‘Are You Stopping Anywhere for a Day or Two?’

In the early 1950s, Rabbi Yossel Weinberg was headed to South Africa, but the Rebbe’s surprising question made him second-guess. A miraculous series of events had him staying in Dakar for two days, leading to incredible long-term results.

Here’s My Story

The vice-chairman of United Lubavitcher Yeshivos, Rabbi Yosef Wineberg (1918-2012) traveled the globe raising funds for the institution and reaching out to Jewish people in far-flung places. He was interviewed three times, in the years 2008 and 2009.

In the early 1950s, I set out on a trip to South Africa to raise funds for the Lubavitcher yeshivah system. Beforehand, I met with the Rebbe.

“Are you stopping anywhere on the way for a day or two?” he asked.

I was flying direct with Pan-American Airlines, but in those days, that still meant making a few refueling stops: in the Azores islands, Portugal, Senegal, Ghana, and Belgian Congo. So I mentioned all of these places to the Rebbe.

“But don’t you have to stop on the way for a day or two?” he repeated.

“According to our schedule, we aren’t supposed to,” was all I could say.

When I came home that day, I told my wife what had happened. “I think I’ll end up making a stopover somewhere,” I told her. Of course, not knowing where, I just told her not to worry if she doesn’t get a telegram that I had safely arrived in South Africa at the expected time.

At the airport in New York, I met a fellow named Mr. Langer, who was also traveling to South Africa to visit his daughter. We had a two-day journey ahead of us, so we were happy to be traveling together.

Around halfway through the trip, we landed in Dakar, Senegal, which was then still a French colony. As we waited for the plane to refuel, I took out a Torah book. I began to study when I noticed a young, dark-skinned man staring at me. I continued what I was doing, but it was quite hot so I took off my hat.

As soon as this man saw my yarmulke underneath, he came over. “There are some French people with beards, so I didn’t know whether you are a Jew until you took off your hat,” he explained. “I’ve been living here for six months, and I haven’t seen a Jewish face in all that time. I’m so happy to see you now!”

“I come from a place with quite a few Jews, New York,” I replied, “but I’m still happy to meet a Jewish man in Dakar.”

We began to make conversation, and I learned that his name was Pinto – he was an engineer working for an oil company. He had a wife and two daughters, and had been transferred from his home in Egypt for a job in Senegal.

“Do you have your tefillin?” I queried.

He did – but he did not put them on every day.

“Even a Jew living in Jerusalem has the duty and the privilege of putting on tefillin every day,” I told him. “But for a person living here, it is even more crucial. How else will your daughters know that they are Jewish?”

“You’ve got a point there,” he conceded, and he promised to put on tefillin regularly. I was pleased with that, and I headed back to our plane for the next leg, from Dakar to Ghana.

It was meant to be a six-hour flight, but two hours in, we were woken up – there was engine trouble, and we had to turn around. Thank G-d, we managed to land safely in Dakar, but then the pilot came out to inform us that the engine was completely out of order. It would have to be replaced with an entirely new engine that needed to be brought from London – “in no less than forty-eight hours.”

The airline took us to a half-decent hotel in the city, and the next morning, after praying, I told Mr. Langer that I was heading out.

“Where are you going?” he protested. “Do you even know French?”

“I don’t know French, but the Rebbe asked me twice about stopping along the way. There must be something I’m supposed to do here.”

I went out to the street and began asking around, until finally I met a Portuguese man – whose language I could speak.

“Are there any Jews here?” I asked.

The man pointed me to a store just across the street, which belonged to a Jew. I walked in and met the owner’s nephew, a young man from Lebanon named Clement Polity.

I ended up spending most of the next two days with Clement. He introduced me to four more Jewish families, while I met another Jewish person at our hotel. Clement arranged a meeting with the locals so that I could speak with them about Judaism, and because he spoke fluent English, he was able to translate into French.

At one point, he turned to me: “Rabbi, I have a personal question. There are no single Jewish girls here; what am I supposed to do?”

I began to explain the importance of marrying within the faith, but I didn’t have to work hard. Clement came from a beautiful religious family, and so he understood. He shook hands with me and promised that he would go to France to look for a Jewish girl there.

“Rabbi,” he told me before we left, “you will never know what these two days meant for me.” By then, our plane had been fixed, and he took me back to the airport.

Afterwards, I wrote a letter to the Rebbe, telling him about this little community and all of the things they needed. Soon after, a package went out from the Rebbe’s office with tefillin, as well as some French prayer books and chumashim. Then, before Passover, the Rebbe sent them a package of matzah, by airmail, to make sure it arrived on time.

Sometime after Passover, the Rebbe received a letter, signed by both Pinto and Clement. They recounted how, at the community Seder they made – with the Rebbe’s matzah – they spoke about how, despite being so busy and so far away, the Rebbe still put in the time and effort to send them tefillin and matzah, without requesting anything in return. This is how a Jew is supposed to behave, they told their children. This letter, which the Rebbe sent on to me, was written with such emotion that it brought tears to my eyes.

That summer, I told the Rebbe that I was going back to South Africa.

“Are you stopping in Dakar?” the Rebbe asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Even if the plane is in order, you should spend a few days with the families there. But this time, give them notice beforehand.”

By then a few more Jewish families had moved there from Egypt, and we learned that the American vice-consul was Jewish, as well. The community got me a room at a beautiful hotel, then came to meet me, and we had a nice farbrengen together.

Everything was fine, except that Clement Polity was still there.

“Clement, you promised me something,” I told him when he came to the hotel.

“I kept my promise,” he insisted. “I went to France but I didn’t find anyone there. But don’t you worry – I’ll keep trying!”

Six or seven months later, two wedding invitations arrived in the mail – one for the Rebbe and one for me. Clement had found a fine Jewish girl in Lebanon. Later on, he became the chairman of Dakar’s Jewish community, and he submitted his name to be published in a local travel guide, along with a notice: “Any Jew who comes to Dakar can call me.”