The Novominsker Rebbe was taken at the moment he was needed most. Three years later, his two sons share their perspective of the rebbe who was a father to so many
The car drove slowly down the unpaved road, tire marks forcing a patterned design, pebbles scurrying for dear life. The throngs escorting the vehicle kept growing and the song swelling from their throats continued to grow as well. “Yamim al yemei melech tosif,” they sang: Let the days of the king increase, may he live, may he lead, may he continue to inspire.
Necks craned, hoping to catch one final glimpse of the radiant face, the gray-white beard, the twin eyes of smoldering black. His visit had been the highlight of camp, and they were reluctant to let it go.
But suddenly, inexplicably, the passenger’s window rolled down — what was the Rebbe looking at? His gaze focused on one boy standing off in the distance.
“Moishy! Moishy!” the Rebbe called.
Moishy looked up, smiled, and waved. The Rebbe smiled as well, waved in return, and closed the window.
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