He couldn’t drive, until his passengers understood the magnitude of his sacrifice
I
t was a Thursday night minhag.
It didn’t involve cholent or music, but it was a Leil Shishi experience all its own.
It wasn’t a large group. Precisely ten bochurim, never more, the same ten bochurim week after week.
They’d been inspired by Rav Leizer Ginsberg, who’d been visiting from America and was invited to address the talmidim of Yeshivas Mir on Tishah B’Av. In the middle of a rousing derashah, he’d stopped and challenged the bochurim sitting on the floor, rows and rows of young men in socks and slippers, pouring out into the hallway.
“What are you doing for your rosh yeshivah? Rav Nosson Tzvi is so sick… are his talmidim even trying to help?”
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