Speechless

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

With the paper closed for two weeks to give everyone here a chance to reinvigorate themselves, I decided to take a trip to Europe. I had only been there once and thought that it might be nice to visit Paris, London, or other cities to see how Jews live there and to tour the historic sites, famous buildings, and towers.

But more than that, I wanted to visit the shtetel where my mother was born, a small place called Vashki, where her father and grandfather served as the town’s rabbonim. From what I’ve read, the houses still look exactly as they did when my mother lived there. Maybe I’d even be able to find her family’s home and see if it still had the same dirt floors she once walked on.

I imagined walking those same roads, picturing how my ancestors lived, and spending time in the shtetel that was once theirs.

I would visit the cemetery and daven at the kever of my great-grandfather, whose kesovim I later published. I’d also go to the kever achim, where the cursed Nazis murdered the town’s Jews in cold blood. I would think about what was done to them and thank Hashem that my mother’s family survived.

I thought about the awful churban that took place in that shtetel, and in every Lithuanian town and city. I thought about the lives cut down, the Jews slaughtered simply for being Jews, and the nations that stood by and did nothing. Six million murdered, not only by the Nazis, but often aided by their neighbors.

I had the whole trip played out in my mind.

And then I thought better of it.

Why should I travel to a country whose soil is soaked with Jewish blood? Why spend a single penny there? Why reward them for their complicity?

No, no. I would not go.

And then I asked myself: Why would I even want to go to France, a capital of Jew-hatred? Why support them? Why admire their architecture, their history?

No, I decided. I won’t go. I won’t see the Eiffel Tower, or Versailles, or the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

I won’t experience the angry stares in Paris or the nasty looks in London.

I’ll go to Yerushalayim, where I belong. The city at the heart of the Jewish people. I’ll daven at the Kosel, spend Shabbos in the holy city, and travel around Eretz Yisroel, gathering mitzvos with every step. I’ll meet family and friends, and the avira d’ara d’Yisroel will uplift and invigorate me.

So, off to Israel we went.

But our plans changed soon after we arrived. We landed at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, and as we stepped outside to find a taxi to Yerushalayim, it felt as though we had walked into an oven. The heat was stifling — 100 degrees and rising. That oppressive heat lasted through the week. We ventured out only in the early mornings and late evenings, spending the sweltering days indoors.

But it wasn’t just the heat that cast a shadow over our trip.

There were levayos.

Soon after we arrived, we learned that Rav Shmuel Deutsch had been niftar. He was a towering talmid chochom, a gaon hagaonim who seemed to know kol haTorah kulah. I had known him for 43 years.

My mother was a special woman who passed away way too young. After I got married, I decided to publish a sefer l’illui nishmasah. Her father, Rav Leizer Levin, gave me teshuvos that had been written to his father-in-law, Rav Avrohom Hoffenberg. He had brought them with him when he left Lita. I thought that publishing them as a Sefer Zikaron would be a proper tribute. I had no experience publishing seforim or deciphering rabbinic handwriting, but I was determined.

My interest in seforim led me to befriend Rav Yosef Buksbaum, head of Machon Yerushalayim. I consulted with him about aspects of publishing a sefer, but the teshuvos touched on some sugyos I was not well versed in, and I lacked the marei mekomos needed to properly understand them.

Rav Buksbaum said to me, “There’s a talmid chochom in your neighborhood who can help you. His name is Rav Shmuel Deutsch. He lives right near you in Ezras Torah, on Rechov Even Ha’azel.”

I asked around and was told that he was a prized talmid of Rav Shach and Rav Berel Soloveitchik. I’d often see him after davening, talking with Rav Shimon Moshe Diskin, another talmid chochom muflag. I was too intimidated to approach him. Who was I, a young American yungerman, to ask for help with matters that must have been elementary to him? Surely, I thought, he’d look down on me or dismiss me.

But actually, from the first time I stepped into his home, he was warm and welcoming.

I visited him often. Anytime I had trouble reading a manuscript, understanding a rov’s intent, or tracking down marei mekomos, I turned to him. And he always helped, quickly and with clarity. He could decipher any handwriting, identify every source, and explain the most complex topics in minutes.

We became close. As long as I lived in Yerushalayim, I would visit him regularly.

Rav Deutsch earned renown as a rosh yeshiva at Kol Torah and as a close talmid of Rav Shach, instrumental in founding Degel HaTorah and other key initiatives.

When I returned to America, I’d visit him whenever he came to Monsey and then we lost touch for a while but reconnected when he opened his yeshiva. The last time I saw him was in Lakewood, where he was recovering from an illness in his son’s home.

I was deeply saddened by his passing, as was the Olam HaTorah, which mourned the loss of a rosh yeshiva, moreh derech, and oveid Hashem.

In the Olam HaTorah, it was known that from his youngest years, Rav Shmuel was immersed in an atmosphere of Torah greatness. His profound connection with Rav Shach shaped his life. Rav Shach saw in him not just a sharp, brilliant mind, but also a rare sense of humility and responsibility. With Rav Shach’s guidance, Rav Deutsch combined harbotzas Torah with powerful leadership.

For over 40 years, he served as a rosh yeshiva in the famed Yeshiva Kol Torah, inspiring thousands of talmidim with his depth in lomdus, his personal warmth, and his sincere care for their growth. To his talmidim, he wasn’t just a rebbi. He was a father figure, a mentor, and a role model whose influence continued long after they left yeshiva.

Beyond the bais medrash, he played a key role in shaping Torah policy in Eretz Yisroel through Degel HaTorah and later the Peleg Yerushalmi. Yet, despite his stature, he remained a man of quiet humility, focused on Torah and his talmidim.

His levayah was a manifestation of kavod haTorah, and we were blessed to be in Yerushalayim for it.

We visited some family and friends, and davened at the Kosel a few times. But most people, including many of my rabbeim, were away.

Still, Shabbos in Yerushalayim is always special. Some members of my wife’s family joined us. The oppressive, historic heat finally lifted, and we basked in the warmth of a Yerushalayimer Shabbos.

But when Shabbos was over, I was struck by the cold reality of life: I learned that my dear, beloved uncle, Rav Berel Wein, had been niftar over Shabbos.

Rav Berel Wein wasn’t just beloved by me. He was cherished by the entire Jewish world. His life embodied Torah scholarship, insight, and timeless mentchlichkeit.

He was a briach hatichon, a central pillar, heir to an illustrious rabbinic family and student of the great transplanted Lithuanian roshei yeshiva. From them, he absorbed Torah, hashkofah, and what the Slabodka mussar tradition refers to as gadlus ha’adam, the greatness of man. Though they taught in Yiddish and heavily accented English, he translated their values into the clear, modern language of American Jewry and transmitted their timeless wisdom to generations of baalei batim, talmidim and the many other people who fell under his influence.

With dazzling brilliance, eloquence, and clarity, he brought hundreds of thousands closer to Torah, to Hashem, and to a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jew.

Although he was a distinguished rov, rebbi, and rosh yeshiva, he became renowned as a historian almost by accident. He had begun giving a weekly Jewish history class in his shul, which became popular. He recorded the classes and sold them — “Rabbi Wein’s History Tapes” — as a fundraiser for his yeshiva, Shaarei Torah.

The rest, as they say, is history.

His breadth of knowledge and unique ability to convey eternal Torah truths with clarity, warmth, and relevance drew countless listeners. With masterful storytelling and a warm, engaging, Chicago-accented voice, he became the storyteller of Jewish destiny.

He brought Jewish history alive, not as a list of facts and dates, but as a living saga of the Jewish people. He transformed it from something distant into something vibrant and deeply personal. He helped his listeners feel part of a nation with a noble past and an enduring mission. He taught us to be proud of our people, to draw strength from their trials, and to see ourselves as links in an unbroken chain stretching back to Har Sinai.

As a maggid shiur and rosh yeshiva, he was revered for his penetrating lomdus and for the personal guidance he offered with humility and care. As a rov and communal leader, he combined halachic integrity with deep sensitivity, standing as a spokesman for Klal Yisroel and a representative of Torah Jewry in the modern world.

At heart, Rabbi Wein was a gentleman, a beautiful human being: approachable, gracious, and filled with quiet dignity. A man of few words, he always had the perfect vort, story, or quip — sharp, thoughtful, and on point. He wore the mantle of Torah leadership and scholarship with grace. He never sought honor for himself; instead, he elevated those around him.

He was a personal inspiration to me, a model of what one can become when G-d-given talents are used in service of the greater good. For as long as I can remember, he was always teaching and guiding me, through his words, his presence, and his example. He never imposed, never lectured. It was all so natural that I often didn’t realize how much he was being mechaneich me — in Yiddishkeit, in public life, and in service to others — until much later.

And one more thing: When he spoke publicly, he took my breath away. Literally. He would deliver a drosha or a speech, and when he was done, I just sat there, frozen in place, wishing he would go on. His brilliance, his depth, and the way he conveyed his message left me speechless.

His teachings, seforim, and books are an enduring legacy. His voice will continue to guide. His stories and insights will continue to inspire generations to come.

I was privileged to be at his levayah, and as I sat there, I realized that Hashem had brought me to Eretz Yisroel — for no apparent reason — so that I could be there to say goodbye to my last surviving uncle.

The last time I saw him was this past Shavuos. As always when we were in Yerushalayim, we went to visit him. It was a typical family visit, warm and familiar. He told me that he had published a new book and wanted to give me a copy. Though he could no longer see, he reached for a book, then for a pen, and said he wanted to autograph it, which he did.

Then he said, “It was so nice of you to come. I love you — and I’ve loved you for many years. I wish you well.”

He wasn’t one to express emotion openly, so the words struck me. And then he said: “This is not my last book. I have one more coming, and that will be it.”

And then, without drama or sadness, he added: “And that book has already been written.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact. I searched for something to say, but the right words didn’t come. I finally asked, “Uncle, why do you speak that way?”

And he said: “Pinny dear, that is what life is all about. Eventually, it comes to an end.”

And once again, for one final time, he left me speechless.

● ● ●

I had come to Eretz Yisroel with a vague plan and no clear reason, only to realize that Hashem had brought me there not just to daven at the Kosel or escape the blood-stained soil of Europe, but to say goodbye. To be present for the final chapter of a man who shaped my life and the lives of so many others.

In a land soaked with kedusha, during days scorched by sun and softened by Shabbos, I found myself standing at the crossroads of history, family, and Torah. I came to walk in the footsteps of ancestors, and instead, I found myself walking alongside giants of my own lifetime.

Rav Shmuel Deutsch and Rav Berel Wein were unique individuals who shaped generations through their brilliance in learning. Though they were very different from each other, each taught in their own way that Torah is not only learned, but lived and given over.

And so I left Eretz Yisroel not only with memories of unbearable heat and unexpected levayos, but with something deeper: a renewed understanding of what it means to be part of the unbroken chain of our people — to carry memory, to honor legacy, and to live a life that gives back more than it takes.

Yehi zichrom boruch.