He Never Ran 

The sailor had taught him well.

In time, the Israeli government learned about the engineer in Monsey. The man who thought he was dreaming when he was flown from New York to Boston was flown across the ocean and welcomed at Lod Airport by a team of officials, shown around the ancient, holy country and given the chance to help its military.

And there, too, he told them his theory about yeshivah guys — about their creativity, work ethic, and erlichkeit, well understanding the cultural divide in that country. And of course, he told them about the sailor, sharing a lesson learned early on about courage and self-respect.

HEwas voted in as president of Yeshivah of Spring Valley, bringing the creativity and innovation that had pushed him to build new data systems to this role as well.

A friend of mine recalls growing up in Monsey of those years. A student at the school, he occasionally found himself on the hard wooden bench outside the principal’s office — not because of any misbehavior, but because his parents could not pay tuition.

And then, one day, everything changed. There was a new president, and he was now welcome in class.

A new president — who knew what it felt like when a child wants to learn, even if his parents can’t afford to pay tuition.

YSV might well have been the first frum school to implement a pension fund for rebbeim, an idea Zaidy took from corporate America. At the shivah, an older man came in, a retired rebbi. “Thanks to George,” he said quietly, “I still have my dignity.”

His rebbi smoked on Shabbos. A generation later, the rebbeim in the school of which he was president got a pension.

Don’t retreat. Move forward. Build.

Not long after his bar mitzvah, he entered Chaim Berlin, and the influence of the Rosh Yeshivah would shape his life.

From that moment on, he aspired to be the ben Torah that Rav Hutner described. Until the end of his life, Zaidy had a serious daily chavrusa in Gemara, but he also learned mussar afterwards, like a ben Torah ought to.

He walked like a Chaim Berliner, he spoke like a Chaim Berliner, (pronouncing it not Chazon Ish, but Cha-zoin Ish, for example) and most of all, he lived like a Chaim Berliner, refusing to compromise when it came to Shulchan Aruch — whether in business, in askanus, or in the chinuch of his own children, exhibiting the tenacity that comes not from being inflexible, but from being anchored.

A few years ago, Zaidy was telling me about a grandchild for whom he was davening fervently. When he spoke about it, his eyes flashed with the courage and resolve of the kid from Brownsville, his determination so raw it smelled like the oil and dust of the “El” train that roared just above the streets that raised him.

Rav Hutner was sandek for both of Zaidy’s sons, and blessed his talmid that these children would also be bnei Torah, the aspiration that defined Zaidy and Bubby. That hope would be fulfilled, as Zaidy merited two sons and three sons-in-law, each of whom is at home in the beis medrash.

On Erev Yom Kippur, the phone rang throughout the day in Zaidy’s home, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren calling for a brachah. To each, he read the nusach printed in the machzor, then he would add a Yiddish brachah of his own.

A few years ago, a grandson called from Lakewood and received the usual brachah. He was about to hang up when he heard soft weeping. It was Zaidy crying on the phone.

This was unusual.

He waited, unsure of what to say, and Zaidy finally spoke. “You know, you’re one of my only eineklach still in kollel,” Zaidy said. “Lots of them went to work in recent years. You are still learning. Keep it up! This is my nachas!”

And then Zaidy hung up, a rare moment of pure emotion from a person who kept so much inside. From that year on, every Erev Yom Kippur, Zaidy would cry after giving a brachah to this particular grandson, though he no longer had to explain why.

He was niftar on Shabbos, 9 Kislev. Bubby told me that frankly, she had been hopeful that the levayah could be held on Sunday morning, when a larger crowd would be able to attend. She wanted him to have this final honor.

Her eldest son, my Uncle Dovi, a respected rav and posek in Monsey, told her that he felt that the right thing to do was to hold the levayah that night, after Shabbos, even if it meant a smaller crowd; it was what halachah and kevod hameis dictated.

And though Zaidy wasn’t there to guide her, she got it. (And the crowd filled the room, the hallway, and spilled out into the parking lot.)

Jews don’t run can mean many things — a call for discipline, when emotion is pulling in a different direction, or the surrender of instinct to principle, the highest form of strength. Stand firm, Rabbi Miller had urged.

Gershon ben Sholom Aryeh was laid to rest in Monsey on a cold Motzaei Shabbos, in accordance with what was halachah recommends, as instructed by his own son! It was everything he could have dreamed of.

He had never run, never retreated, and never faltered, and his final journey reflected every step he had taken along the way.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1091)