The premonition

“Remember: the most important thing about your prayers is the faith that they will not go unanswered.”
Rabbi Nachman

Aishel Avraham Nursing Home, Brooklyn, New York

A premonition of trouble roused the old man from his bed at 5:45 a.m.!

He got dressed on his own, sat in his wheelchair, rolled into the elevator, pressed the right button, rode down to the synagogue, put on his tallit*, put on his tefillin**, and prayed fervently, praying...

“ Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad!” (Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is One!)

My acquaintance with Rabbi Frankel began on the “wrong foot.” In a foul mood, he was moving around in his wheelchair, pushing off with his left foot, puffing on a cigarette, and shouting in Hebrew at whoever was behind him:

“Get out of the way!”

I was the one behind him. He ran over my left foot.

It wasn’t the pain from the wheelchair that angered me, but the smoldering cigarette between his teeth.

“Did you get out of bed on the wrong side?” I blurted out in Hebrew.

The cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on his knee. I brushed away the cigarette butt, which had already burned his skin, leaving yet another hole in his pants.

“You need to take off your pants so I can treat the burn.” But he grabbed my wrist, gripping it tightly enough to hurt.

“How did you know I got up on the wrong side of the bed today?” he asked in surprise, then burst out laughing.

*What a silly, strange old man,* I thought.

To my surprise, he didn’t resist when I told him he needed treatment for the burn on his knee.

Together, we went up to the fifth floor. In my very broken English, I asked a nurse for help.

“I’ll be your interpreter, and you’ll be my companion. Just call me Rabi. My son will pay you at the end of the month.”

He didn’t wait for my consent. Instead, he simply ordered, “Be at my place tomorrow at 6:30 a.m.!”

I couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, but how could I refuse an old man who was asking for help? And so, I became his companion.

The next morning, at precisely 6:30 a.m., I was in his room, just as he had ordered.

As soon as he opened his eyes, he would recite *Modeh Ani*, a morning prayer, and I would hand him a special mug of water and a basin. He would wash his hands one at a time, three times each, completing the ritual of *netilat yadayim* without a hitch.

But getting out of bed, getting dressed, washing his face, transferring to his wheelchair, and waiting for the elevator so he could arrive at the synagogue by seven for Shacharit, the morning prayer service, was an entirely different matter. Each step was a struggle.

The rabbi was ninety years old. He moved as little as possible, terrified of falling. He smoked heavily and complained incessantly about his weakness, insomnia, the lack of newspapers, stiffness in his joints, tough meat, overcooked vegetables, his doctor—whom he called “Dokhtor-Shmokhtor”—and the pills the doctor had prescribed. He even suggested that the doctor take the pills himself, although the pain in his hunched back, ravaged by osteoporosis, and in his joints was sometimes unbearable.

I managed to resolve some of his complaints. He began receiving newspapers regularly, and after a visit to the dentist, he could once again chew meat without difficulty. He also started walking more, thanks to the painkillers prescribed by “Dr. So-and-so.” He cut down considerably on smoking and stopped lighting up in my presence. There was nothing I could do about the overcooked vegetables at the nursing home. They were, are, and always would be either overcooked or undercooked. But I did manage to persuade the staff to serve him a fresh salad with lunch.

He accused me of being brazen. In Hebrew, he called me a *chutzpah*—the very embodiment of audacity and insolence. He declared that I had become utterly shameless, throwing away the hole-ridden trousers from his expensive suits and sending the jackets to the dry cleaner, leaving him with practically nothing to wear.

When his daughter discovered that I had managed to discard the cigarette-burned trousers and order replacements made of washable fabric, sparing him repeated trips to the dry cleaner, she was overjoyed. The jackets, meanwhile, would finally be free of ketchup, milk, and soup stains. She could hardly believe I had pulled it off.

Yes, he was a very stubborn old man.

But inside that old man lived a young, restless, and wise soul. He could only get out of bed by putting his left foot down first because his right leg was shorter. That was why he roared with laughter when I asked him, “Did you get out of bed on the wrong side this morning?” He joked constantly, although he rarely smiled. He often spoke in riddles and with hidden meanings, yet I understood him at a glance. That was how people spoke in Odessa, where I had spent my childhood and youth.

When I learned that the rabbi had been born in Safed, Israel—an ancient, mystical city for which I still felt a deep and lingering nostalgia—I began to regard him as a member of my family. After all, who better than someone born in that ancient, mystical city could understand my longing for it?

I told him how, one day, after living in Israel for nearly fourteen years, I happened to visit Safed. The city mesmerized me, and I felt as though I were melting into its pure, intoxicating air. I remember sitting in a trance on the steps of an ancient stone house with turquoise shutters. When I returned home, I persuaded my husband to accompany me back to that magical city, if only to breathe its air once more.

After the foul, damp, chemical-laden air of Haifa, Safed seemed like paradise—a place where I could recharge my batteries.

I told the rabbi how my husband and I had arrived in Israel in November 1973, and how I had immediately fallen in love with my new homeland, which was still reeling from the Yom Kippur War. I also shared the painful story of what had forced us to tear our sons, both born in Israel, away from their homeland and take them to America to “settle down.”

In Israel, those who leave the country are sometimes disparagingly called *yordim*, literally “those who descend.” I worried that, once we settled in America, my children would struggle to adapt and gradually drift away from their Jewish heritage.

The rabbi comforted me.

“I, too, am a *yored*; I left Israel many years ago. I used to run a hotel there, but I sold it, and here in America, I became a rabbi. God’s ways are inscrutable. Sometimes you have to ‘go down’ in order to ‘go up.’ It is never too late to do *teshuva*!”

His words touched my soul. It was as though the invisible hand of God had guided me to the nursing home where I became a caregiver, even though I did not speak English. In Russia and Israel, I had worked as a nurse.

The Aishel Avraham nursing home was established in Williamsburg, a neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York, to care for Jews who had survived the Holocaust or lost loved ones during those terrible years. The Hasidic communities, of which there are many in Williamsburg, became their extended family. Visiting the sick (*Bikur Cholim*) is a mitzvah—a sacred duty. Crowds of volunteers, young and old, women and men, would come even in the midst of a snowstorm to feed the elderly and brighten their days!

Tears welled up in my eyes.

My youngest son was captivated by Williamsburg, just as I had once been captivated by Safed. He found himself wandering streets where cheerful, boisterous Hasidic boys with long sidelocks ran about, men dressed in black suits, and modestly dressed women pushed baby strollers.

He wanted to study at a yeshiva and observe Jewish law. And so he went to yeshiva.

I began lighting Shabbat candles. Naturally, we made our kitchen kosher and began observing Shabbat. These were our first steps on the staircase leading upward.

I introduced the rabbi to my husband and sons. Before going to work each morning, my husband would stop by the rabbi’s place for coffee. He worked just two blocks from the nursing home, at a bakery where matzo was baked.


The rabbi himself prepared the coffee at the nursing home. He would boil milk, add coffee, cocoa, plenty of sugar, and—most importantly—a generous amount of love. Then he would pour this magical concoction into a special container with a spout and place it near the synagogue. There was always enough for everyone who came to pray or to help those who were praying.

The rabbi was delighted to see my husband. They would joke, philosophize, and discuss politics. I turned this into a little trick whenever I couldn’t persuade the old man to get out of bed for the morning prayers (*Shacharit*). I would say, “Perhaps Zvi, my husband, is downstairs near the synagogue, drinking coffee. Who knows?”

One day, the rabbi spent the entire day in bed, gazing at a portrait of his late wife. It was clear how deeply he missed her. Suddenly, he said:

“I must have done something good in my life, for the Almighty to have sent you to me!”

His words sounded especially touching in Hebrew, and I understood them as a compliment. Wanting to express my gratitude, I repeated his very words back to him:

“I must have done something good in my life… and that’s why the Almighty sent you to me!”

He smiled at my little act of plagiarism.

I had no idea then that my words had reached the ears of the Almighty—and that He would soon alert the rabbi to the disaster that was about to unfold.

That fateful morning, my husband and I were driving to work as usual, making our way through the still-sleepy streets of Brooklyn, when suddenly a truck slammed into our little car. The driver and passengers fled in terror. They were never found. When the police arrived, the officers looked at us as though we were aliens. We had climbed out of our completely wrecked car without a single scratch…

It was six o’clock in the morning.

At that very moment, the rabbi was sitting near the synagogue, praying for our safety. By the time I arrived at work, it was well past eight. I felt guilty about being late, especially after such a frightening accident. I was still in shock when I saw the rabbi sitting by the front door, a *tallit* draped over his head. He was smoking and weeping with joy.

“You’re alive! *Baruch Hashem!* (Praise God!) He heard me!”

Thirty-five years have passed since that day.

I retired in 2015, after working at the nursing home for sixteen years as a registered nurse. I had graduated from college in 1998. Over the years, the nursing home changed its name three times!)))

My older son still lives with me, while my younger son has already given me eleven grandchildren!

Recently, I had a dream. My husband, Zvi, of blessed memory, and Rabbi Frenkel, also of blessed memory, were together again—joking, philosophizing, discussing politics, and sipping that magical elixir: coffee.

**P.S.** If you ever visit Israel, be sure to visit Safed!






Предчувствие...» было обнародовано на сервере Проза.ру 16 ноября 2015 года.

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