A rebbe who saw latent greatness in even the humblest of Jews
Rav Shmuel Shmelka Leifer, whose shloshim was last week, was my great uncle. He was born bein hachomos, between two worlds, and he embodied the passion of a previous generation with the approachability of a gadol raised in America. I always marveled at the dichotomy.
He was simultaneously a chain in the link of his illustrious ancestors, but also a member of the new generation, which had its eyes set on new frontiers. He carried within him the last flicker of a lost world, and also the sunrays of a new beginning.
He was my grandmother’s brother, but he treated me as a son, and from the age of 12, I spent every Yom Tov and many Shabbosim in his home. I was an American- born, Upper West Side kid who attended the local day school and didn’t speak a word of Yiddish, but none of that mattered to him.
He was a master at relating to those around him in a way that pulled them up to his level. His jokes and small talk lulled us into feeling a sense of relatability. And then he would take us on a journey, sweeping us in his fervor to the passionate Yiddishkeit of a previous generation.
