For the non-talmidechai chachamim of the shiur – myself the charter member – posing a question to the gadol hador (on a gemara that he had just explained) was enough to plague you with the severest case of the screaming meemies. Remember the time you got pulled over by a trooper, got lost in Harlem with no gas in the tank, or received a letter from the IRS that spelled “audit?” That was a waltz down Easy Street next to the terror of posing a question.
A hard fist of fear would grow in your stomach and the whisper of terror flowed through your veins. And then just as you clenched your white-knuckled fist closed and mustered the determination, your resolve would deflate before your eyes like a soufflé when the oven’s been turned off unexpectedly.
There wasn’t much time to work up a mantra or slip into a yoga pose for Rav Elyashiv wasted no time. The window of asking a question when it was pertinent was a matter of seconds. Thus, with a quick intake of breath like someone about to plunge into freezing water you would tremulously articulate your question bracing for a put down that usually came with either a dismissal of the wrist or a finger pointed to the skull implying the IQ of an Ice Age vegetarian.
In the course of nine years I posed only two questions. The first query resulted in the gaon’s index finger ascending to display prenatal iodine depravation-induced oligophrenia, but thankfully, was retracted in mid-flight and actually merited an answer. Don’t ask me what that response was, I did not resume breathing until at least half an hour later.
The second time I posed a question it looked like I was a candidate for the wrist-dismissal, but mercifully, he did address (better put, “dismiss”) my query with a terse response. Ditto as for remembering what he said; a tranquilizer that would have put a gorilla out of business would not have been adequate for me at the time.
There were two other times that I tried to pose a question. But on each occasion I didn’t pose it loud enough for an advanced-nonagenarian to hear. There was a scholar who sat next to Rav Elyashiv who would field the questions from novices and phrase them succinctly and loud enough for the gaon to understand. On both of these occasions he was absent.
Lest anyone be confused, Rav Elyashiv was not a scary person – he was the quintessential image of nobility and dignity, always neatly attired, beard combed, furnishing a royal aura of calmness and serenity. The word that he conjured most in my mind was “king.”
I was privileged to be in Reb Shlomo Zalman Auerbach’s shiur for 14 years. There, the experience was akin to stepping into Pirkei Avos. We sat at the feet of the most avuncular man, brimming with wisdom, kindness and pleasantness, brandishing a genuine smile that could light up a room. With Reb Shlomo Zalman you had no problem telling him – indeed would desire to reveal to him – every aspect of your personal life. And yet, and yet… without detracting an iota from Reb Shlomo Zalman’s infinite greatness, attending his shiur did not feel like being in the courtyard of the king.
Because the sense of regi-presence was palpable with Rav Elyashiv, one’s conduct altered. Everyone in that shiur had lucid clarity that we were being addressed by the gadol hador and if you were about to interrupt him, it had better be worth it!
Some say that Serendipity is my middle-name. One proof for this assertion stems from the fact that on an early morning in Nissan 1981 I made my way down Shivtei Yisrael Street to the Kosel to participate in a spectacular and colossal Birkas Hachama attended by a comfortable six-digits of enthusiastic Jews. At the juncture of Meah Shearim and Shivtei Yisrael, Rav Elyashiv emerged heading to the very same destination. I was privileged to accompany the gaon the entire way and ask him any question I ever had about Pesach, real or imagined.
(On one occasion while at the home of Rav Yoseph Efrati, the primary disciple of Rav Elyahsiv, I mentioned this envious fact. Everyone in the room was incredulous. Rav Efrati, plenty skeptical himself, did wish to preserve my dignity and said that he has a book containing pictures form the Birkas Hachama – although they are dark and not easily discernible. And there in monochrome black-and-white, guess who was standing at Rav Elyashiv’s side, a little thinner and a lot darker?)
I didn’t let go of Rav Elyashiv for a second and accompanied him all the way home – again just the two of us. When we passed Toldos Aaron the women’s section was letting out, and here comes the kicker. Numerous, senior-aged women with black head coverings pulled tightly over their heads saw the great posek and circled all around (I couldn’t make this up – see the first paragraph of this tribute, two columns ago). Rapturous over having reached this milestone, they sought the gaon’s blessing that they be privileged to recite this blessing again in another 28 years.
With laudable patience he addressed each and every woman dispensing blessings with sincerity and joy that had each lady depart on a cloud.
There is a reason there are not that many stories about Rav Elyashiv. He testified about himself that he never missed a meal or a night’s sleep. Everything he did was calculated and in the strictest conformance of halachah. This is not story material – but it is what his story is all about.
Since his passing, all of the sefarim that have been compiled from his shiurim and psakim have been placed on his chair in his shul “caravan” providing a palpable image of his legacy. A sharper image – seared in the memory of a generation – is that of the king in total control, focused upon the King of all Kings.
Chodesh tov – have a pleasant month!
