The Man Who Fired Himself

Here's My Story: Rabbi Levi Garelik, a lecturer and author of multiple books on Jewish law, tells of his father's determination to be sent on Shlichus by the Rebbe, and the Rebbe's encouragement to his father during a difficult time.

Rabbi Levi Garelik is a lecturer and author of multiple books on Jewish law. He resides in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, where he was interviewed by JEM three times in 2021.

My parents – Rabbi Gershon Mendel and Rebbetzin Bessie Garelik – married in the summer of 1958. Almost immediately after, they began writing to the Rebbe that they wanted to become his emissaries, serving a Jewish community somewhere in the world. Back in those days, there were very few such shluchim, and it was still a novel concept even within the Chabad community.

One day my father was walking down the hallway in 770 when he met the Rebbe’s secretary, Rabbi Mordechai Hodakov.

Now Rabbi Hodakov may have looked somewhat naive, but he was an unbelievably shrewd man who was always on the ball and knew how to handle any situation that came up. But usually, people didn’t just stop Rabbi Hodakov to talk with him; he was very orderly, and you had to make an appointment if you wanted to speak with him.

But on seeing my father he remarked: “You and your wife keep writing that you want to go on shlichus. You have to understand that the Rebbe cannot send people like you.”

“Why not? What did I do wrong?” my father exclaimed.

Rabbi Hodakov explained that he hadn’t done anything wrong. The issue was that, even before getting married, my father had been teaching in the Chabad yeshivah in Newark, which has since relocated to Morristown, New Jersey. “The Rebbe will not take someone from one institution and send him somewhere else. It doesn’t work that way,” the secretary concluded.

“Well, if that’s the problem,” my father thought, “I can take care of it.”

As soon as their conversation ended, my father went up to the third floor of 770, to the office of the Rebbe’s brother-in-law, Rabbi Shmaryahu Gurary. Known as “Rashag,” he was in charge of the Chabad yeshivah network.

“I would like to have a raise,” my father announced, after knocking on the door.

“How much do you need?” asked the Rashag.

“I’d like to get 2,000 dollars a month.” At that time, my father’s monthly salary was probably about eighty-five dollars.

The Rashag looked at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, take it or leave it,” my father said. “I need 2,000 dollars.”

“Well, I can’t give you that. It’s unheard of,” the Rashag insisted.

“So are you firing me then?” my father inquired.

“I suppose so.”

“OK. You don’t need to tell the yeshivah yet, but I need this in writing,” my father said.

It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before my father came back downstairs to Rabbi Hodakov and delivered the news, on a piece of paper, that Rashag had fired him from his job in the yeshivah.

Rabbi Hodakov didn’t respond, but a few weeks later, he saw my father again in the hallway. “Would you be interested in going to Europe?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Of course,” my father replied. “Which country?”

“What difference does it make?”

My father hastened to explain that it made no difference; he would go anywhere. However, since he had left Russia as a refugee and did not have a regular passport, getting a visa was not a simple matter. The earlier he knew where he was being sent, the earlier he could start the process.

“Let’s say to Italy, for example.”

My father immediately agreed, and then Rabbi Hodakov told him to call my mother to see if she was on board as well.

“Of course,” she said. And that was how they ended up going to Milan, Italy.

A few days before they left, they went in to see the Rebbe. One of the things that the Rebbe asked them was, “Are you happy to be doing this?”

They confirmed that they were. A couple of weeks earlier, another couple had gone on shlichus elsewhere, and their relatives and parents had been crying as they went to see them off. Meanwhile, when my parents left, everybody was dancing, and my parents were in seventh heaven: They were going on shlichus! Yet the Rebbe still asked this question because he wanted to be sure that they were going willingly.

During those years, the official system was that a shliach can only come back to visit the Rebbe once in two years. However, unable to tolerate being away from the Rebbe for very long, my father would come back at least once every year for the Rebbe’s father’s yahrzeit during the summer. I don’t know how it came to be, but this restriction never applied to him.

Actually, there were many other chasidim abroad, especially in Israel, who also very much wanted to come and see the Rebbe, but couldn’t. In Israel, a ticket to New York could cost half a year’s salary. However, there was an option to charter an entire plane, which made tickets cheaper. It took a lot of effort to put it all together, but in 1960, a group of chasidim did just that in time for the High Holidays. Their excitement when they finally arrived in New York was unbelievable. For many of them, it was their first time seeing the Rebbe.

At the time, my father was visiting New York and was just about to return home to Milan. The thought that he had to go off to Italy while all of these chasidim were arriving to spend the holidays with the Rebbe made him quite upset.

It was time to leave. As he waited outside 770 for his taxi to the airport, he was feeling very despondent. Just then, one of the Rebbe’s secretaries, a very clever man named Reb Moshe Leib Rodshtein, walked by.

“Why are you so depressed?” he asked my father. When he heard why, he went into 770 and came out again three minutes later. “Come with me,” he said.

Together, they walked into the foyer just outside the Rebbe’s office.

“Go in,” said Reb Moshe Leib, nodding towards the Rebbe’s office. The door was open and the Rebbe was sitting at his desk.

My father wasn’t prepared for such a meeting, but the Rebbe was looking at him expectantly, so he walked into the room.

The Rebbe told him the following: “Nu, we’re in the month of Elul, and the king is in the field.” He was referring to the famous parable from the Alter Rebbe, the founder of Chabad. While many are worried about the G-d’s judgment as they get ready for Rosh Hashanah, the Alter Rebbe taught that the preceding month of Elul is a positive time. During this month, the “king” is out of his palace, in the field, and anybody who wants can come and take the opportunity to meet him.

The King, added the Rebbe – quoting from the Alter Rebbe’s parable – is “showing his smiling face to everyone.” As he said this, the Rebbe smiled broadly and spread out his hands. “Have a safe trip.”

After hearing that, any sadness completely dissipated and my father had no problem going back home with a joyful heart. He would remember the tremendous smile he received from the Rebbe that Elul, for the next sixty years.

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