Here’s My Story: How My Father’s World Became Mine
Mrs. Chana Sharfstein
Click here for a PDF version of this edition of Here’s My Story, or visit the My Encounter Blog.
My father, Rabbi Yakov Yisroel Zuber, studied in Tomchei Temimim, the yeshivah founded by the fifth Chabad Rebbe, and after getting married, he was sent by the sixth Rebbe — also known as the Previous Rebbe — to become the rabbi in Sachkhere, a town in the Soviet republic of Georgia.
He was a good speaker, a teacher, and integrated well with the locals, and so my parents accomplished a great deal in the five years they were there. And yet life was very harsh, especially for my mother, Zlata; it was far more primitive than anything they had encountered in Russia. The language was different, the people were illiterate and superstitious, and one of her four children who were born there died in infancy, partly because of poor health and sanitation standards.
Looking to leave Stalin’s Soviet Union, my parents first went to Riga, where the Previous Rebbe was living at the time, and before long, he asked them to go to Stockholm. There, the Jewish community was looking for a rabbi — as well as a teacher, mohel, and shochet, all rolled into one. As far as my parents were concerned, Sweden was a desolate country of icebergs and polar bears, but to their surprise, when they arrived in 1932, Stockholm was a modern, beautiful city, with a nice Orthodox community. I was an infant when we moved, and my earliest memories are from there. Life was incredibly good in Sweden, and when the Second World War broke out, we were safe because the country remained neutral.
Throughout the war, people fleeing Nazi Europe would stop by our home — for a meal, some advice, or lodging — and afterwards my father was especially involved with providing women whose husbands had been killed with the halachically required documents for them to remarry. It was only through the foresight of the Previous Rebbe, who felt that this was the right place for him to be, that he ended up being in this critical position; my father wouldn’t have dreamt of moving to Sweden on his own.
In 1940, the Previous Rebbe was able to leave Europe for the United States, and he spent four days in Stockholm before setting sail. My father was absolutely thrilled. He made arrangements for the Previous Rebbe to stay in the prominent Grand Hotel, which stands across from the Royal Palace and to this day hosts all the Nobel Prize winners each year. My mother prepared food for the Previous Rebbe and his entourage, and my father went over to bring it, and then spent every day with his Rebbe, catching up and discussing developments in Sweden.
One day, my father brought my siblings and me for an audience with the Previous Rebbe.
We got dressed in our Shabbat clothes, our hair was perfectly brushed, and we went in a taxi cab, which was new and extremely exciting for us. We had never been in a fivestar hotel either, and the Grand Hotel was absolutely gorgeous, as was the Previous Rebbe’s suite. There were lots of people in the room speaking Russian and Yiddish; my older brothers — who had been old enough to remember everyone there from their time in Riga — were talking a mile a minute, while my mother was writing notes to Rebbetzin Nechama Dina, the Previous Rebbe’s wife, who couldn’t hear well. It was like a family reunion. But, too young to be familiar with anyone there, I was quite overwhelmed by it all. Seeing the tremendous enthusiasm my parents had for their Rebbe was deeply meaningful for me, even though I felt like something of an outsider.
When it was time for our personal audiences with the Rebbe, my father took us up to him one at a time. Sitting in a chair, he had somber eyes and a grayish beard. To me, he looked like the oldest person I had ever seen in my life. He had not yet turned 60, but it was clear that his traumatic experiences in Russia had aged him beyond his years. I was in awe.
“What is your name?” he asked me in Yiddish.
When I told him, he gave me a blessing: “Chana is a very good name,” he said. “You should always cherish your name, and be proud of it.”
My father felt a tremendous sense of isolation in Sweden and was eager to join the Previous Rebbe, along with his siblings who had already emigrated, in America. Soon after the war, we made the move, and in 1947, the Previous Rebbe sent him to become the rabbi of a tiny Lubavitch shul in Dorchester, Massachusetts. He also became the dean of a yeshivah there, and then the rabbi of the larger Crawford Street Synagogue nearby in Boston.
From Boston, my father would travel to New York quite often to see the Previous Rebbe and was devastated when he passed away in 1950. The Previous Rebbe was soon succeeded by his son-in-law, our Rebbe, but for my father this was a hard adjustment to make. The new Rebbe was his contemporary, so although he of course accepted him, it was a different kind of experience.
Meanwhile, I was busy with my life in Boston. I had made friends, finished high school, and was starting college. This was all my father’s world, and not really mine.
And then, in 1953, my father lost his life in a shocking and still unsolved street crime. This tragedy was particularly horrific because he had lived through so many difficult life experiences, only to pass away in this horrific way in Boston, Massachusetts, the “cradle of liberty.”
The Rebbe sent chasidim to represent him at the funeral and was very concerned about our family. My mother, in turn, felt that she needed to speak with the Rebbe, so that spring we went to New York. We took the midnight bus, traveled through the night, and in the morning we went to stay with my aunt Sophie in East Flatbush.
My experience with the Previous Rebbe had been so overwhelming that I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about all of this. I was a dutiful daughter, so I came along with my mother, but it wasn’t anything I was excited about.
It all changed once we came into the Rebbe’s room for the audience. The Rebbe was very young, smiled easily, and was extremely personable, with a pleasant, low-key presence. He was also probably one of the best listeners I have ever encountered in my life. Not only did he listen to every word you said, but he would even remember it precisely when you came back, even if it was years later.
My mother unburdened herself to the Rebbe, and they spoke at some length: about my father, his work, life in Boston, and how the situation had changed. I sat on the sideline, watching all of this, but then the Rebbe turned his attention to me and started a conversation.
He asked about what I was doing, what I was studying, my plans, my interests, and my friends — everything you could imagine. The Rebbe seemed to really want to know everything about me, and so I found it very easy to talk to him and to express myself in depth.
When we were finished, we walked out, and I remember my mother saying to me, “I can’t believe how you spoke to the Rebbe!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You were so comfortable. It was easy for you to talk to him.”
“Well,” I replied, “He was just a wonderful person to talk to.” It really was a wonderful experience.
Mrs. Chana Sharfstein is an author, educator, and tour guide. She was interviewed three times in the years 2006, 2007, and 2014.
