By Rabbi Avremi Browd

Zaidy,

Your mission in this world ended in the days right between Gimmel Tammuz and Yud-Beis Tammuz. The significance of these days was exactly what your life was all about. You ended your physical journey right from where you first got started.

You were born and raised in the years immediately after Yud-Beis Tammuz, the day the Frierdiker Rebbe was freed from prison and exile, after sacrificing his life for spreading Yiddeshkeit in Russia.

You were raised in the shadow of that moment, by parents who themselves were part of the ‘Shneersonski’ revolutionaries. You imbued Mesirus Nefesh along with your mother’s milk.

But by the time you were born, the Frierdiker Rebbe had left Russia for good, and you never got to see him. You didn’t grow up in the glorious era of Tomchei Temimim in Lubavitch like your father, Zaidy Avrohom, got to. When you were a child, the Rebbe was a far-off dream, yet you remained deeply connected.

When you were 12 years old, hundreds of Lubavitcher families made the great escape out of Russia. Your family didn’t make it out, you were to stay in Russia for another twenty-five years, distant from the Rebbe.

A new Rebbe came, a new generation, but you felt so far away. Still, with incredible fortitude, you married, had children, and raised them to be proud Chassidim. Their own Mesirus Nefesh to never attend school on Shabbos was the greatest testament to the way you and Bubby raised them.

You ran an underground Yeshiva in your own home in Samarkand, one of the only Yeshiva’s in operation in the entire Soviet Union in the 1960’s. You even got arrested, yet you persevered. You were the living proof that we can remain connected to the Rebbe even when we feel so apart and are facing so many struggles.

And finally, the moment you were dreaming for your whole life arrived at 37 years old when you arrived in Eretz Yisrael and were able to travel to the Rebbe.

Squeezing between the thousands of Chassidim in 770 that Tishrei was the happiest moment of your life, but the Rebbe had a mission for you. He always did.

He instructed that you Daven for the Amud on Rosh Hashanah. Your heartfelt cries that Musaf, soaked with the life-long yearning you carried from Russia, lifted up the Tefillos on that holy day like never before.

And the following night during Kos Shel Bracha, the Rebbe called you forward once more. He wanted you to sing Niggunim. You sang for hours, in Yiddish, in Russian, and even when you thought you had nothing more to sing, the Rebbe motioned for you to continue.

Zaidy, you sang for the Rebbe till you were hoarse. And then you sang more, because that’s who you were.

It was all a test. Now the Rebbe wanted you to travel through North America and spread your message. To show Jews what it was like to keep Yiddishkeit in Russia. Then you were instructed to make records. It was very challenging and costly, but when you carried out your mission, you literally saw the Brachos of Parnassa land at your feet. You always did.

Your records went on to inspire thousands, and they still do 50 years later.

When you were 46 years old, you set out on the Rebbe’s Shlichus to Los Angeles, California. You could have become a world-class Chazzan with so much money and fame. But you were first and foremost the Rebbe’s soldier.

You soldiered through Los Angeles and later through Fair Lawn, New Jersey. You soldiered through the untimely passing of our beloved Bubby and through pandemics and illnesses.

You learned Torah every minute you had and gave Shiurim for the Russian Yidden who needed you.

And most of all, you sang. You were always singing. That’s what soldiers do, they march forward and they keep singing.

You did perform at concerts all around the world. But no one saw a singer; they saw the Rebbe’s Shliach. No one heard a sweet voice; they heard the cries of the soul of Russian Jewry.

I remember asking you once where it was harder to keep Yiddishkeit: in Russia, or here in America? Your answer surprised me: “of course, in America!”

In Russia they tried to stop you. That only made you want to fight back: “No! I’m a Chossid!”

In America, no one is putting you in prison for being a Chossid, and there is no glory in fighting the evil government. It’s you and your Yetzer Hora. It’s too easy to keep Mitzvos, and no one will praise your personal struggles. We can become apathetic to Yiddishkeit.

Here we must fight to have the real Mesirus Nefesh!

But Zaidy, you did just that. You spent another 46 years of your life in American comfort, yet you carried that Russian flame with you. You were always happy, but you were never lazy.

I’ll never forget the last time I saw you. It was just a few days ago.

You were in the hospital after surgery. You seemed so uncomfortable, and I put my hand on your shoulder to try to relax you.

I will never ever forget the searing look you gave me. You stared right through my soul with an expression that seemed to say: “It’s not supposed to be easy. We are the Rebbe’s soldiers! We must live and breathe Mesirus Nefesh!”

That was your life. That gaze will forever live with me.

I will always remember and cherish the thousands of generous smiles and hugs you gave me. But I will never forget that final look and that message it conveyed to me.

*

I left the hospital that night with a feeling of dread. As if I couldn’t pull away from you…

Zaidy, I will never be able to pull away from you.

Every song I sing will have your sweetness.

Every worry I feel for another will carry your heart.

Every story I tell will have your flavor.

And every funny face, joke or ‘Kuntz’ that I make, will be with your grin.

*

This morning, I opened my phone and saw a text message left to me by a 17-year-old Bachur late last night: I love your Zaidy’s songs. You should get him to make another tape.

The next message I saw on a different chat, was ברוך דיין האמת… you had passed on.

There would be no more tapes or videos of you singing.

But what you left us with will forever have an impact, not only on your family but also on those who have never met you.

*

24 hours before you passed away, you were still singing. What was your final song?

It was ממרום ילמדו עליו.

This was a special song to you. From the hundreds of tunes you sang, this was the only one you composed yourself. This was your Neshama’s song.

You composed the tune after the Yom Kippur war when all anyone could think about was Shalom. But there is, in fact, a deeper meaning to these words.

ממרום ילמדו עליו ועלינו זכות שתהא למשמרת שלום

“From on high, may there be invoked upon them and upon us, the merit to insure peace”

These words from Bentching are a prayer that the Malachim should invoke the good deeds we have performed so that we be meritorious in judgment and attain peace.

Zaidy, don’t you worry if Malachim will find what to say about you and be Melamed Zechus. Your lifetime of Avodas Hashem and generations of Chassidim you raised, speak for themselves.

*

I’m so happy that you attained so much Nachas in your life!

I remember what you said on your 85th birthday, surrounded by the hundreds of descendants who gathered to be with you.

You said what Yaakov said to Yoseph before he passed away:

ויאמר ישראל אל יוסף ראה פניך לא פללתי והנה הראה אתי אלקים גם את זרעך

And Yisrael said to Yoseph, “I never expected to see you again, and here God has let me see your children as well.”

Zaidy, you never imagined there would be a way out of Russia, and you were so worried for your children if they will grow up as Yidden.

Yet you merited to see in a free land so much Nachas from generations of Chassidim!

As you rise before the Kiseh Hakavod, we know that you will continue singing and keep beseeching – as you never stopped doing – that Moshiach should come already, and we should see our Rebbe once more.

And we, your children and grandchildren whom you raised on your knees, will never forget you in this world.

We promise Zaidy that we will carry your voice forward!

Until we see you again.