“I was sure this woman, pulling up in a bright red Rolls-Royce, was about to hand over one of the biggest checks ever written to Chabad. The woman slowly got out of the car, weighed down by jewelry, and approached Rabbi Korf. In perfect heimishe Yiddish, she asked, ‘Ir zent Rabbi Korf?‘”

By R’ Abba Deitsch

My Friday mivtzoim route was the now-famous Lincoln Road. That route was handed to me by a dear lantzman – the now well-known Fort Lauderdale Shliach, Rabbi Moshe Meir Lipschitz (he should be gezunt un shtark). Moshe Meir and I go way back to our days growing up in Boro Park. Our families davened together at the Tzemach Tzedek Shul, also known as Simpson’s, and later at Rabbi Rosenfeld’s.

Because we knew each other, and since he had put a lot of effort into building relationships with many of the (mostly Israeli) store owners at the mall, he entrusted the route to me – with the condition that I keep him updated. And I did.

One Friday, after finishing up my work, I headed back toward the dorm. First, I stopped at Mark’s Cleaners on Alton Road to pick up a few shirts. Then I began my slow walk back to yeshiva to grab a bite before returning to our apartment at Dorick’s, just one block past the yeshiva on 10th and Alton.

As I passed by “Be Kosher” – a store owned by Rabbi Brody shlita – I suddenly heard a horn honking and saw an older woman in a bright red Rolls-Royce, waving me over.

I hesitated. She waved again, and I cautiously walked over. She looked at me and asked, “Do you know where the Lubavitcher Yeshiva is?”

I said, “Yes, actually, I’m heading there now.”

She smiled. “Great! Get in, I’ve got something very important to deliver to Rabbi Avraham Korf.”

Now, from Be Kosher to the Yeshiva is maybe a block and a half, tops – but this was my first time riding in a Rolls. I figured I might never get another chance, so… I took my time. I had her take the scenic route. What should’ve been a 40-second drive turned into a four-minute cruise.

We finally pulled up behind the Yeshiva – by the old kitchen entrance. (If you were there in the late ‘80s, you know the spot.) And right then – “punkt” – Rabbi Korf walked out the back door.

I turned to the woman and said, “That’s the head Shliach of the Rebbe in Florida – Rabbi Avrohom Korf.”

She got excited. “Quick, tell him I need to speak with him – I have something important to give him!”

I was sure this woman, pulling up in a red Rolls, was about to hand over one of the biggest checks ever written to Chabad. So I rushed over to Rabbi Korf.

He looked a bit startled, understandably, seeing one of his bochurim climbing out of a Rolls-Royce.

I quickly explained the situation, and he nodded, prepared to greet whoever this was with the kavod she clearly deserved.

The woman slowly got out of the car, weighed down by jewelry, and approached Rabbi Korf. In perfect heimishe Yiddish, she asked, “Ir zent Rabbi Korf?”

He replied warmly, “Yeh.”

She said, “Ich hub gebracht a matuneh far di Yeshiva.”

He smiled and asked gently, “Mit vos ken ich eich helfen?”

She made her way to the back of the car, fiddled with the keys, and finally popped the trunk. From inside, she pulled out a huge white bucket.

She looked at Rabbi Korf and said, proudly:

“This is kosher popcorn for the Yeshiva. I’m sure the kinderlach will enjoy it.”

I didn’t know where to put myself.

I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. Straight to the earth’s core, skip Korach, just take me down.

But Rabbi Korf didn’t flinch. He accepted the bucket with grace and warmth, thanked her sincerely, and gave her heartfelt brachos. It reminded me of the story of the Alter Rebbe and the copper coin.

After she left, I apologized to Reb Avrohom. “Had I known what she had in mind,” I said, “I would’ve sent her off with extra butter!”

But Rabbi Korf just smiled. And then he said something I’ll never forget:

“I am the Rebbe’s representative in Florida. And as the Rebbe’s shliach, I must welcome and accept every Jew with sever panim yafos.”

That was him. A true chossid. A man who lived his mission every moment. He never lost his sense of lifnei mi atah omeid – knowing in front of Whom he stood.