The Rebbe’s Dollar       

“Brooklyn?”

I looked at my guest in surprise. It was a Sunday in the early 1990s.We were sitting in my apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, planning what to do. Usually, when I hosted visitors to New York City, the Sunday itinerary meant brunch at a restaurant followed by a trip to a museum or a theatre matinee. It did not include excursions to “out-of-town.”

But this was no ordinary guest. She was my best friend from high school in Kansas. Since then, our paths had taken several twists and turns, but we had managed to stay in touch. I knew her path had led to Eretz Yisrael, where she had become chareidi — whatever that meant.

My own path had taken me to New York, where I worked in theatre. I had become increasingly disenchanted with the state of the arts and so I too was taking steps toward mitzvah observance. To date, those steps hadn’t taken me further than the East River. But I was determined to be a good hostess, so when my friend asked if I would go with her to Crown Heights to see the Lubavitcher Rebbe, I said, “Sure!”

We made it to Crown Heights without incident and joined the long line of people waiting to get their brachah and dollar from the Rebbe. I had heard of the Rebbe, of course. Or, rather, I had seen his picture on the Chabad posters plastered on nearly every subway car. But I can’t say I was particularly excited to be there. And the meeting with the Rebbe happened so quickly that I have no idea what he said. All I remember is that after I was motioned away by one of the gabbaim, I had a dollar bill in my hand.