Whatever Needed to Be Done 

Back in the late ’70s, I was a talmid in the Philadelphia Yeshivah. Like all my friends, I was looking forward to Purim in yeshivah, when an unexpected snowstorm threatened to torpedo our plans. The “reid” circulating was that the roshei yeshivah were contemplating cancelling the yearly tradition of sending the bochurim out collecting tzedakah due to the danger associated with accumulating snow and slippery roads. We held our collective breath as Rav Elya Svei ztz”l and ybdlch”t Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky conferred at the amud in the beis medrash following Maariv, seeming to be purposely speaking loudly enough for those of us who were in close proximity to hear the debate. I clearly recall Rav Shmuel saying it was a siman min haShamayim that this Purim the bochurim should learn instead, whereas Rav Elya countered that “men darf mesameiach zein,” and perhaps an ad hoc mesibah could be arranged in yeshivah to supply the talmidim with an opportunity to celebrate safely. Soon after, the verdict was announced: There would be absolutely no collecting, and plans would be put into place to provide simchas Purim on our home turf.

One of my friends, who couldn’t imagine the possibility of a stay-at-home Leil Purim, approached me a short while later and confided in me that he had access to a car. He proposed that several of us clandestinely defy the edict and leave the yeshivah Purim night. Not wanting to appear weak, I agreed to come along and hoped for the best. What could happen already?

Here’s what could happen: Not too far out of the neighborhood, with the snow coming down with what seemed to be Siberian fury, the jalopy we were driving began to sputter and groan, and soon came to a complete stop. Nobody had bothered to check the gas gauge before we left, and sure as the landscape was completely white, we were out of gas.

In desperation, the only exit plan we could think of was to call Reb Uri. Rabbi Uri Mandelbaum (who asked that we call him “Reb Uri,”) was the yeshivah’s legendary menahel. While we knew full well that once the hanahalah found out what we’d done we’d be toast, we figured it was better than waiting around to be found by some inner-city hoodlums. We walked to the nearest pay phone (for those who don’t know what that is, ask an elder) and dialed, hoping against hope that he would be home.