Yeshuos Chanukah 5769

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5STORY SUPPLEMENT KUPAT HA'IR

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"We've been waiting for you," people say softly as they stroke the pages of the yeshuos booklet. "We've waited and waited and now you're finally here." A warm, pleasurable feeling fills their hearts.

People love Kupat Ha'ir's yeshuos booklets. The booklet symbolizes Hashem's love for His children, revealed through astounding hashgachah pratis. There's something magical about stepping into the stories of people so much like ourselves experiencing situations that could so easily happen to us - and feeling, in the end, how Hashem sometimes raises us above the daily routine that so dulls our sense of admiration for the way He runs His world and tells us lovingly, "Here I am for you, My children."

Kupat Ha'ir's yeshuos booklet tells us that when we merit bringing Hakadosh Baruch Hu into our lives; when we learn to see His signature in everything that happens to us; when we cleanse our viewpoint and search for Him in all the events that befall us – we will find Him there, close by and supervising everything that happens to us with love and concern.

The most unusual stories find their way into the booklets. But the little miracles that occur in your own home, in your own small circle, are no less powerful or exhilarating. Do you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation? Is there a problem that's causing you to lose sleep at night? Do you feel your hands are tied to improve your lot? Raise your eyes heavenward, offer up a prayer, contribute to Kupat Ha'ir and look around you with a newfound viewpoint. Here, kevod Hashem is revealed to you. Suddenly, you see a certain continuity and Who is behind it all; suddenly, you sense that everything is planned and predestined. Suddenly, you feel Hashem's direct supervision, His abundant love.

What of all this did your contribution to kupat Ha'ir accomplish?

Happy Chanukah!

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pg. 6Confidential for obvious reasonsI'm No Philosopher

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Every Delay is for the Good

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Lots of Heavenly Assistance

Written and edited by: C. Levinson

Published by: Kupat Ha’ir

American Friends of Kupat Ha'ir4415 14th Avenue

Brooklyn, NY 11219

1-866-221-9352

JERUSALEM

U.S.AFRANCE

JERUSALEM

TURKEY

"I can't seem to find place to put all my guests," Mrs. N said worriedly to her neighbor as the two of them hung their wet laundry on the clotheslines outside their windows. "I've called so many friends and neighbors, even people I barely know. This neighborhood is full of chutzniks who go away for Shabbos a lot, so it's usually not a problem to find an apartment in which to put guests up for a Shabbos. But somehow, everyone seems to be staying home davka this week, when we're making sheva brachos!"

The wedding had been held the night before. There were still a few days until Shabbos but no apartment possibilities in sight. Mrs. N couldn't invite guests who lived outside her city, or even those from distant neighborhoods within her city, unless she had accommodations to offer them.

A few minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the N's door. It was one of her neighbors, a young American woman with a few small children.

"I heard what you were saying," Esther said shyly. "I think we can give you our apartment for Shabbos."

"Really?" Mrs. N asked, her face lighting up. "Wow, that would be wonderful!" Then she frowned. "Wait a minute, didn't I ask you already quite some time ago if you were going away for this Shabbos? I'm quite sure you told me you were planning to stay home this week!"

"That's right," Esther replied with a smile. "We'll be home, be'ezras Hashem. But my husband's sister's apartment is empty because she's overseas for bein hazemanim. I just spoke to her on the phone. She said we can use her apartment for Shabbos.

"You mean you would leave your own house so I can put up guests in your apartment? I… I can't accept such a favor!" Mrs. S was very astounded by her neighbor's generosity but she felt she had to turn down the offer. Leaving one's house for Shabbos with a few young children meant packing suitcases

with bottles and diapers and toys and whatnot. Why should Esther's family do all that for her?

"I'm used to going away for Shabbos," Esther said, guessing her neighbors thoughts. "I'm a pro at packing already. My sister-in-law's house is not far from here; we can walk over. Don't worry; it's fine, really. You can accept my offer. It's not every day you marry off a daughter.

"I… thank you so much." Mrs. N couldn't find the words to thank Esther. "If we don't come up with anything else, I'll accept your offer. My in-laws can't handle lots of steps, so your first-floor apartment would be just perfect for them. I already feel my blood pressure going down!"

At five o'clock on Friday afternoon, an hour and forty minutes before the zeman, Esther, her husband Mendy and her young children set out for the house where they planned to spend Shabbos. They planned to make a few last-minute preparations: a white tablecloth had to be spread on the table, candles had to be prepared, hot water boiled. They walked leisurely along, already dressed in their Shabbos finery. They were invited out for the seudos, so there was no need to shlep pots and containers of

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JERUSALEM


food.

It was a few minutes after five when they arrived.

"The next-door-neighbors have the key," Mendy said to Esther as he prepared to carry their suitcase up the stairs.

Esther offered each of her hands to a child and climbed the stairs. She was in no rush – yet.

She knocked at the Feldman's door. No answer. She knocked again. And again. And again. No answer.

She rang the bell. What if they're napping and we're waking them? she thought.

No response.

Esther listened hard for sounds of activity in the Feldmans' apartment. Nil.

"Are you sure your sister said the key would be at the Feldmans'?" Esther called to her husband. "They're not home!"

Mendy bounded up the stairs. He jabbed the doorbell and kept his finger there for a long moment. No answer. Esther tried the door handle. The door was locked.

They looked at one another. What were they to do?

It was an hour and a half before Shabbos. Their own apartment was taken and they were facing a locked door!

"Call Judy," Esther said, trying to be optimistic. "Maybe she meant a different neighbor."

Mendy dialed his parents' house in the States, where his sister was staying. He was sure Judy had said the key was at the Feldmans'.

"There's no answer," he said, biting his lip. He tried Judy's cell number but received her voice mailbox.

"Maybe you can ask the downstairs neighbor if she knows where the Feldmans are? Maybe Mr. Feldman went to the mikveh and she's taking a walk with the children…" Hope is a good thing but they both had a hunch the Feldmans were not anywhere local.

"They went away for Shabbos," Esther reported after checking with a neighbor. "They're not in the city. They left a few hours ago." Suddenly, the pressure was too much to bear. This was no joke! The children were beginning to lose patience. They had nowhere to go!

"Did you ask the downstairs neighbor if she has a key?"

"No, she doesn't. I asked the neighbor opposite her, too. No key."

"Let's try the upstairs neighbors."

Esther sighed and climbed the additional flight of stairs. Two minutes later, she was back down. There was no need to say a word. The expression on her face said it all.

Mendy kept trying to reach his sister even though he doubted she could do anything to help.

5:40: "If they don't pick up now, I'm calling Yedidim," Mendy announced.

They didn't pick up.

Yedidim, a well known organization in Yerushalayim, has made it its business to help Yidden any way possible, at all times. There's always a member of Yedidim willing to help out in any unpleasant or problematic situation.

Mendy briefly outlined the situation.

"Is it your apartment?" asked the volunteer who picked up the phone.

"No, it's my sister's," he replied. He thought he knew what the volunteer was about to say.

"Look, what we usually do in such cases is break the door down. But if it's not your apartment…"

"No, it isn't. Breaking the door down would not be a solution. I don't have my sister's permission to do that nor that of the person she's renting it from. I'm looking


for a different solution."

"We don't have a skeleton key," the volunteer said apologetically. "If we can help in any way, call again. We're here."

I had never contributed for a yeshuah, Mendy writes in his letter. I didn't believe in it; I didn't believe that people merited yeshuos because they had contributed. In my heart I scorned the fools who did. I said it was all psychological. They just stopped feeling so tense and then they were able to think of a solution. But then, at ten to six, less than hour before Shabbos, as I stood there in front of a locked door with my entire family – I gave in. There was no choice, nothing else to try. I suddenly understood all those people who had contributed and I prayed that we, too, would merit a miracle.

He promised a certain sum to Kupat Ha'ir if he and his family entered the apartment before Shabbos.

6:00: Feeling a bit more optimistic now that he had contributed, Mendy tried his sister once more.

Finally! She answered the phone!

"We're stuck here in front of your apartment," he told his sister. "The Feldmans went away for Shabbos and we don't have a key! How can we get in without a key?"

Esther watched her husband's expression eagerly but was disappointed to see his frown. His sister couldn't help them. He concluded the call with a heavy heart.

"No one else has a key and there's no other way to enter the apartment. They made sure to lock everything well."

"What are we going to do?" The children were wailing by now. How long could they wait?

6:05: He called his sister again. "Judy, get creative," he ordered her. "Maybe we can climb from a neighbor's window into your window. Maybe… I don't know! Think of something!" He was frantic.

"I wish I could help you," Judy said, feeling terrible. "But there's no way! The windows are locked from inside! What can I tell you?"

6:10: Mendy's cell phone rang. On the phone was Baruch, Judy's husband. "I have an idea. If you go to my upstairs neighbor and step out onto the porch off his dining room, you can jump down to my porch, which is directly below. His porch is a bit smaller than ours. And then you can open my front door from the inside!"

"But I can't do that!" Mendy cried in desperation. "I don't know how to climb! I'm no acrobat. I'm afraid I'll break

all my bones. I can ask a neighbor for a cup of water or a tissue, but I can't ask anyone to do something like this for me!"

He went downstairs again to get a better look at the two porches and the distance between them. No, there was no way he could do it. He got dizzy just thinking about it.

There's no solution, he thought to himself. We have to choose between three awful choices: spending Shabbos in the street, asking the people who invited us for the seudos to let us sleep over, too (they have such a tiny apartment…who can receive a family with small children on such short notice?) or going back home and sharing our apartment with the elderly couple we gave it to. Oh, how unpleasant each of those choices is!

6:15: For the hundredth time, he glanced at the bottom porch and the top one, trying to visualize himself removing his suit jacket, climbing over the railing of the top porch and – boom! No, he couldn't. He just couldn't! He turned around to face the street again – and saw his younger brother Dov, who studied at a yeshiva in Yerushalayim.

"What are you doing in this neighborhood?" Dov asked. "This is the first time I'm here on an erev Shabbos. I don't even know exactly how I came to be here. I just left the yeshiva and went wherever my legs led me."

"You're here because the contribution I made to Kupat Ha'ir grabbed you by the collar, pulled you out of yeshiva and dragged you here!" Mendy said with mounting excitement. "Let's go, go upstairs. You're to jump from the neighbors' porch down to Judy's porch and open the door for us. What are you waiting for? It's almost Shabbos!"

Dov was an agile fellow. For him, such a jump was a piece of pie. He measured the distance between the two porches and nodded. Yes, he could do it easily.

The two bothers darted up the steps. At twenty past six, with the first siren sounding in the background, Dov opened the front door triumphantly.

I contributed some more so the apartment would be protected throughout Shabbos, Mendy's letter concludes. We couldn't lock the door behind us when we went out for the seudos, after all. I can no longer deny the truth. I, too, contributed and merited a yeshuah. It still seems surreal to me. I think it's a true chessed from Hashem to allow us a glimpse of his hashgachah pratis. It's incredible – but true. Now I too contribute in order to merit yeshuos.


"Two million dollars for such a stunning apartment in the heart of Jerusalem sounds like a great deal to me."

Admittedly, this isn't the type of sentence most of us could bandy about. Two million dollars…

But for Millie Grub, a young Jewish billionairess living in a location that shall remain undisclosed, the sentence was perfectly logical. (The name is fictional, of course. The story is one hundred percent true.) Two million dollars. Why not? She had long dreamed about owning an apartment in Jerusalem and she had fallen in love with this one in the prestigious Mamilla neighborhood. Most importantly, she could easily afford it. All she had to do was transfer a few accounts from here to there, issue certain instructions to her bank and scrawl her elegant signature on numerous documents. Nothing too complicated.

The photographs of the apartment she received were truly stunning. She even hopped over to Eretz Yisrael "just to take a peek" and was satisfied with what she saw. All that remained was to visit the bank accompanied by her personal real estate consultant in order to issue the necessary instructions and sign the necessary documentation. In her mind's eye, Millie was already decorating the apartment with exquisite furnishings and hosting a series of parties to celebrate her purchase of an apartment in the Holy Land.

On the appointed day, Millie, her husband (who had very little say in the couple's financial dealings) and the consultant pushed open the elegant doors of the central bank.

The president was waiting for them in his office. Customers like Millie Grub were handled by the president and they dared not be kept waiting. The

president listened attentively to Millie's decision to purchase the apartment as well as to the financial maneuvers her consultant suggested. Huge sums were discussed, each with a considerable amount of zeros and of significant import to the bank.

"There is a considerable window of time," concluded the consultant, "from now, as we set the plan in motion, until the first million dollars must be paid to the contractor in Jerusalem. A month is plenty of time when it comes to making investments. The economy all over the world is so unstable that we want to be very careful. Only the safest investment will do."

The president nodded. He would have liked to interest them in a number of fascinating possibilities, the kind that would just happen to benefit his bank as well, but the billionaire's seasoned consultant expressed no interest in hearing his suggestions. He had come prepared with his own ideas.

The president heard him out and nodded. It's with good reason Millie pays him so well, he thought to himself. He knows what he wants; he knows what he's talking about; and he knows what he's doing.

Millie listened with half an ear. In her mind's eye, she was in the apartment in Mamilla, looking out to the Holy City. Her Jewish education was based on book-reading rather than actual experience but a truly Jewish heart beat inside her.

"Wait a minute, we forgot something important," Millie said, interrupting the conversation. "Small change, I daresay, but it's very important to me. Before we close a million dollar deal, allow me to deduct ma'aser."

"How much money are we talking about?" The president of the bank was only vaguely familiar with

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I'm No Philosopher


the concept.

"Not much. A hundred thousand dollars."

"Whom would you like to give it to?"

"Why, to Kupat Ha'ir, of course."

The bank president was actually familiar with the name. Millie frequently forwarded him handsome sums of money, "trivial," to her, with instructions that they be contributed to Kupat Ha'ir. In the past, when he'd questioned her what it was all about, she'd sent him a brochure. He hadn't understood what excited her so. Apparently, one must be Jewish to merit contributing to Kupat Ha'ir, and the bank president was not.

The first step was to withdraw one million dollars from Millie's bank account. Next, one hundred thousand dollars of that sum would be wired to Kupat Ha'ir. The remaining nine hundred thousand would be invested for one month's time in a stable business venture.

The clerks began busily typing up the details and Millie Grub went back to dreaming about her apartment.

"Please sign, ma'am." The bank president presented her with a form instructing the bank to transfer $100,000 from her account to Kupat Ha'ir. Millie read the form carefully, skipping nothing and then signed her name on bottom of the page. She felt good. She liked contributing to Kupat Ha'ir. The thank you letters they sent were so heartwarmingly complimentary and the brochures describing the poverty of the needy people they helped so heartbreaking. Somehow, the two balanced each other out. She wanted to know that her money was reaching the right places but she had trouble falling asleep after reading descriptions of horrific poverty. She liked to think that her contributions provided a happy end to all those terrible stories. The thought afforded her much pleasure.

The clerks kept typing.

"The transfer has been made," one of them announced. Now for the second part of the plan investing the remaining nine hundred thousand dollars.

The president issued instructions and the clerks' fingers flew over their keyboards. Printers spewed forth sheet after sheet of papers and Millie's cell phone rang loudly. Reluctantly, she reached for her elegant handbag and withdrew her phone. Who was calling her private cell phone number now? Who was so impatient that he couldn't wait for her to arrive home? She glanced at the screen and swallowed a lump of bitterness. Of course, it

was Jenny, her kid brother's wife. The woman who thought she owned the world.

"Yes, Jenny?" Millie hoped her voice did not give her impatience away.

Jenny spoke hurriedly. As Millie listened, the color drained from her face.

"What? A car accident? Where is he? Is he alive?"

Millie's husband looked at her in alarm.

"Which hospital? Okay, I'm coming right over. Yes, I'm leaving this minute." She was already on her way to the door when her husband stopped her. "Millie, wait a second!"

"I can't," Millie groaned. "Jeffery's hurt. He's unconscious. No one's telling her anything. She looks and sounds like a baby, that Jenny. No one's going to pay any attention to her. I'm afraid he won't get the best care possible. I must be there. Every second is critical!"

"Okay, we'll leave immediately."

'What about the money?" Millie's consultant asked. He didn't want to sound callous but he needed to know what to do. Should he return the money to her bank account or transfer it to an international investment house? Hundreds of thousands of dollars could be lost every day!

"It doesn't matter. Just leave the money for now." How could she think about money when her beloved brother was lying unconscious, with only her foolish, hysterical sister-in-law standing at his bedside?

The next few moments were filled with fear and confusion as Millie and her husband raced through hospital corridors and spoke to doctors and nurses. Jeffrey had come to, thank G-d, and it seemed his injuries were not nearly as serious as originally feared. He was "lightly injured," in the doctors' words. He would recover; that was what counted.

Millie stayed at her brother's bedside all night. She refused to listen to Jenny, who was urging her to go home.

"It's important for me to be here," she insisted. "My standing causes them to give Jeffrey the best care possible." It was true. Word about the billionaire had spread and the hospital management had intimated to the staff caring for Jeffrey that Millie Grub's

satisfaction might well be translated into cash. The hospital could definitely come up with ways to use a generous contribution.

In the morning, Millie's real estate consultant contacted her.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," he said politely, "but we left everything in the middle yesterday. I asked the bank president to wait until this afternoon. Can you have your chauffeur drive you over to the bank so you can sign the necessary paperwork? We can take care of the rest."

"I don't have patience for such matters right now," Millie said firmly. "I've been here at the hospital all night. Jeffrey feels much better but no business investment is so critical it can't wait a day."

"We're talking about a huge loss," the consultant reminded her.

"I'm fine with that. Losing my brother would be a far greater loss," Millie said. "I see no reason to rush. Haste makes waste, my nanny used to say. When Jeffrey is discharged, I'll try to find time to come down to the bank and we'll reconsider the situation."

Later that same day, the Lehman Bros. Bank collapsed, leaving tens of thousands of people stripped of their assets. Of course, that was the "super-safe" investment house Millie Grub's consultant had advised her to invest her $900,000 in. Her brother's car accident had prevented her from signing the paperwork just in time.

Was it really the car accident?

Millie thinks not. If she hadn't contributed ma'aser to Kupat Ha'ir, precious minutes would have been saved and the transaction would have been completed before she heard about the accident.

Even more: if she hadn't contributed to Kupat Ha'ir, would Jeffrey have come out of the serious car accident with surface injuries only?

"I'm a billionairess, not a philosopher," Millie says. "But if you ask me, that's the way it works. Kupat Ha'ir will continue receiving my ma'aser money, whether I find out about the yeshuos I merit because of them or not. I think it's a privilege to have my money go someplace like Kupat Ha'ir."

And if she feels that way, how much more so should we.


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TURKEY

TURKEY

"We haven’t contributed yet!" Mrs. G said urgently to her husband. The plane was about to take off from Eretz Yisrael; in another few moments, they'd be over the open sea.

"It's not too late," Mr. G replied with a soothing smile, trying to calm his agitated wife. He knew she always got butterflies in her stomach before a flight. Like so many other people, she always imagined the worst – and knew what to do to relieve the pressure.

Ever since they had accepted upon themselves, in a sort of unofficial kabbalah, to contribute to Kupat Ha'ir before every flight – Mrs. G's fears had subsided. Mr. G was rather amused by his wife's steadfast belief in Kupat Ha'ir's miracles. But what did he care… so long as she was calm, the contribution was worth it. If he could help the poor, receive a tax refund and make his wife happy all at once – why not? What could be better?

He whipped out his cell phone and dialed Kupat Ha'ir. He gave the secretary his credit card number and told her how much he wanted to contribute.

"Would you like to give us a name to be transmitted to the Gedolei Hador so they can daven for you?" the secretary asked.

Mr. G covered the receiver. "What should we ask the Rabbanim to daven for?" he asked his wife.

"Ask that they daven for both of us, that everything should go smoothly, without problems and with lots of heavenly assistance," she replied.

Mr. G repeated what his wife had said to the secretary and carefully spelled his own name, that of his wife's and those of their mothers.

"Good," Mrs. G said, settling comfortably in her seat as her husband concluded the conversation. "Now

that I know we've secured heavenly assistance by contributing to Kupat Ha'ir, I can relax."

Mr. G chuckled to himself and straightened his knitted kippah on his head. You would think his wife had been born and bred in Bnei Brak! Hearing her talk about Kupat Ha'ir, no one would believe she lived in one of the settlement areas and looked the way she did. Her friends thought she was nuts to believe in the power of Kupat Ha'ir as if it were some type of voodoo.

His wife glanced at him sideways, catching his amused expression. She said nothing. He who laughs last laughs best. She preferred to be on the safe side, on the side of those who contribute.

They touched down in Antalya, in southern Turkey. Everything went smoothly. They checked into their hotel room and visited the clinic that was the purpose of their trip. Slowly, their tension eased and they began to enjoy their beautiful surroundings.

"Try to think of this as a vacation," Mr. G said to his wife one evening as they sat watching the m a g n i fi c e n t sunset from easy chairs on the porch


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of their hotel room. "Just like that, in middle of the winter. 14, 15 and 16 Teves…"

Suddenly, the expression on his face changed to one of panic. He leaped up from his chair. "I don't believe it!" he gasped. "Where are my brains? I'm not normal! I'm done for! I'm…"

"Would you stop berating yourself and tell me what the matter is?"

"Don't you get it? 16 Teves! Sixteen Teves and we're here, in this G-d forsaken place in a corner of the world!"

"Calm down! So what if it's 16 Teves…" The question died on her lips. She paled as she understood what her husband was so upset about.

"I'm my mother's kaddish'l," he whispered.

"You will say kaddish for me, kaddish'l," his mother had told him, her face whiter than the sheet upon which she lay. "You'll say kaddish for me, my son. You're my kaddish'l. You won't forget, will you?"

He'd promised never to forget. His mother had been calling him her kaddish'l ever since he'd been a little boy. She used to smother him with kisses and hugs as she whispered this term of endearment over and over again. His mother had been a true Yiddishe Mama. She'd done more during her lifetime for the sake of her own soul than many of us do for the sake of the neshamos of our relatives who pass on. Today's young people have a hard time dealing with the concept of olam haba; it feels so far away and remote. His mother, however, had called him kaddish'l his entire life, testifying to her constant cognizance of a different world that awaited her. When she aged, she made sure to mention the fact every time he visited her, first at home and later in an old age home.

And he had always made sure to recite kaddish for her. Every year on her yahrtzeit, he attended shul and recited kaddish with great earnestness and fervor. He concentrated on his words serving as an aliyah for the soul of his mother, Rivkah bas Yackov Dov, and he prayed that it was good for her there, in Gan Eden, along with the soul of his father, which had ascended to Shamayim twenty-five years before her own. In previous years, he had canceled business meetings and ignored a serious case of the flu in order to be in shul on the day of her yahrtzeit. Every time he

saw his mother's face in the family albums or even in his mind's eye, he would whisper, "I'm doing what you asked of me, Mama. I've never missed saying kaddish for you."

But now her yahtzeit was fast approaching. It was that very evening, in fact! And they were stuck in Antalya, Turkey!

"You'll say kaddish tomorrow," his wife said. "By tomorrow evening, we'll be back in Eretz Yisrael." But her words were of little comfort to her husband.

Tomorrow's Thursday. There's no sefer Torah here, no nothing. No minyan. Maybe I'll still make minchah in Eretz Yisrael - but maybe not. How could I have forgotten Mama? I'll never forgive myself!"

He paced their hotel room like a caged lion. He had never forgotten his mother's yahrtzeit – never! He had never missed davening a single one of the three tefilos with a minyan on her yahrtzeit. How could he go up to her kever in a day or two if he hadn't recited kaddish on her yahrtzeit? How would he ever be able to look at the large picture of her that hung in his office? How had he – her kaddish'l – forgotten her?

"But we had to go," his wife reminded him. "It was a medical matter."

Her words made no impression on him whatsoever.

"I'm going out to look for Jews," he told her. "There are a few hotels in the area. Maybe I'll manage to scrape together a few people to daven maariv. Then we'll think about what to do tomorrow."

He closed the door behind him and left, leaving her on the porch to worry about how she would comfort him when he returned in disappointment. How would he manage to find a minyan of Jews to join him in prayer here in non-Jewish Antalya?

He left, knowing he hadn't a chance in the world.

He met a Jew. A Jew that looked like a Jew, his eyes shining with goodwill. In gentile surroundings, all Jews feel like brothers. Mr. G approached the Yid and told him about his problem.

"You want to put together a minyan?" the Jew asked with a smile as he shook Mr. G's hand. "It looks like my 'profession' chases me wherever I go. I'm a gabbai in a beis knesses in Tel Aviv. I'm here for just two days.

nng.g. I Itt t ererereee stststucucuck kk

sasasaaididdd. . "B"BBByyy sssrarar ellel."". BB Butut bbana d.d.

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You've come to the right man! A gabbai is a gabbai, wherever he may be!"

Of all the people in the world, Hakadosh Baruch Hu had arranged for him to meet this man!

The gabbai proved to be a real pro. Within a few minutes, a minyan was arranged and our kaddish'l recited kaddish with great fervor.

For you, Mama, he whispered silently. So that you should have it good in Gan Eden. So that your soul should have an aliyah. I haven't forgotten you, Ima.

He returned to his hotel room with mixed feelings. He was glad he had recited Kaddish at maariv but he was already worried about what would be the next day for Shacharis. Maybe, maybe he would make minchah in Eretz Yisrael. That was all he dared hope for.

In the evening, Mr. G received a call from a travel agency.

"Your flight to Tel Aviv will be leaving earlier than scheduled, sir," he was told. "We apologize for any inconvenience this change may cause you. We have a serious problem on our hands and the airport staff is trying its best to see to it that all travelers will be able to reach their destinations as close as possible to the originally scheduled times. Your flight to Tel Aviv will be leaving at 7:00 a.m."

"Seven a.m.?" he whispered, shocked.

"Yes, sir. Is that inconvenient for you? Would you like to schedule a different date for your departure? The next flight will be leaving…"

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed hurriedly. "I want the seven o'clock flight. I want it very badly! When is the estimated arrival time in Tel Aviv?"

"Eight-thirty, sir."

"Eight-thirty! Eight-thirty! If I take a cab to Bnei Brak, I should still make a minyan at Itzkowitz!"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Never mind. I was talking to myself."

The clerk hung up feeling puzzled but he was over the moon. His wife was delighted as well.

As soon as he finished davening Shacharis at Itzkowitz, complete with fervent recitations of Kaddish on his part, he joined his wife, who was waiting for him not far away, and together, they went to look for Kupat Ha'ir.

She looks just like you'd expect a settler from Judea or Samaria to look. He looks like your typical National-Religious-nik, with a headful of curly hair under a knitted kippah fastened with a clip. But now he was no longer hiding a smile over how his wife believed in Kupat Ha'ir the way the Indians believed in their witches. He and she both know that the string of events they experienced can be described only as "lots of heavenly assistance." And they know in what zechus they merited that assistance.

They did not plan a trip to Kupat Ha'ir in advance, but it was clear to them both where they were heading. After all, didn't Kupat Ha'ir deserve another contribution?

When the G's letter arrived at Kupat Ha'ir's offices, it bore the title, "Kupat Ha'ir Arranges a Minyan in Antalya and Changes Flight Schedules." True, it's not a very catchy title, and true, it isn't exactly Kupat Ha'ir that did all that but siyata dishmaya. Kupat Ha'ir was just the messenger. Still, the title does say a lot, don't you think?


Chol hamo'ed Pesach. Rav S, an esteemed avreich, left his house in Bnei Brak in order to travel to the Kosel. He always made an effort to daven there on each of the Shalosh Regalim and now it was already the last day of chol hamo'ed.

It was a sweltering hot day. It seemed to Rav S that the yetzer hara was trying to persuade him to give up on the idea but he did not intend to give in.

The bus shelter was terribly crowded. Everyone was trying to find a spot of shade in search of relief from the relentlessly shining sun. The moments ticked by. If you've ever waited for the 400 or 402 bus on chol hamo'ed, especially at one of the final bus stations, no further explanation is necessary. Either no busses show up at all or else they pass by packed to the gills and don't even bother stopping. Either way, you need to be very, very patient.

It was hot, hot, hot. Harav S wiped the perspiration off his forehead with a tissue he found in his pocket. Shifting from one leg to the other, he reminded himself that lefum tza'ara agra. Suddenly, a car pulled up and the driver motioned Rav S to step forward.

Rav S was only too happy to comply. He knew the driver well. An outstanding talmid chacham, Levi was handicapped and got around on a wheelchair or in his specialized car, which had an automated system for lowering his wheelchair. The two lived in the same neighborhood and shared a mutual admiration for one another.

"Are you on your way to Yerushalayim?" Levi asked. "The Kosel, I take it?"

"Exactly."

"Hop in," Levi said magnanimously.

Rav S sighed with relief as he settled in near his friend. What could be better than this? A hitch to Yerushalayim – no, all the way to the Kosel - with a good friend who was a talmid chacham to boot.Maybe Levi could give him a ride back as well…

The trip went smoothly. Time has a way of flying by when you're immersed in a Torah discussion. There

was a considerable amount of traffic at the entrance to Yerushalayim. Long lines of cars snaked as far as the eye could see.

"I heard there were celebrations in the Old City," a driver in a nearby car told them through the open window. "That's probably why traffic is at a standstill." Rav S and Levi continued their discussion. They were studying Torah; who cared about traffic?

The closer they drew to the Old City, the worse the situation became. Levi's certificate of disability proved to be a real help. People's natural respect and consideration cleared the way, allowing entry into crowded streets and helping them make slow but steady progress.

But even that had its limits.

Near Migdal David, a policeman stooped them. "Pull over!" he commanded.

"I'm handicapped," Levi tried, though the car he was driving made that obvious.

"Yes, I know. All handicapped people stop here." The policeman pointed to a row of vehicles for the handicapped.

"But how can I make it to the Kosel from here?" Levi asked. "It's far!"

"There's nothing to argue about," the cop replied. "Only police vehicles may continue from this point. Don't waste your time and mine."

Levi sighed. He pulled over and waited while his wife stepped out to try and talk to a more senior traffic policeman.

At this point, Rav S said goodbye. He thanked Levi warmly for the hitch, wished him a hearty Gut Yom Tov and set out on foot to the Kosel. For a healthy person, the walk doesn't usually take more than six or seven minutes.

The Kosel plaza was very crowded but Rav S found a corner in which to be alone with his Creator. It isn't every day a Yid from Bnei Brak comes to the Kosel, and it isn't Yom Tov every day, either. He took his time

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davening and beseeching Hashem to fulfill his wishes letovah. Just as he finished and was about to leave, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Want a ride home?"

Rav S looked at Levi in surprise. It seemed as though his friend had waited for him to finish davening. He and Levi began making their way toward the exit. Rav S knew Levi had a long and difficult route back to his car. Should he offer to push the wheelchair or would Levi be hurt?

He was still deliberating when they reached the Kosel's inner parking lot, where, parked in plain view was Levi's car! The rest of the parking lot was filled with police cars; there was not a single other vehicle to be seen.

Rav S was shocked. Levi's wife was already waiting for him. Levi got into the car, activated the automatic system that stashed his wheel chair for him and motioned Rav S to enter as well.

"But how did you get here?" Rav S asked. "How did they let you in here?"

Levi chuckled. "Haven't you ever heard of Kupat Ha'ir?" he asked. "My wife went to try to talk with the traffic officers there at Migdal David. She snagged the officer responsible for the entire area and tried to plead with her for permission to let us drive all the way to the Kosel. The officer looked at her, you know, the way a secular officer looks at a chareidi woman making a ridiculous request.

I saw it all happening from where I was. As my wife stood talking to her, I whipped out my cell phone, called Kupat Ha'ir and contributed NIS 180. Giving tzedakah on Yom Tov is a big zechus, you know. Besides, maybe it would help. Somehow, all these Kupat Ha'ir stories have taught me one thing: For reasons known only to Him, Hakadosh Baruch Hu has chosen this way to show us that nothing is insurmountable; nothing is irreversible. Everything depends on His will. If you do what Hashem wants of you – and so many times, what Hashem wants of you is to remember Him and contribute to Kupat Ha'ir – Hakadosh Baruch Hu helps you. You can't argue with fact. You offer a tefillah up to Shamayim, you contribute to Kupat Ha'ir – and Hashem helps. It really works that way.

"My wife kept pleading, though she clearly sensed her words were falling on deaf ears. Suddenly the officer told her, 'You know what? Okay. I give you permission. My name's Ilana. When you get stopped along the way – and you will, you can be sure – tell them that I

gave you permission.'

"My wife returned to the car and told me to begin driving. We traveled maybe twenty meters and came across another large group of officers.

"They stopped me angrily."Hey, you! How did you get so far? All handicapped vehicles were stopped back there!'

"And I said, 'I have permission from Officer Ilana.'

"They didn't believe me. They contacted her on their radio and she confirmed that she had indeed given us permission.

"We went on. A hundred meters later, we were stopped again. Once more, the officers were angry. Once more, they didn't believe me. When we said, 'Ilana,' they were astounded but they didn't dare allow us to pass w i t h o u t c h e c k i n g with her first. 'I gave them permission; let them go ahead,' she told them, and we went ahead.

Every time this happened, I said to myself, This time it's not going to work. But it did – and how it worked! All barriers were removed for us. It was like we had a magic password that removed all obstacles.

That's really what it was. We had a magic password: Kupat Ha'ir. Of course, we knew it wasn't Kupat Ha'ir that was helping; it was Hashem. Hashem wants us to contribute to Kupat Ha'ir. In the face of such arguments, Rav S had nothing to say.

They pulled out of the Kosel parking area, the only car on the road with the exception of an occasional patrol car. One solitary driver in the off-limits area. A solitary driver, did we say? Not quite. Levi is not alone. Kupat Ha'ir was with him, which meant Hashem was with him, too.

F

RANCE

FRA

RR

NACE

"Don't you smell something strange?"

Jacky lifted his head from the new plane but he knew he had zero chance of catching his brother's interest. Even if it rained into their house, or a bulldozer ripped the floor out from under them, Fred would not budge. Not while he was reading a book.

Jacky went back to arranging his fleet of airplanes and changing around the location of the control tower and police cars in "his" airport, but the funny smell continued to bother him. Fred kept turning page after page at astonishing speed.

The noises coming from the stairway finally made Jacky leave his planes and go to the door. His mother had given him strict instructions not to open the door while he and Fred were home alone, so he stood on a stool and peeked out through the peephole. People were dashing up and down the stairs, waving their hands and shouting. The steel door muffled the sounds somewhat but it was obvious that something was going on. And the smell was getting stronger.

"Fred! Fred, stop a minute! Something funny's happening in the building," he pleaded. He tried to position himself close enough to shake Fred but sufficiently far away to dodge the slap he knew his brother would give him for disturbing him.

"Something funny's going on in this story, too. I don't…" And he turned another page. The screams on the stairs were becoming hysterical. Someone kicked the door from the outside and shouted. Jacky ran back there.

"Who are you? Why are you banging our door?"

"There's a child inside! A child!" He heard the voices clearly.

"Two children! Fred's here, too!" he shouted back.

Within seconds, Fred was at his side. "Quiet! What are you screaming for? Why are you talking to people through the door? And what is that awful smell?

He peeked through the peephole. Suddenly, he heard an awful roar and saw a yellow flame shoot up the stairs.

"Jacky, the building's on fire! Were home alone! We can't get out!" he shouted. He opened the door and immediately closed it again. A blast of heat hit them in the face. The stairway was like an oven. Tongues of fire licked the railing on one side and the wall on the other. There was no way they could pass.

Frightened to death, they ran from room to room, looking for a way out of their apartment. All the windows had bars; they knew that.

'Let's stand on the bars outside," Fred shouted over the noise of the fire. The floor felt very warm; they felt the heat through their shoes. They opened the large dining room window. A collective sigh of relief was heard from downstairs when their figures appeared.

Standing on the bars, they gulped fresh air and felt better. It was only then that they realized how hard it had been to breathe inside the house. The porches of the buildings opposite their own were filled with people who called out to them encouragingly.

It's a matter of what gets here first, Fred thought to himself in fear. Either they'll get us out of here in time or the fire will get us first. If the shutters become a firetrap and the bars begin burning, we won't last long.

He didn't share his thoughts with Jacky, of course. He hugged his little brother with all his might and thought about how tragic their death would be for their parents. Jacky was so frightened that he was shivering uncontrollably despite the intense heat emanating from the building. A fire engine pulled up opposite their window. A fireman climbed quickly up its ladder.

"We may have to saw the bars," he said to the children. It was hard to hear him over the noise. "Do you hear me, kids?"

"Yes!" Fred shouted back. Jacky was incapable of uttering a single syllable. "Are you okay over there?" Okay? It was hard to call their situation "okay."

At the same time, a frustrated secretary sat facing her computer at the Kupat ha'ir offices in Eretz Yisrael.

Every Delay is for the Good

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"What should I do? Should I try to reach her again? Does she want to contribute or doesn't she?" The situation was so strange!

Wrong credit card numbers happen all the time. It's easy to make a mistake when typing a long string of numbers as someone reads them off to you over the phone, especially when that someone speaks a language that isn't your own mother tongue.

A wrong credit card number during a follow-up clarification call is far rarer. Was the woman deliberately giving her the wrong number because she didn't want to contribute? Why had she called in the first place, then?

The secretary didn't know what to do.

"Besides," she said to the secretary sitting near her, "her phone number is constantly busy or disconnected.

"How much did she want to contribute?"

"A considerable amount." She glanced at the sheaf of papers on her desk, the ones entitled "Problems." "Quite a bit. But that's not the point. People contribute for a reason. Sometimes they want to give ma'aser; sometimes they pledge money for a yahrtzeit or something like that. It's not good if someone promises to contribute and then doesn't follow through."

"Most of the time, people contribute because they need a yeshuah."

"Then they need that yeshuah. Isn't it a shame to forfeit a yeshuah you need so badly just because of a mistaken credit card number?" "It sure is. Try again." And she did…

The woman at the other end of the line had sounded kind and friendly as she apologized profusely for her mistake and gave the secretary the correct credit card number.

Outside of Eretz Yisrael, it is Kupat Ha'ir's practice to offer contributors the option of having a name brought to the Gedolei Hador so they can daven on the person's behalf or to inquire about the significance of a particularly large contribution. The secretary hurried to ask before the call got cut off again. After all, she was rather curious. ""Are you contributing because you need a yeshuah?"

"Uh, no. Not at all. The truth is, I don't really believe in that stuff. I contribute a few times a year in order to feel I've fulfilled my obligation to my poor brethren

in Eretz Yisrael, that's all." Her Hebrew was stilted; she hardly ever spoke the language. "I read your brochures and they always strike a very deep chord. These people are my brothers! Blood is not ketchup, you know. We share a bond. I can afford to make a few sizeable contributions a year. But yeshuos? It all sounds a bit too mystical for me, to tell the truth. I've never contributed for a yeshuah."

They concluded the phone call with a friendly goodbye. The generous contributor had no idea how quickly she was to change her mind.

Her car made the final turn before the street she lived on. She heard lots of honking horns and saw the blinking lights of fire engines and police cars. Still faintly amused by the conversation she'd just had with the secretary from Kupat Ha'ir while driving, she tried to figure out what was going on. Suddenly, a traffic officer blocked her way. It was impossible to drive any farther. She parked her car and set out for home on foot. Another few steps and she rounded the corner.

Her heart stood still.

Her building was enveloped in flames. Huge fire engines were squirting jets of water all over the place. A crowd had gathered below. People were screaming and waving their hands in the air.

Her eyes swept the building, searching for her own apartment. There, on the bars of her dining room window, stood her two boys, Fred and Jacky. They were holding one another tightly against the backdrop of flames.

"My contribution to Kupat Ha'ir saved my children's lives," she told us tearfully. "The contribution was made at just the right minute. The fire went from one apartment to the next but it didn't touch mine. They stopped it just in time. My contribution saved my house, too.

"It's not just that," she went on. "I believe that Hashem delayed my contribution time after time, in such a strange way, so that I would be contributing at the most critical moment when I needed a yeshuah and didn't even know it – just to prove to me how wrong I was. Contributions to Kupat Ha'ir bring about yeshuos; there is no doubt about it!"



Tel: 1-866-221-9352The Tzedakah Of The Gedolei Hador

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Back to the Roots

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Yeshuos Chanukah 5769