When Manchester Met Sanz

I had had the benefit of advance notice of the Sanzer Rebbe’s forthcoming visit to Manchester. Leafing through a copy of the weekly Sanz newsletter given to me by my cousin, I immediately spotted the announcement, some four weeks before he was due to arrive. Without wasting any time I called my usual hosts in Manchester and asked if they could put me up for Shabbos. I was coming to town.I must point out at this stage that I am not a Sanz chassid, although my family is closely related to the rebbe.

My family originates from Hungary and Pressburg, Czech, and we pride ourselves on being ardent Oberlaender. Nevertheless, a meeting with the rebbe a few months before proved powerful enough for me to promise myself that should he ever visit England, I would be there to greet him. You can therefore imagine my delight at spotting the article announcing his visit to Manchester.

So it was with eager anticipation that I arrived in the city famed for its wet weather. My hosts’ nephew would also be joining us, arriving from Gateshead Yeshiva especially for the occasion. Although he is not a Sanz chassid either and had never met the rebbe, he too wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to share a Shabbos with a person of this caliber.

By way of reading material I had brought along (rather aptly, I thought) “The Klausenberger Rebbe: The War Years” by Judah Lifschitz – a book about the current rebbe’s father. The Klausenberger Rebbe had lived through unspeakable suffering during the Holocaust. He had lost his wife and eleven children, had survived a death march and numerous concentration camps and endured the kind of suffering and horror only survivors know of. However, throughout that time he displayed superhuman devotion to G-d and His Torah. Not once did his belief and trust in Him wane.

Emerging from the Holocaust, he devoted his life to giving strength and hope to a broken Jewish nation. From small beginnings and against all odds, with unyielding faith and determination, he dedicated himself to his people and to rebuilding the great chassidus and dynasty that was Sanz.

Being the grandson of a Holocaust survivor, whose name I bear and whose book describing his experiences in the camps I have read many times, I felt very close to a rebbe I have never known. My grandfather, too, had returned from the ashes of European Jewry and dedicated his short life to rebuilding Yiddishkeit. Drawing many parallels between these two men who I believe never met, I felt a strong connection to the Klausenberger Rebbe. (It is perhaps curious to note that his son, the current rebbe, married my grandfather’s niece.)

Friday afternoon found us in the local Jewish school hall where the davening would take place. This was an experience in itself. The emotion and devotion displayed by the rebbe during the davening must have spilled over to the rest of us because for some reason unbeknownst to me, I found myself praying with a concentration I had not felt in a long time. It was as though there was something in the air, as though my tefillos were soaring straight up to the Heavens above, together with the tefillos of the tzaddik with whom I had come to spend Shabbos.

The highlight of the evening’s tefillos came with the last stanza of Lecha Dodi – bo’i b’shalom. I knew something was about to happen as all the chassidim suddenly surged forward to where the rebbe was standing. I too made my way toward the front and, as I couldn’t get a good view, stood on a chair to see what all the commotion was about.

The rebbe turned to face the back of the hall as is customary at this point in davening, closed his eyes and swayed in fervent prayer, while the participants who were watching him sang and clapped excitedly. Hearing the song and feeling the spirit that reverberated around the hall, tears stung my eyes.

The sight of a tzaddik praying to his Maker, beseeching Him, crying out to Him on behalf of the Jewish people, pierced my heart and awoke in me feelings I have only otherwise experienced on the yomim noraim. It was as if nobody else was in the room – just the rebbe and his Maker. It was an unbelievable sight to behold. Had that been the only thing I had witnessed throughout the entire Shabbos, it would have been well worth my trip in itself. However, little did I know that there was a lot more in store.

After the Friday night meal, we made our way to the rebbe’s tish. This is a custom upheld by all chassidic rebbes each Friday night, where they recite Kiddush and eat their Shabbos meal in the presence of their chassidim. The meal is graced with the rebbe’s expositions on the weekly parsha and much lively singing. Above all, it is a chance for Jews to be spiritually uplifted, to soar above the usual drudgery and worries of everyday life and inject themselves with a fresh dose of spiritual energy for the coming week.

I arrived just as the rebbe began to deliver his first shiur of the evening. Since I was standing near the back, I was unable to hear what he was saying, save for a few words here and there. But that didn’t really matter – just watching him was in itself totally captivating. His face was red with excitement and his eyes shone with joy as he delivered his shiur.

A far cry from the university lecturers I had experienced who were so physically rigid and terribly monotonous, the rebbe lived what he was saying. He spoke with such passion that even without being able to make out the words, one couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He embodied love of Torah and spoke with an energy that perhaps almost belied his age. He personified Torah study at its best. Although the evening contained a lot of singing as well, for me it is that image of the rebbe, learning with a true love for Torah, that will remain in my memory.

The following day was Shabbos Mevorchin, blessing the new month that was to arrive that week. When the haftorah had been read, the rebbe made his way toward the bimah while the rest of us crowded around to watch him recite this holy prayer. He then took the sefer Torah in his arms and started to say the Yehi Ratzon. His shoulders shook as he prayed and cried on behalf of his people. One could feel his emotion as he beseeched the Master of the universe to have mercy on His children and deliver them from the tragedies that had befallen them.

Upon reaching “Yechadshehu Hakodosh Baruch Hu” the chassidim took up a lively niggun, adding to the already emotionally charged atmosphere. The rebbe’s eyes were closed in deep concentration and he continued to sway. His tears flowed freely as he pleaded with the G-d of the Jewish people to deliver His nation from suffering.

I was deeply moved as I witnessed the scene. I saw what it meant to really pray to G-d, what a tefilla really looked like. I understood why our rabbis refer to prayer as “matters that stand at the pinnacle of the universe.” It was one of my greatest privileges to have been present at that Shabbos Mevorchin – an experience I shall cherish and never forget.

Later that afternoon, following a hearty Shabbos lunch and a rather short nap, we made our way toward the highlight of the Shabbos: the shalosh seudos tish. The chassidim maintain that seudah shlishis is the holiest time of the Shabbos and this tish was therefore eagerly anticipated. Arriving early, I managed to secure myself a place near the front of the table, so that this time I would be able hear the words of Torah the rebbe would say.

After having washed and sung some zemiros, the rebbe began to deliver his drasha. The lights went out (on a timer) and all went quiet. I was suddenly transported to a different place, a different time. I was no longer sitting in Manchester on a cold Shabbos afternoon. I had been taken back almost a century, to times gone by when chassidim of old would sit at their rebbe’s tish on Shabbos afternoons in the Eastern European shtetls. I too was now part of that historic legacy, that wonderful gift of chassidus given to the Jewish world by the Baal Shem Tov.

Although I could barely make out the image of the rebbe in the dark, the lack of physical light wasn’t missed as the spiritual flame burned brightly in the hearts of all who heard his words. There was not a sound to be heard.

In a voice choked with emotion the rebbe began to expound on the weekly parsha and what the message of the Torah was for us. He spoke of how fear of Heaven was the basis and goal of Torah study and mitzvah performance. He implored us in a tear-choked voice to do our utmost in our service of G-d.

The rebbe spoke for over an hour. At times he would cry, and I would cry with him. I could not help but be moved to the innermost depths of my heart by his words and his voice. I was in a world of my own, in a different realm. It was one of the most meaningful drashos I had ever heard.

Even now, as I think back to that seudah shlishis, I cannot help but notice the profound effect his heartfelt words had on me. The rebbe ended his shiur and the lights went back on (by this time Shabbos was already over). Everything went back to the way it had been. But not for me. Etched in my memory for a long time to come would be the message the rebbe delivered so meaningfully and so beautifully.

Later that evening, after the tish had finished and we had performed Havdolah, we made our way to a melava malka. This took place in a big hall not far from where I was staying. I must admit that at this stage I didn?t think there was anything that I would still experience that would match that which I had already witnessed. I was wrong.

After the rebbe had arrived and the guest speaker had delivered his speech, the band started up. As if on cue, everyone got up and joined hands. Creating a huge semi-circle stretching from one end of the top table to the other, we danced before the rebbe. Smiling and then exchanging glances with those seated nearest him, the rebbe too stood up, held the hands of those next to him, closed his eyes and danced with us.

I looked around at the vast number of shtreimels and bekishes that graced the hall. As during seudah shlishis, I once again felt as if I was living in bygone years, dancing with the rebbe in the shtetl, drinking in the influence and spiritual experience. We danced and sang and the rebbe danced with us. At that time we were all one. Shtreimels, bent-down hats and kippot serugot all blended together into one force of love for G-d and His Torah. The social barriers disappeared. The bigotry was non-existent. It was pure heart. It was pure spirit. It was pure chassidus.

The evening ended and we returned to our hosts. Making my way back, I reflected on all I had witnessed over Shabbos – the davening, the shiurim, the emotions, the singing and the spirit. My eyes were wet with tears as I recalled the rebbe’s rosh chodesh bentching, his words at the seudah shlishis, his tear-choked voice and his gracious smile.

I could not help but wonder at the spiritual heights the rebbe’s father must have attained to have achieved what he did, in that there is today a Sanz chassidus that boasts thousands of followers. To have come out of the ashes of Nazi Europe with nothing, after having lost his wife and eleven children, with the sole aim of building up Yiddishkeit in general and Sanz in particular. To have served G-d with unlimited love and devotion throughout his life, even in the camps. To have built up schools and yeshivas, Laniado hospital and an orphanage, old age homes and kollelim from nothing.

What kind of man that must have been. What kind of strength that must have taken – never to give up hope, never to resign his trust, but to keep on striving and end up rebuilding an entire chassidus. And one could clearly see that his love for G-d, His Torah and the Jewish people lives on in his illustrious son.

On that Shabbos Parshas Toldos 5765 I experienced a depth of feeling toward Yiddishkeit I have seldom felt. To experience intense emotion in prayer is to experience chassidus. To experience boundless joy at learning Torah and performing mitzvos is to experience chassidus. The Shabbos with the rebbe not only taught me about Sanz, but it taught me about myself.

Out of His boundless love for us, G-d has given us great spiritual leaders in every generation who enthuse us in our Judaism, such that we can witness and learn how to rid ourselves of mere perfunctory mitzvah performance and instead serve Him with joy and devotion.

It is up to us to grab those opportunities as they arise and taste true Yiddishkeit. I am sure that this is what happened on that Shabbos, when we were all elevated to new spiritual heights. When we learned lessons we could not ourselves have produced. When we felt emotion and joy at being Hashem’s people. When we felt a tangible closeness to Him.