Here’s My Story: Roadside Assistance
Aviv Keller
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I was born in Israel in the town of Rosh Pinah, in the winter of 1918. I was named “Aviv” — “spring” in Hebrew — for the new era that was dawning in the Land of Israel at the time, after its conquest by British imperial forces and the end of the Ottoman era.
The house in which I was born, raised, and then lived for the rest of my life was built by my grandfather Reb Aharon Yirmiyahu Keller. He was one of the founders of our town, along with a group of young families from Old Tzfat (Safed) that had been just scraping by with the help of the Old Yishuv charity distribution system known as the chalukah. Together, they decided to leave the mountain-top town of Tzfat, go down, and set up a new agricultural settlement so that they could live independently off the land.
The story that I would like to share took place on a summer’s day in 1929, when I was ten years old. In those days, every afternoon, my family used to gather in the home of my uncle, Shimon Keller, to drink tea together. And so, the family was sitting in Uncle Shimon’s garden and chatting, when a long, black Mercedes pulled up outside the house. We had never so much as seen such a car before, and it immediately aroused our curiosity. As I recall, the car had three rows of passenger seats, in addition to two seats at the front, alongside the driver. As the limousine came to a halt, my grandfather turned to my uncle. “That,” he announced, “is the Rebbe of Lubavitch.”
My grandfather had never actually seen Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn — the Previous Rebbe — but he had been reading the local press coverage of his historic visit to the Holy Land, which was then underway. He also had a good eye, so he was able to immediately recognize the distinguished-looking rabbi in the car. Indeed, that day was the fifth of Av, which is the yahrzeit of the 16th century kabbalist Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, “the Holy Ari,” and the Lubavitcher Rebbe was making his way to pray at the great mystic’s resting place in Tzfat.
Gripped with awe, we watched the Rebbe and his entourage alight from the vehicle. He came up to the house and, speaking in Yiddish, asked, “Is this a Jewish home?”
“Of course it’s a Jewish home!” replied my grandfather, also in Yiddish, as he stood up and gestured towards the mezuzah affixed to the front door. “Is there a place where we can pray the afternoon service?” inquired the Rebbe. We were thrilled at the great honor that had fallen into our laps! To my young eyes, these impressive visitors were larger than life and they even seemed taller than my relatives. The Rebbe’s coat was made of a fabric I had never seen before, and at one point, I even went over to him so that I could feel it. The Rebbe looked at me and smiled.
The prayers proceeded, enveloped in an atmosphere of holiness. After the service concluded, my uncle asked the Rebbe whether he would agree to stay for a cup of tea, and the Rebbe graciously accepted the invitation. In the meantime, we learned the reason for the traveling party’s unplanned stop. The rim of the car’s front wheel had become warped, apparently thanks to the many turns on the old road from Teveryah (Tiberias) up to Tzfat. Sensing that something was amiss, the driver decided to stop on the side of the road, which happened to be right where were lived.
The village blacksmith was quickly called, and on arriving with his tools, he got straight to work, pounding away with his hammer. After about half an hour, the broken wheel was fixed. While the man worked, my uncle served the Rebbe tea with fresh lemon leaves. We stood to the side, not wanting to disturb while the Rebbe sat and sipped his tea in peace. Once the repairs were done, he spoke with my grandfather for a little while and asked about his family roots. As he parted, he blessed us in Yiddish: “May you all be healthy, live long, and have nachas from your children!” With that, he got back into the car to continue the journey to Tzfat.
On account of the steep mountain road and the size of the car, it did not move with any great speed, and so the children were able to run after it, escorting the Rebbe for some distance. We waved goodbye and then returned home. In all, the Rebbe had been in the house some three-quarters of an hour.
Thank G-d, the Rebbe’s blessing came wondrously true: My uncle Shimon lived until the advanced age of ninety-six, my grandfather was eighty-nine when he passed, while my grandmother lived until ninety two. I myself am approaching my ninety-third birthday, and hope to carry on living a few more good, long years.
It is interesting to note that after my uncle passed away, a young, completely non-religious woman moved into his house. At some point, she heard that the Previous Lubavitcher Rebbe had visited that very house, and that a special holiness still stayed within its walls. This apparently had some effect on her, and she began leading a lifestyle of Torah and mitzvot. Today, this wonderful neighbor of ours runs a kosher household according to Jewish tradition.
Since then, a Chabad emissary has also come to town — Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Berkowitz. And, after I told him this story, it has become well known across the country. People come by to visit the house that hosted the Previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, and to hear the story from the source. Of course, I am always happy to share the tale of the great honor we had that day, which remains engraved in my heart.
Aviv Keller, who served for many years as the gabbai of the Rothschild Synagogue of Rosh Pinah, Israel, passed away on the 13th of Kislev in 2022, several months shy of his 104th birthday. He was interviewed in September of 2011.
