Mrs. Sori Krinsky is a mother and grandmother who lives in Crown Heights. She was interviewed in December 2025.

The home that I grew up in was, geographically speaking, quite distant from the Rebbe, but he played a constant and central role in our daily life. In 1958, my parents had been sent off to Milan, Italy, to serve as the Rebbe’s emissaries, and their lives revolved around the Rebbe.

My father, Rabbi Gershon Mendel Garelik, used to come to Crown Heights to visit the Rebbe whenever he could, as would my mother, Rebbetzin Bassie Garelik – although not quite as often. My father was elated to be in the Rebbe’s presence; sometimes he would come just to see him at a farbrengen, and that was enough. When my mother was visiting Crown Heights, on the other hand, she enjoyed having a more personal interaction. She would visit 770 every day to see the Rebbe, and he would nod, or smile, or exchange a few words with her.

After my marriage, once I had settled in Crown Heights myself, there were times that she would come to my house from 770 and say, “I don’t think the Rebbe recognized me today.” The Rebbe hadn’t acknowledged her, and so she wondered whether, with the growth of the community and the increasing numbers of people coming to see the Rebbe, he really knew who she was.

“Come on Ma,” I’d counter, “of course he did. The Rebbe knows exactly who you are.”

Occasionally, though, I would voice my own doubts: When I go with my father, the Rebbe knows that I’m Rabbi Gershon Mendel Garelik’s daughter. When I go with my husband, he knows that I’m Rabbi Hillel Dovid Krinsky’s wife: It was the Rebbe’s own guidance, after all, that led my husband to establish Jewish Educational Media (JEM), to produce live broadcasts of the Rebbe’s farbrengens – and his father was also one of the Rebbe’s secretaries. “But when I’m there myself,” I wondered aloud, “I’m not so sure he really knows who I am.”

In 1988, the Rebbe’s wife, Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka, passed away. As a result, the Rebbe moved most of his regular activities – such as leading the daily prayers and distributing dollars for people to give to charity – from 770 to the private residence he had shared with the Rebbetzin. When my mother came to New York, we went to the Rebbe’s house together, to receive dollars from the Rebbe. My mother stood ahead of me in the line, and I was right behind her, holding my son Meir, who was just a few months old at the time.

The Rebbe gave my mother a dollar, and she went on. Then he handed one to me. “It looks like your mother thinks that I didn’t recognize her today,” the Rebbe said.

I froze. I knew that if I told my mother about this later, she wouldn’t even believe me. And so I just stood there, without moving on. “Ma… Ma…” I called out in an undertone.

Rabbi Leibel Groner, the Rebbe’s secretary, summoned her back: “Rebbetzin Garelik, your daughter is calling you.”

My mother came back in front of the Rebbe, and as she did, the Rebbe gave her a big smile and said, “I was just telling your daughter that it looks like you think I didn’t recognize you today.”

And that was it. We both walked out flabbergasted – it was just an unbelievable moment.

“So Ma,” I said with a smile, “do you think the Rebbe recognized you today?”

Even today, when I watch videos of the Rebbe giving dollars to people, I’m in awe at the way the Rebbe gives his full attention to every single person. My father would say that when the Rebbe looked at a person, he saw straight through them. My mother and I both wondered whether the Rebbe recognized us, and on that occasion, he not only saw that we needed that acknowledgement, but he let us know that he recognized both of us, in the way that we needed to hear.

Years earlier, before I had even turned Bas Mitzvah, the Rebbe had shown me that kind of attention. My twin sister Soshe and I had left home to attend the Chabad school in Pittsburgh, which was run by our grandfather, Rabbi Sholom Posner. Our birthday was going to be on the day after Rosh Hashanah, and about a month beforehand, our father came for a visit from Milan.

“Let’s sit down and write a letter to the Rebbe,” he told us, when we met in New York. We knew that when you write to him, the Rebbe sends back a letter with a blessing, so this was very exciting. We each took a piece of paper, and our father began explaining what to write in a letter to the Rebbe, and how to write it: At first, you use a pencil, in case there are mistakes, and then you rewrite the letter with a pen, once, and then twice, until there are no mistakes––

But then, he stopped. “I think it would be a good idea if, instead of writing two separate letters to the Rebbe, you only write one joint letter.” As he explained, the Rebbe is the leader of world Jewry, whose every second of the day is accounted for, and we don’t want to take up too much of his time by having him read an extra letter.

Who should write the letter? Obviously my sister, who was born exactly ten minutes before me, and is definitely my older sister. So it was decided that she would write the letter – and we would both sign our names on the bottom.

Was I pleased with this idea? Not exactly. I thought that my handwriting was nicer, and besides, I wanted to write my own letter. But I trusted my father and surely if he thought two letters would take up too much of the Rebbe’s time, he was right. I didn’t express a word of disappointment. My sister wrote the letter, I signed my name – that was the extent of my participation in the letter – and afterwards we went back to Pittsburgh.

A few weeks later, our grandfather told us that an envelope had arrived from the Rebbe addressed to both of us. Our father explained how to prepare ourselves for opening up a letter from the Rebbe, including that we should put on our Shabbos clothes, which we did before going over to our grandparents’ house to get the letter.

When we opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, we noticed that there was something else inside – to our amazement, we pulled out a second letter. There were two individual letters, each with Rebbe’s blessings on the occasion of our Bas Mitzvah: One addressed to my sister, and one addressed to me.

How did the Rebbe know? I marveled. How did he know that I would want my own letter? He knew because he is a Rebbe, and a Rebbe relates to every single individual, regardless of age or life circumstances. He understood the mindset of a twelve-year-old girl perfectly.

Today, I’m especially grateful that we each have our own letter because I get to share my letter with my granddaughters, as well as with many other Bas Mitzvah girls who have asked me to see it; I’m always happy to share it with them, and I never tire of telling the story.

My sister was even generous enough to let me keep the envelope.