Wednesday, April 29

Hashgochoh Protis VII - השגחה פרטית

Once upon a time there was an old Rabbi.  He was affectionately called Reb Hershele Krieger.  Having lost his whole family, he survived the second world war all alone through a chain of miracles (a separate story!), he made his way to Eretz Yisroel, where he hoped to live out his last years immersed in the Holy Torah and on holy soil.  When he arrived, he made his way to Tel Aviv, where he reconnected with the Belze Rebbe, who told him about the new Yeshiva that was forming and so Reb Hershele decided to make it his home.

After the war there were millions of Seforim left without anyone learning in them.  They were spread over the whole European continent, wherever Jewish people used to live, learn and love these - now orphaned - Seforim.  The U.S. Army, together with their counterparts in the various European regions decided to ship them to Eretz Yisroel, where they will find a new home.  And so it came to pass that the Vaad Hayeshivos in Tel Aviv started sending lorry loads of Seforim to the Yeshivas that were in existence at that time.  In Katamon, a loud rumble was heard outside the Belz Yeshiva. A number of lorries stopped outside its gates and soon the boys started unloading crate after crate full of holy Seforim, which formed the nucleus for the large library housed on the yeshiva premises.  As the noises shifted from the street to the Beis midrash, it caused quite a distraction and people started opening the crates.  


Reb Hershele, who was engrossed in his learning only realised what’s going on when he was apprised of the origins of the Seforim.  He stood up and walked over to where the crates were standing and randomly pried open one of the heavy boxes.  There on top of the pile was a worn set of the sefer Pene Yehohusa al Hashass, which looked like it was used extensively.  As by habit he opened the front cover and started reading the name of the previous owner.  His hands started shaking and he seemed visibly shocked, so some Bachurim went over to see what was bothering him. The Bachurim standing around him gasped in wonder, as they read the stamped inscription: “Harav Zvi Kruger, Rav and Av Beis Din of… (I forgot the name of the town)”.
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