Where What When

The Rabbi Neuberger I Saw Part 2

I received a phone call from a Rabbi Joey Grunfeld, a relative of Rabbi Moshe Eisemann of Ner Yisroel

On rare occasions, I got a glimpse of Rabbi Neuberger the politician, the public man, the insider, the player. Even when I was a boy, I used to hear stories about his involvement with lobbying for certain causes in Washington. Stretching my memory, I recall the lobbying long ago to prevent the prohibition of shechita, which was being pushed strongly by the animal-rights groups. It’s funny what sticks in one’s mind; I recall reading in the late sixties a book by Drew Pearson about the inside politics that went on in Washington D.C. Among the many tales of insider lobbying, one involved the “scandal” of how the righteous efforts of religious groups to outlaw cruel slaughtering of animals were blocked. Drew Pearson quoted a Capitol-Hill insider as complaining, “The bill to prohibit cruel slaughter had been passed by committee and was all set to go the floor of the House of Representatives. All the ducks were in a row; we had more than enough votes to pass it. Suddenly, I see a delegation of black-coated rabbis from Boston and Baltimore troop into the office of the Speaker of the House, John McCormack. They leave after a half-hour. The bill disappeared off the House schedule. It was yanked. Just like that. Scandalous!” John McCormack, an Irish Catholic, was the most powerful congressman of the day. He also represented a Jewish district in Boston.

Another issue in the sixties was the Vietnam War and the draft deferments for “divinity students.” As the war wound on and on, there was increasing sentiment for getting rid of various draft exemptions, including those for students studying for the clergy. My Pirchei leaders at the time, who were talmidim in the Yeshiva, told us how they had been “mobilized” by Rabbi Neuberger to go from office to office on Capitol Hill to lobby senators and congressmen to retain the exemption, and how Christian groups interested in the same goal had agreed that Rabbi Neuberger should be the leader of their combined efforts, which were successful. One Pirchei leader worked out of the offices of the minority leader of the House of Representatives, a congressman from Michigan named Gerald Ford, who later became the 38th president of the United States.

By the time I came to the Yeshiva in the seventies, these issues were moot. The draft as well as the war had come to an end, and the animal-rights groups lost all taste for a fight when they realized that America was filling up with millions of Moslems, black and white, who wanted meat from animals slaughtered at the neck. What was outrageous for Jews was politically correct for Moslems.

But new issues were in the air, new problems replaced the old: specifically, Soviet and Iranian Jewry. Here I can contribute some first-hand knowledge. You see, my family history being what it is, I had relatives in the USSR, an uncle and cousins in Moscow, an aunt and cousins in Minsk. Over the decades, my parents had tried to contact them but had been rebuffed because of the relatives’ fear of what the KGB might do to them. But by the late seventies and early eighties, a new spirit animated the young, and a number of them became refuseniks, defying the authorities.

Around the time I became engaged, in 1983, I received a phone call from a Rabbi Joey Grunfeld, a relative of Rabbi Moshe Eisemann. Rabbi Grunfeld had been in Moscow giving shiurim to Soviet Jews who were rediscovering Yiddishkeit. My cousins, Semyon and Vera Katz, had attended his shiurim, though they were not religious. They gave him my name in Baltimore, and he found me, and relayed their greetings and how they wanted to get in touch. My reaction was quite emotional – contact with first cousins I had never met! But how, I asked, had Rabbi Grunfeld gone to Russia? Well, he explained, the Agudah had this program for sending people to teach and do kiruv and maintain morale. I thought to myself, how do I get to Russia?

I was thinking these thoughts as I walked around the administration building on Yeshiva lane, when Rabbi Neuberger drove up real fast into the parking circle, slamming the brakes in front of the doors, as was his wont. As he sprung out of the car, he gave me his usual loud “HOWAYA?”

“Baruch Hashem.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“Let me ask you a question. I just got a phone call yesterday from Rabbi Joey Grunfeld in England bringing me greetings from my cousins in Moscow, big scientists, the both of them. How did Joey Grunfeld get there? How do I get there?”

Rabbi Neuberger flashed that trademark sophisticated smile of his and said, “I just got a phone call from the Agudah in New York. They are looking for a young couple to go to Leningrad and Moscow for the Yamim Noraim. When are you getting married?”

“July 25, a month before Rosh Hashana.”

“Okay. So you and your wife will go a week before Rosh Hashana, agreed?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so.’

“You GUESS so?!”

“Yes, we’ll go.”

Then I thought to myself, why did I have to open my mouth to Rabbi Neuberger? He works too fast. I haven’t discussed this with my Karen. How will I break this to her?

But it was too late, for within a half-hour after settling into his office, the phone calls to Rabbis Sherer and Neustadt had been made, and the deal was done. We were to leave for Finland and Leningrad a few days before Rosh Hashana.

Fortunately, Karen did not object to being “mobilized” without her consent. Actually, she blithely assured me that it was not going to happen in the end, so it did not matter.

“No, Karen,” I said. “You don’t know Rabbi Neuberger. If he says it’s happening, it’s happening.”

Fortunately, she did not believe me, so it did not mar our premarital bliss – until we got a summons to report to New York for a preliminary briefing. The reality of the whole thing hit her all at once. “What have you gotten us into?”

“Don’t worry. Somehow or other we’ll pull it off.” I lied; I had no idea what I was talking about. But it was a free trip to Moscow, a free trip to meet with relatives on the other side of the Iron Curtain.

There was a second meeting in New York after our chasuna. It dawned on us that most of our time would not be spent with relatives but with helping and teaching frum Refuseniks, with only a small amount of time for family. I was getting cold feet, a not surprising emotion. After all, the Soviet Union was then under the rule of Andropov, the former KGB head, and conditions for Jews and political dissidents were worsening – in short, a general police crackdown. I was assailed by self-doubt. Would we be arrested? Mistreated? Would we be able to accomplish anything? Was I up to it? Maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew? This was the early period of shlichim; we were among the first. Some had been beaten up, badly hurt. There were all kinds of rumors. And anyway, was this really the best idea for a honeymoon?

I was immersed in all these thoughts when I ran into Rabbi Neuberger in that bais vaad lachachamin that no longer exists, Sam’s barber shop. I was to leave in a week or so, was getting a haircut, and in comes Rabbi Neuberger. Sam was his usual self, carrying on about my recent wedding, where, as he enthusiastically explained to Rabbi Neuberger, there was an open free bar! Immediately, Rabbi Neuberger began asking me all about the upcoming trip. He wanted to know if I was supposed to do anything about the mikva situation in Moscow.

“What mikva situation? Nobody told me anything.”

“There’s a problem with the mikva there, with the structure, a zochalin problem. Nobody told you? Well, here it is.” And he launched into a long, learned discourse about mikvaos, all of which was news to me. He knew all about the different factions among the baalei teshuva in Moscow – how some trusted the mikva and others didn’t – the arcane halakhic issues involved, and what a hardship it involved for the few frum people there who cared about taharas mishpacha. But then he stopped himself, realizing that I would have nothing to do with secret controversy surrounding the Moscow mikva, so I didn’t need to know. I thought to myself, I had had no idea how well informed he was about all of the goings on in Moscow, of all places, none of which he had ever indicated to me. But then I reproached myself, of course. I should be surprised that Rabbi Neuberger knows about something?

But he was not finished with me. With his very broad smile, he held my hand in the barber shop and started carrying on about what a big zechus we were earning by going to help “acheinu bnei Yisrael in Russia.” He envied me, he said, the opportunity to do something for the “Yidden behind the Iron Curtain.” He went on and on, and it was embarrassing, especially when Sam the barber was standing right next to us having no idea what Rabbi Neuberger was talking about. But I knew, and it was a big chizuk. In fact, I got all emotional, because Rabbi Neuberger was speaking very emotionally, as emotional as I had ever seen him. It was nice but uncomfortable at the same time.

I extracted myself from his long, long, handshake and words, paid Sam, and went to my car. As I got in my car, Rabbi Neuberger came out, smiling that emotional smile again, took my hand one more time, and said, “Tu oif for klal Yisrael!” I was taken aback by the force of his personality at that moment, made some dumb reply, and drove off. My mind was filled with all kinds of thoughts, but no longer fear or self-doubt.

We went to the Soviet Union, and had our share of adventures. Without going into details, Karen and I were busy 24/7. We thus had no idea what was going on in the outside world. As it happened, during the two weeks we were in Leningrad and Moscow, Menachem Begin resigned, Scoop Jackson died, and the Soviets shot down a Korean airliner, which almost led to World War Three, since the President at that time was Ronald Reagan, the great cowboy. Karen and I were blithely unaware of the fact that international tensions were rising dangerously, and that all international flights to Russia were about to be terminated due to the world’s outrage at the Soviet action. In plain English, Karen and I were in danger of being stuck in Moscow on a pair of expired visas with no flight and no hotel accommodations – assuming, of course, that WW III did not break out in the meantime, rendering all our hotel problems moot.

In the end, everything worked out, that is, our scheduled flight, on Swissair, turned out to be the very last flight permitted to leave Russia before the boycott kicked in. As we sank into our seats in relief, and the plane climbed into the air above Moscow, the head of our delegation, the totally non-frum head of a major Jewish organization, asked us who we really were. You see, officially, we had gone as two book publishers, and he knew it was not true.

“Well,” I replied, we work for a branch of Agudath Israel, and I named the name of the branch. His face betrayed the fact that he had no idea what I was talking about. I thought to myself, “He’s never heard of the Agudath Israel?!” Then I said, “Well, you could say that we work for Rabbi Herman Neuberger from Baltimore.”

“Oh! Rabbi Neuberger! I know who he is. He sent you? Oh, I see! Rabbi Neuberger!”

Doesn’t that story speak volumes?

As it happened, the entire time the crisis was developing (again, we in Moscow were unaware), Rabbi Neuberger was calling the State Department, the senators and congressmen, to move heaven and earth to make sure Karen and I would not get stuck in Russia. In addition, he and Mrs. Neuberger called my mother repeatedly to assure her that all would turn out well. How do I know? Not from Rabbi Neuberger. He never mentioned a thing; there was no need, all had worked out well.

One thing he did share with me, though. We arrived in Baltimore just before Yom Kippur and went to Yeshiva Lane to daven, though I was so exhausted, I slept through a good part of the tefilos – that’s my memory from my first Yom Kippur as a married man! Of course, Rabbi Neuberger gave me a big kiss and a hug: “We were all so worried about you!” But it was Yom Kippur, and he said he wanted to tell me something after the fast. It turned out that he had just come from a meeting in New York involving Soviet Jewry, where all kinds of Jewish groups participated, and they had delivered a report about the book convention which had just concluded in Moscow, the book convention Karen and I had attended as “publishers.”

Once again, I was amazed, thinking to myself, “So soon? We had barely gotten off the plane! I was going to tell Rabbi Neuberger all about it, and here he already knows!”

He continued, “And do you know what they said at the meeting? ‘There was this young couple that outshined all the others and kept everyone’s spirits up and did all kinds of things with the Refuseniks. And do you know who sent them? Rabbi Neuberger here.’ And they all applauded right there and then.”

He went on, wearing the facial expression of an excited teenager, “Do you know what this means? You made a kiddush Hashem.”

That was the highest compliment in his vocabulary.

A postscript: About seven months afterwards, I got a phone call in the Beis Midrash from Rabbi Neuberger’s staff. In two days, at 4:30, there would be dinner in the executive dining room with Congresswoman Barbara Mikulsky. “Rabbi Neuberger wants you there.”

So there we were, Rabbi Neuberger, his staff people, Rabbi Moshe Eisemann, and Barbara M. Rabbi Eisemann had gone to Russia after us, in part, I like to think, because I had told him what a tremendous impact his ArtScroll Yechezkel had made on the small community of frum Refusniks. When I told them that I knew Rav Eisemann and that he, too, lived in the obscure place called Baltimore, they all said that I must, must tell him what an impact his writings had made on them, and that he must, must come to Russia. He did, and the rest is history, as we all know, a story that continues to this day.

At first the conversation was all local politics, as Rabbi Neuberger grilled Barbara about her political future: Was she going to run for the Senate? What were her poll numbers? Who did the polling? Who was she fundraising from? What did she think of this politician? That opponent? What were their strengths? Weaknesses? In short, the kind of conversation about nuts-and-bolts politics that is generally associated with political bosses and the phrase “a smoke-filled room.” Rabbi Neuberger was clearly at home in this subject, and Barbara was obviously aware of this and a little in awe. I do remember her asserting, “Rabbi Neuberger, I have not definitely decided to make the race for Senator, but if I do, let me assure you,” she said while loudly thumping her chest, “if I do, then come next January, this daughter of a Polish baker from East Baltimore will be there in Washington, raising her hand to take the oath of a member of the United States Senate!”

To which Rabbi Neuberger replied, “So how much money have you collected for you campaign so far?”

As this went on, Rabbi Neuberger changed the subject to talk about Iranian Jewry. A number of boys and girls were stuck in Turkey, and Congressman Solarz was organizing something to help them through the red tape with the Turkish authorities, and Solarz needed help, and such-and-such is what Rabbi Neuberger wanted Barbara to do. Whereupon, she pulled out a notebook from her handbag and scribbled like a schoolgirl as Rabbi Neuberger explained what was needed.

Then he moved on to the next item on his mental agenda. This is where Rabbi Eisemann was called upon to speak about Eliyahu Essas and other frum Refuseniks who desperately needed help and public recognition from the U.S. government, for only publicity and official inquiry could protect Refuseniks from “accidents.” Here Barbara’s secretary did the scribbling, as Rabbi Neuberger explained that he personally was very interested in this case. Barbara nodded, “I understand. I understand.”

Then I was called upon, not having been prepared in the slightest. So I babbled about certain Refuseniks and gave her the names of my relatives. More scribbling. Congresswoman Mikulsky kept repeating what an honor it was for Rabbi Neuberger to take off from his busy schedule to meet with her, how much she valued his counsel, etc. So I was not surprised, years later, when she famously remarked at the Yeshiva banquet that she had passed up the opportunity to have dinner with the Clintons in the White House to attend Rabbi Neuberger’s banquet.

That was the only glimpse I had of Rabbi Neuberger behind the scenes, politically speaking. Of course, Senator Mikulsky was by no means the only politician who was part of his “stable.” Anyone my age or older will remember how the powerful congressman Clarence Long used to get up and all but declare himself to be Rabbi Neuberger’s eved kna’ani, even after he was redistricted and, as he famously put it at a Yeshiva banquet, “There aren’t enough Jews in my new district to form a minyan!”

And of course, there was William Donald Schaefer, whom I saw on a number of occasions being squired around the campus by Rabbi Neuberger. I’ll never forget how I was walking out of the Bais Midrash one morning and bumped right into then-Governor Schaefer. Rabbi Neuberger immediately introduces me, “This is Rabbi Katz, etc.” The Governor does a curt politician’s nod. I tell the Governor that I am the son-in-law of an old friend of his, Eugene Hettleman. “Gene! He and I go back a long way!” And Schaefer starts carrying on about what a great attorney Karen’s father is, on and on, until Rabbi Neuberger takes him by the arm. Whereupon Schaefer says, “Yes right, I’m coming.” And he looks to me and says sheepishly, “I’d love to talk, but I’m here this morning to help Rabbi Neuberger!” All I could reply was, “Yes, you do that Governor.”

A by-no-means-untypical morning at Yeshivas Ner Yisroel in the Rabbi Naftoli Neuberger era.

* * *

Then there were the Iranians. I was a bachur in the Yeshiva when they first started coming, and they have not stopped coming after all these years. I remember very well the snide remarks from outsiders and insiders about how NIRC stood for “Neuberger’s Iranian Refugee Camp.” And I remember how none of this fazed Rabbi Neuberger in the slightest. None of this petty stupidity prevented him from working day and night in front and behind the scenes to bring over as many as possible.

I cannot claim to have played any part other than spectator, but even then I felt –because of my family background and my interest in history – that Rabbi Neuberger was moved by the study of history, not the academic study of history books, but the study of real live history. Though he may or may not have heard of Professor Santayana, Rabbi Neuberger certainly knew that “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

The past was the twentieth century of the thirties and forties, of the Holocaust, of the failure of Jews in America to make a real attempt to do something for hatzala (rescue). Rabbi Neuberger lived through those years as a young man frustratingly removed from the levers of power. But he remembered. And when, decades later, he had access to those levers, when his name and influence were respected and could open doors, he knew better than to wait for the rest of American Jewry, frum or non-frum, to do something when they were good and ready. He remembered that there had been a time when Jews could have gotten out of Europe and away from Hitler, as he himself had – a time before that tyrant had decided to implement a Final Solution, a window of opportunity the Jews had failed to utilize to save hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Jewish lives. He remembered the grand, terrible failure of American Jewry to act when there was time to act, and he remembered how it spent the years after the War working on and polishing its excuses for that failure.

Rabbi Neuberger was determined not to repeat history. When the Iranian Revolution broke out in 1978, Rabbi Neuberger set about doing everything he could to bring as many as possible to America as soon as possible, regardless of the difficulties involved in their absorption into the Yeshiva and the country. I am sure he remembered how the Jews of Europe would have wanted to get out at any cost, regardless of adjustment problems. Compared to the dangers involved, what did little things like language differences or different cultural customs matter? Hamekayem nefesh achas miyisrael kiyem olam maleh – one who saves one Jewish soul saves a whole world. Period.

I am sure Rabbi Neuberger had another agenda as well. What is the meaning of hamekayem nefesh achas? Physical hatzala, certainly – but also spiritual hatzala. And this involved a separate set of challenges. To save a life was relatively easy, in the sense that you get someone out of Iran – not that that is so easy. But if you have taken a person out of a dangerous country, you have rescued him. To make someone frum, though, really frum, to make someone a ben Torah, that is a more difficult and more delicate task. And again, I think that Rabbi Neuberger remembered the all-too-many young Jews from frum families who survived the Holocaust but lost their Yiddishkeit in the aftermath – simply because they ended up, in those postwar years, whether in Europe, America, or Israel, in all kinds of “Jewish” frameworks that were not Torah friendly. Rabbi Neuberger realized that if yeshivos like Ner Yisroel did not take them in, did not provide a framework, the Iranian Jews would be lost to Yiddishkeit in America, which is indeed what largely happened to those who emigrated to America but did not go to yeshiva. No, he did not want to repeat history. He learned its lessons the first time.

The results, of course, speak for themselves. Nowadays, people are ashamed to admit how they made fun of Rabbi Neuberger’s “Iranian scheme.” As we all know, defeat is an orphan but victory has a thousand fathers. And I am sure that in the olam ha’emes, the phrase “Neuberger’s Iranian Refugee Camp” is uttered in admiration, not scorn. He learned the lesson of history and did not repeat the mistakes of others.

* * *

Another memorable feature of the man was how he worked his network. How many times was I teaching a class in TA high school when the familiar voice of Mrs. Gold would come over the loudspeaker, “Rabbi Katz, come immediately to the office. There is an urgent phone call for you.” In the early years, I would be seized by a deep fright, and all sorts of unthinkable possibilities would run through my mind as I raced to the office. Baruch Hashem, it was always Rabbi Neuberger, who expected everyone to be as available to him 24 hours a day, as he was available to them 24 hours a day. So there I would be, scared out of my mind, picking up the phone to hear the familiar Germanic voice come straight to its odd point: “What’s the name of that fellow in such-and-such a place? I need him to stop an autopsy.” Or, “What’s the name of that man from Charlottesville? There’s a frum Yid who was arrested nearby in Virginia and needs a pair of tefilin.” Or, “What’s the name of your brother’s friend in Korea, that Syrian Jew? He knows that army surgeon in Korea, right?”

Or it might be a history question. Summoned to the high school office “urgently” to give the name of the Baal Tosafos who is buried in Wurzburg. Or when the Noda BiYehudah died. Or what really happened in the conflict between R. Yaakov Emden and R. Yehonasan Eibeschutz, and what do the “treif-pasul” books say about it, or about Chanukah, or about a hundred other obscure points. In general, he used to ask so many questions about what the “treif-pasul history books” said about this or that topic that I would say, “Rabbi Neuberger, I see I am your ‘vaad hatarfus,’ kol neveila utereifa laDovid Katz tashlichu oso. Although he always laughed, he once explained to me that he wanted the information because he was going to be in a meeting at the Baltimore Jewish Council or some such place, and he wanted to come in “prepared and armed.”

The principal in TA or the rebbes in the high school office would look anxiously at me and all but say, “So what did Rav Neuberger want? Is everything okay?” I would just act dumb, mumble something bland, and get back to my class as quickly as possible. What was I supposed to say? That he called me out of the class in the middle of the afternoon to remind him of the name of that 100-year-old-book we had discussed, Beitraege zur Geschichte der Juden in den zweiten Tempelszeit, which contained the information to refute that kefira article in the Baltimore Jewish Times about Chanukah that had made his blood boil?

In short, although he often used to tell me that he was fascinated with Jewish history, and that the stories of the past “are so interesting,” in reality, he was a hugely practical man whose interests were tied to the here and now. He wanted to know in order to be able to use it on someone, somewhere. The only thing I could be sure of was that he was going to use it to further the cause of kavod Shamayim – and that, one day, history books would be written about him.

* * *

I end with an utterly typical, albeit far from unique, story. A certain person with whom I am friendly had a situation. A relative had gotten into a mix-up with the Department of Social Services and had been arrested and was in jail. In the end, it turned out to be a big misunderstanding on the part of “the system,” one of those Kafkaesque things that happen from time to time with bureaucratic structures. But meanwhile, a young man was in jail in Baltimore City and was due in court the next morning. I had been out all evening; this was in my pre-cellphone days. It was well after eleven when I came home and my wife said that so-and-so had been calling all evening, “It must be a shaila.” I wanted to respond, “So, let him ask his own rabbi,” but just then the phone rang, and it was the man, with the sound of death in his voice as he explained his relative’s situation.

Recovering from the shock, I wanted to help but had no idea what to do. Before I could say this, the man said in desperation, “I need help desperately. You have to help me.” The only thing I could think of was, “Rabbi Neuberger. Call 410-484-2833. Tell him I told you to call him. No, forget that, it doesn’t matter. Just tell him your situation. He knows the lawyers and the system and all that.”

“Is it too late to call him? I have been trying to reach you all night, you know.”

I wanted to scream, “Why are you trying to reach me? What do I know?!” But I didn’t. I considered for a moment that it really was too late to call. But then I realized, Rabbi Neuberger? Too late?

“No, you can call him. It’s not too late.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Call me back. But he’ll answer. You’ll see.”

“Okay.”

I related the conversation to my wife. We both commiserated with the unfortunate fellow for a few minutes. And then we went to sleep. It was late, after all, and it had been a long day. And it wasn’t my problem any more.

About 1:30 at night the phone rings. Rabbi Neuberger. “I spoke to the man.”

“Yes?” I was more asleep than awake.

“So-and-so (a well-known Baltimore attorney) is taking the case. The hearing is in seven hours at the court on Wabash. You have to be there. The lawyer wants a rabbi there for the judge to see.”

“Oh?”

Rabbi Neuberger’s tone of voice indicated surprise that I had gone to sleep and more than a little disappointment at the bland tone in my voice. “You know, a Yid is in jail. This is an unacceptable situation.”

“Yes, of course, “I mumbled. “Eight-thirty at Wabash. Yasher koach.” I could not think of anything intelligent to say.

CLICK.

I sat there for a few minutes. When did he get the lawyer? At midnight? And a good lawyer, too. I fell back asleep.

Next morning: happy ending. The lawyer did his thing. I stood up when directed by the lawyer. The Yid got out, temporarily. The whole thing was subsequently cleared up. It was a case of nisht geshtoigen und nisht gefloigen – the whole thing never happened in the first place.

As I write these lines, the words of Rabbi Frand at the hesped ring in my ears: “Who are we going to call now?”

Indeed.

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Article List - December 2005