesitate for a moment to share his last piece of bread with a starving Jew? But when it comes to sharing the living waters of Torah, which quench the thirst that burns in the heart of every Jew, then we hesitate and dawdle. How many Jewish women and girls, on subways, buses, in supermarkets, have yet to be approached by me and you and told about lighting Shabbos candles? How do we bolster our will power, our G‑dly soul?

There is a well-known principle that to the degree that a spiritual matter is extremely important, to that degree and more are there deterrents and problems that prevent a Jew from doing the urgent mitzvah. If something seems insuperably difficult, it is almost a proof that that thing is good and important and must be done. Why else would “evil” mind so much, and try so hard to stop you?

I got home 15 minutes later than usual for Fridays, but I can’t say that I minded one bit. Would you like to know the end of the story? Well, Mrs. Friedberg got in touch with me on Sunday, and thanked me over and over for my kindness. She and Susie were counting the days to my wedding. While we were talking, I told her about the Encounter with Chabad — an annual weekend sponsored by Lubavitch to interest college-age students in Judaism and Chassidus. It would take place a few weeks after my wedding, and I invited Susan to attend.

They both came to my wedding and enjoyed it very much. Susie did attend the Pegishah — the Encounter with Chabad — and was very stimulated by it (although she didn’t agree with everything the speakers said.) In S. Paul, Minnesota, there is a Live-and-Learn Institute run by Lubavitch in their large mansion there; sessions of a few weeks’ duration are held three times a year to teach young women Yiddishkeit, starting from the very beginning. A very great effort is made during the Encounter to send as many guests as possible to the ensuing session in S. Paul. I was so glad to see that Susan was one of the girls who was influenced to go.

Since her return from Minnesota, Susan comes to Crown Heights every weekend for Shabbos, and goes to Machon Chana for the classes held on Sundays. Her mother calls me from time to time to tell me that Susan feels like a new person, and to thank me for my concern and kindness, and to shower me with blessings and praise. They are making their kitchen really kosher, and extending their knowledge of Yiddishkeit. Mrs. Friedberg is learning how to read Hebrew from a helpful neighbor. A new life is unfolding for two happy Jewish souls.

How can I forget that subway ride! Will I ever dare ignore that inner voice again? Can I afford to? Can you?