The Coat of Gold

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The Coat of Gold

Harav Y. Reuven Rubin Shlilta

Time changes with the passing of days. As we grow older, memories seem to take on a life of their own. Wondrous moments spring forth without any bidding. They lie quietly within us, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

I write these words a few days before the yahrzeit of the Bobover Rebbe, Harav Shlomo Halberstam, zt”l, and my mind dances once again with the warmth, kindness, and care that this tzaddik bestowed upon me.

The year was 1958, and this youngster was about to celebrate his bar mitzvah.

I lived in Kew Gardens Hills, Queens, New York, a typical post-war middle-class neighborhood. The population was largely Jewish, but many had drifted from their roots. America beckoned with all its promise, and youngsters my age were few and far between in the shuls. For many families, the bar mitzvah marked the final link to Jewish life.

For this youngster, however, shul held a magnetic pull. It simply called to my young heart.

As I prepared for the big day, I secretly longed for a different kind of shul—one that would nourish me with more than a grand celebration. Hashem has His secret agents, and one of them whispered in my ear that there was a small Chassidishe shtiebel tucked away among the neat houses of the neighborhood. There lived a Rav from Warsaw whose heart burned with a passion for Yiddishkeit.

Quietly, I slipped into that little shul and experienced a rush of feelings that, to this day, I cannot adequately describe.

The Rav was Harav Yosef Gelernter, zt”l—a tall, unmistakably Chassidishe Yid who had survived the horrors of the war and arrived in America carrying an unquenchable fire in his heart. Together with his Rebbetzin, a”h, he built a new life dedicated to nurturing new neshamos in this unfamiliar land. With warmth, kindness, and a smile that opened hearts, they drew searching souls closer to Torah.

My elaborate bar mitzvah came and went without incident, and before long I had become a regular at that little shtiebel.

Through what seemed to be a series of unrelated events, I was eventually introduced to the Bobover Rebbe, Harav Shlomo, zt”l. It was there that I found the opportunity to become a full-time Chassidishe bochur.

I have shared before the remarkable event that made that possible. It remains one of the clearest lessons I have ever witnessed in genuine ahavas Yisroel—a love for another Jew that quietly reaches into a heart and changes the course of a life.

It was Chol Hamoed Pesach. I had joined a group of boys from Queens who were visiting the Rebbe. We were accompanied by one of our Talmud Torah rabbeim, a devoted Bobover chossid and close talmid of the Rebbe.

During the festive tish, the Rebbe pointed in my direction and indicated that he wished to speak with me after the meal.

After bentching, I was ushered into the Rebbe’s modest office. He motioned for me to sit opposite his desk.

The Rebbe spoke very little English, and my Yiddish was virtually nonexistent. Yet somehow, his heart spoke to mine in a language that needed no words.

Just then, one of the boys entered the room carrying a camera.

“Rebbe,” he asked with typical youthful American confidence, “may I take your picture?”

The Rebbe smiled.

“Yes,” he replied, “but only if you promise to give this boy a copy.”

With that, he removed his glasses and smiled warmly as the camera flashed.

After the young photographer left, the Rebbe turned back to me.

“Do you know why I want you to have that picture?”

I shook my head.

“Because every time you look at it,” he said gently, “I want you to remember what I am about to tell you.”

He paused.

“I want you to be my friend—not my chossid.”

Those simple words entered the lonely heart of a young boy who had never truly known the security of a father. In that moment, his smile became a beam of light that illuminated my life.

From that day forward, I found a mentor who was infinitely more than a teacher. The Rebbe became my father, my guide, my teacher, and yes, my trusted friend.

I could fill an entire book with what I saw and learned from this giant of ahavas Yisroel. Yet one memory stands above so many others.

The coat of gold.

I learned in several yeshivos, always a year ahead of my classmates—not because I possessed unusual brilliance, but simply because I had been born a year earlier than most of the boys, many of whom were children of Holocaust survivors.

When I turned eighteen, I merited to learn in Eretz Yisroel. There I became engaged to my beloved Rebbetzin, a”h.

I returned to America to prepare for the wedding and was privileged to spend precious time once again with the Rebbe.

A few days before I was due to return to Eretz Yisroel, the Rebbe called me into his office.

With his familiar warmth he said, “Reuven, I cannot attend your chasunah because it will take place in Eretz Yisroel. But I wish to give you something that will allow me to share in your simchah.”

He walked to the closet and carefully removed a magnificent golden rabbinical coat. It was one reserved for special occasions, one I had seen him wear on many Shabbosim and Yomim Tovim.

Placing it into my hands, he said softly,

“With this, I will be with you. May you be gebentched with much nachas and with kol tov.”

There are moments when a gift ceases to be an object. It becomes a blessing that accompanies a person throughout life.

The reader may wonder what became of the photograph.

It hangs today on the wall of our home. The Rebbe’s smile still radiates the same understanding and wisdom that first captured the heart of a searching young boy. Through every challenge and every joy, those eyes have continued to remind me that I was never truly alone.

And the golden coat?

Ah—that still hangs in my closet.

Over the years it has been worn beneath the chuppos of several generations of our family. It remains as golden as ever, though it has acquired the gentle patina that only countless simchos can bestow. Each time it is worn, it carries with it not merely fabric and thread, but the love, blessing, and friendship of a great tzaddik.

The Rebbe who once reached out to a lonely child continues to accompany me on life’s journey.

May his zechus stand for all of Klal Yisroel. May his warm brochos continue to bring peace, hope, and abundant blessing to us all.