The Rebbe Wouldn’t Eat the Chicken
by Rabbi Asher Zeilingold, Clear Vision
Uncle Dave Grossman, my mother’s brother, was a great storyteller. During WWII, when he was in the United States Army, he came to London to visit us. He told me of his efforts to keep kosher, how he worked in the medical staff of the army, and the many close calls he had with death – for which he was awarded a medal.
But what I was most fascinated by was his description of America. “Oh, when you come to America,” he told me, “you’ll get chewing gum.” He also told me that I could do deliveries for his kosher butcher store; “I’m going to pay you 10 cents for every order.” I used to dream of the gum and calculate what I could purchase for the many deliveries I would do for his store.
When we arrived in New York, Father greeted us at the New York port and I remember that the first thing I wanted to do was to go to Uncle Dave’s store. Father asked if it would be okay to go the next day. “I have to go to Uncle Dave to see his store where I’m going to work,” I insisted. Father relented.
During the week I came home too late from yeshivah to do deliveries for Uncle Dave. On Fridays I would tell the teacher that I needed to go to the bathroom and leave school early to go to Uncle’s butchery and do Shabbos deliveries.
Crown Heights had many kosher butcher shops. I recall one had a sign stating, “This is the only kosher butcher shop on this block,” and underneath in small letters, “On this side of the street.” But Uncle’s store was busy, perhaps because he was goodhearted, jolly and trustworthy.
Uncle would pay me ten cents for each delivery, and I would usually receive a ten cent tip. One Friday, Uncle told me to go to Mermelstein Caterers across the street, where the owner explained that he had two orders for me to deliver every Friday. One was to 770 Eastern Parkway, on the second floor, and the second was to 346 New York Avenue, apartment 4D. The latter, he told me, was the Lubavitcher Rebbe. In truth, it didn’t make any difference to me, as long as I got paid.
It turned out that these two were my best tippers, and I looked forward to them. At 770, when I brought the catered Shabbos food, an old lady would be sitting there. This was Rebbetzin Nechamah Dinah, the wife of the Rebbe Rayatz, the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe. She was deaf and didn’t interact with me, but she would give me a quarter.
When I would come to the apartment on New York Avenue, the Lubavitcher Rebbetzin was always nice to me. She would invite me in, and ask me how I was doing and about my studies. I recall her once asking me what my plans were after I had graduated from high school. I answered that I would continue on to college, to which she responded, “That’s a good idea.”
One time, I asked her whose photo was displayed in the apartment, and she told me, “That’s my father.” It was the Rebbe Rayatz.
I looked forward to those visits with the Rebbetzin, not only because she was always pleasant, but also because of the generous tip she gave. One Friday, I knocked on the door, but no one answered. “I guess I’m going to lose a quarter,” I thought to myself. I placed the small bag –containing a few pieces of chicken and kugel, which I had been told was all their food for Shabbos – near the door.
The next week when I came, the Rebbetzin said, “You know, if we don’t answer, never leave it near the door, because my husband wouldn’t eat it last week.” It seems that because the bags were not properly sealed, it was a question according to Jewish law if one could eat the chicken.
An excerpt from the forthcoming book Clear Vision: Living by the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s Guidance, available at ClearVisionBook.com
