In a Class of His Own

Rabbi Mordechai Goldshmid, whose father R’ Nochum Goldshmid grew up in Yekaterinoslav, recalls stories of the Rebbe as a young boy in the home of his illustrious father, Reb Levik.

Here’s My Story

Rabbi Mordechai Goldshmid is a veteran educator who serves today as a lecturer in Tomchei Temimim of Bnei Brak. He was interviewed in his home in May of 2010.

My father, Rabbi Nachum Goldshmid, was born in Yekaterinoslav (today Dnipro), Ukraine, where the chief rabbi was the Rebbe’s father, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, also known as “Reb Levik.” My grandfather Reb Yitzchak Goldshmid, the local kosher slaughterer, had a close relationship with Reb Levik.

Aside from their eldest, the Rebbe, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak and Rebbetzin Chana had two younger sons: Berel and Leibel. The latter was the same age as my father, and the two forged a strong friendship that would last for many years.

Around 1909, as the boys were nearing school age, Reb Levik asked the chasid Reb Zalman Vilenkin to open a cheder, a small school, for his children and some other boys, in Reb Zalman’s home.

Many years later, when my aunt met with the Rebbe for the first time, her husband made mention of her maiden name.

“Goldshmid?” asked the Rebbe, looking at my aunt. “You are Reb Nachum’s sister?”

She confirmed this to be the case, and the Rebbe continued, “I learned with him in cheder. I also knew your father well.”

When she recounted her meeting to my father, he remarked, “I never learned together with the Rebbe in cheder. We learned in the same home, but I didn’t learn with him – he always studied on his own.”

The Rebbe was some four years older than my father, so when he joined the cheder, the Rebbe was already eight. The students were split into three classes, with the top “class” comprising one student, the Rebbe. In addition to being the oldest of the group, he was also, in terms of his abilities, without a peer.

Reb Zalman, the teacher, spent most of his time teaching the younger two classes. Occasionally, he would learn with the Rebbe, for half an hour or so, and would then let him continue studying on his own. My father distinctly recalled that while he and his friends were learning how to read the Chumash, the Rebbe stood by the window, carrying on with his study of the Talmudic Tractate of Pesachim.

This was why my father never called himself a “childhood friend” of the Rebbe, who even at that young age mostly kept to himself. When the other children went out to play, the Rebbe would generally stay inside, and would continue learning. “He was never really a child,” my father used to say. “Even when he was little, he was extremely studious and serious.”

There was one time, my father related, when the Rebbe would deviate from his usual conduct. On the 19th of Kislev, the date of the liberation of the Alter Rebbe – the founder of the Chabad movement – from Czarist imprisonment, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak used to lead a large chasidic gathering for the broader community. In addition, the children would put on a celebratory feast of their own, the day before. Somewhat out of character, the Rebbe was the main organizer of this children’s farbrengen, making the arrangements for the children to be able to celebrate together.

At the main farbrengen, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak used to tell over the story of the Alter Rebbe’s imprisonment and liberation, while drawing from every field of Torah – especially the mystical dimension – to interpret the events. Although everyone sat and listened respectfully, his words were too esoteric for most to follow.

“Who are you addressing with these kabbalistic explanations?” someone asked him. “Nobody here understands what is being said!”

At that, Reb Levik pointed at his son, the Rebbe, by then a young man of fifteen. “He understands. I’m speaking for him.”

My father observed that for the first few years of his leadership, the Rebbe spoke in a style similar to his father, which made it difficult for the chasidim, who wereused to the Previous Rebbe’s style, to understand.

All three of Reb Levik’s sons were exceptionally talented as well as extraordinarily studious. My father once heard their mother, Rebbetzin Chana, complain how difficult it was getting them to take a break from learning when it was time to eat. But even among them, the Rebbe stood out for his diligence, his phenomenal memory, and his fear of Heaven.

During the First World War, Yekaterinoslav, a major port city, was flooded by thousands of Jews who had been banished from near the front lines by decree of the Czar. The Schneerson’s home was always hospitable, and during that period they hosted many prominent refugees, among them quite a few rabbis and Torah scholars. Some of them, like Rabbi Menachem Mendel Kaminer, a relative of the “Imrei Emes” of Ger enjoyed engaging with Reb Levik’s sons in scholarly Torah matters.

On one occasion, discussion turned to a gloss of the Tosafot in Tractate Arachin, in which four answers are provided to a single question. In order to explain why all four answers were necessary, the Rebbe proceeded to identify the weaknesses in each of the answers. The astonished Rabbi Kaminer later exclaimed, “How can such a young boy– all of fourteen – recall whichever Talmudic passage I mention, as if he had just learned it!”

In 1923, at the age of eighteen, my father joined the clandestine Tomchei Temimim yeshivah in Kharkov, which would gather in the women’s section of a local synagogue. While sitting in the study hall one day, he suddenly felt someone tapping on his back. Startled at first, he turned around and to his surprise he found that it was none other than Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. Attending a rabbinic conference in Kharkov, the rabbi had decided to visit the students.

On that same trip, Reb Levik related that he was being pressured by the new Communist authorities to sign off on various religious matters that the state claimed were being adequately provided for – even though he felt they were not. Many other rabbis had already folded and signed their approval. “But I cannot sign, because I know the truth,” Reb Levik confided in my father. “What do you think, Nachum? Should I do it or not?”

“What do I know?” my father reacted with confusion. “You said that you shouldn’t sign, so if you are asking me, I wouldn’t either!” Reb Levik, of course, did not give in to the pressure.

After Kharkov, my father went to a different yeshivah in Vitebsk, where he excelled in his studies, especially in Chabad chasidic thought. By the age of twenty, he was appointed to teach in the Chabad yeshivah in the town of Nevel. However, a year and half later, under mounting Communist oppression, he was forced to flee. For a time, he returned to his hometown (which by then had been renamed Dniepropetrovsk). He eventually made his way to Israel joining the newly formed Chabad community of Tel Aviv.

It was in Tel Aviv that he met his childhood friend, Reb Leibel Schneerson. The two began to meet regularly, and would spend hours conversing or studying chasidut together. One day, Reb Leibel spotted my father in the street, and ran excitedly towards him with a small book in hand.

“My brother sent me his first book!” he announced happily. The book was Hayom Yom, a pocket calendar published in 1942, featuring the teachings and aphorisms of the Previous Rebbe as written and edited by the Rebbe. “I read it carefully, and it is simply overflowing,” he gushed. “People have no idea of the depth and breadth of thought that have gone into it.”