A few more memories of Zeide Michel Piekarski

Today marks the 20th yartzeit of my grandfather Rabbi Yechiel Michel Piekarski. He passed away on Shushan Purim Kattan (that year was a Jewish leap year) in 5755 (1995) and now we’re at the day after Purim in 5775 (2015). I have many memories of him, since I stayed at their Crown Heights home, on President Street near Utica Ave, while I studied at the Oholei Torah Yeshiva in Brooklyn from age ten to age twenty.

Last year I shared 3 memories of him, from the way he went to bed each night, to a story of him getting up early to work and about him being the first (or one of the first) Russian Chassid to see the Previous Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak after WWII. So, in honor of his yartzeit today, here are a few more memories. I didn’t share this at Shabbos House as most “Mendel’s Messages” are, but posting it here online for those who may appreciate it.

WRITING A “PAN” AND THE “PAN PAPER”

There were special occasions or reasons when we’d write a letter to the Rebbe, especially before Rosh Hashanah. It was called a “Pidyon Nefesh” of “PaN” for short. We also wrote similar letters to the Previous Rebbe on special occasions when we would go to the “Ohel” at the cemetery. I remember my grandfather teaching me the introductory traditional text “Ana L’Orer Rachamim Rabim” with which to begin a letter to the Previous Rebbe at the Ohel. I actually remember the look of his handwriting on the crisp, clean, unlined white paper.

For some reason, and it is observed this way today at the Ohel as well, we only used crisp, clean, unlined paper. Times have changed, when I was a kid getting lined hole-punched loose-leaf paper was a big priority on school lists, today it isn’t needed as much. There are notebooks that do better jobs and much of our writing is on the computer anyways. And today with computers and desktop printing everyone has a ream or two of blank paper all the time, its normal to have such paper around. But back then, I remember the uniqueness of specifically using unlined paper for a Pan letter.

My grandfather was meticulous and particular about things. He kept a stash of this special paper inside a tall book that was on the first shelf of one of the living room bookcases. I remember actually, because his books all had a proper place, everything was in order, that it was on the same shelf as a commentary on Rashi called the “Rohm” or short for Rabbi Eliezer Mizrachi. I remember my grandfather liked that book because he had a special affinity for the Rebbe’s talks on Rashi and would sometimes look things up there (there was a Gur Aryeh Maharal commentary in that book as well) after Shabbos.

At any rate, he kept those papers standing like soldiers, pressed inside the pages of a tall book on that shelf. I don’t remember what that book was, only that it was unremarkable. It was a Hebrew book but for whatever reason not significant to my grandfather for any other purpose than to hold these Pan pages pressed neatly. These pages were not used for anything else, only for writing a Pan.

For personal reasons, and the way I continue to connect to the Rebbe after his 1994 passing, for many years now I haven’t used the formula that my grandfather taught me. But I remember the dignity, the seriousness and formality, the refinement and respect with which he showed it to me, and I hope I’ve kept that and pray that my children will feel the same.

FAMILY DATES INSIDE TEHILLIMS AND TANYAS

I don’t know which family member got these Tehillims (Book of Psalms) or Tanyas (classic book of Chabad Chassidism) but there’s a lot of family history inside. You know how the binding pages of a book are often blank, empty white pages? He used that empty space, in both the front and the backs of books, to write down birthdays and yartzeits of family members. I’m not sure if there was any rhyme or reason to who got written in which books (which would have been out of character for my grandfather who had an order and schedule and reason for everything) but the dates spanned generations. He had the yartzeits of great-grandparents I never knew, assumed dates for when family members were killed in the Holocaust,  and dates of the birthdays of my siblings and cousins.

I don’t know if other people did the same, but I found it very meaningful and personal. Somehow it connected our family’s story with the holiness of these books, it felt as if we were intertwined.

OPENING LOCKS

Maybe it was the neighborhood (there were times when it wasn’t so great, especially on that side of Crown Heights, especially pre-Guilliani) or maybe it was his obsession, but he was very careful with the locks on the doors. I could be quite forgetful and absent-minded and whenever I lost the house-key he was quite upset, and even worried perhaps it would fall into the hands of the wrong people and they would try all the locks on the block… Once I even left the key, accidentally of course, inside the lock on the outside door. He found it there, dangling from the lock, and that was unpardonable.

The locks weren’t perfect, it wasn’t an exact science. The door would need some jiggling, the key had to be inserted just so, and if everything aligned, it would open. I was young and impatient, and I would force it, and he would admonish me and guide my hand, whispering a verse from the evening prayer which says: “with wisdom You open gates” with wisdom he would insist, it’s an art, you don’t do it by force!

By the way, the locks and keys remind me of the closet that hung near the house door on top of the internal staircase. It was a yellow cabinet, the whole stairwell was painted that color. My grandfather gave me the external key to the house, but the internal key was hidden on a hook in that cabinet, on a thick key-ring. (Which reminded me of a Talmudic teaching about inside and outside keys…) Inside the cabinet were also assorted household tools (he was a little handy), random screws and nails that were sorted in cleaned tuna cans, and other odds and ends.

THE BAD DREAM

There was an old problem that on Thursday nights (and often on other nights, too) I would come home very late from Yeshiva. We would study late, there would be inspiring, invigorating, introspective farbrengens (they were a huge part of my development) sometimes I got home as lat as 4 or 5am in the morning. My Bubbe, may she live and be well, used to worry about me. She would sit in a rocking chair in the front of the house, singing melodies, saying Psalms, talking to my sister Esty of blessed memory. But that’s a story for a different time.

My grandfather was an early riser. He got up early for work, see that story on a different post. Even in his retirement, he never slept in. He had an early morning regimen and was determined to keep it. So much so, that the morning after the Crown Heights riots broke out (on his very block! they had 17 windows broken in their home and the brick retaining wall torn down) he insisted on going to synagogue early the next morning, and got a stone thrown at his head, needed stitches, but he was stubborn like that. He had to keep to his schedule!

At any rate, he got up early. It was awkward a bit, when I would be turning the key in the lock, trying with all my might to enter as silently as possible, and he was already up or stirring in his bed. One more thing you need to know. My grandfather slept in long-johns, you know the long white thermal underwear. Maybe not always, maybe this was in winter, I don’t remember. But I remember this story.

One night, this was in 5772 (1992) I came home very late. I turned down the hallway to go to my bedroom in the back, which passed by my grandparents room. My grandfather was pacing in his bedroom. It was eerie, because he looked like a ghost, his white garments reflecting the dim light from the hallway, or was it moonlight perhaps. The house was dark, he was pacing. I didn’t know what to do. Then he came out of his room, saw me there, and was trying to steady himself. He was visibly upset. He had some kind of asthma or lung ailment, so he would sometimes cough or catch his breath but this was more than that. I asked him what was the matter, and he said he dreamed about the Rebbe, and he mustn’t say what he dreamed.

At the time, the Rebbe was well and vibrant and incredibly active, this was before the stroke on the 27th of Adar later that year, I was young and eager and sincere. I had no thoughts otherwise.

Not long after that, a strange thing happened when I came to school. It was early in the morning, and Reb Mendel Marasow, may he live and be well, was the Mashgiach supervisor for the morning Chassidus study. The Yeshiva was still empty, and he called three boys present over to his desk, it was on a raised platform as you entered the large study hall, and he told us in serious tones that he needed to do a Hatovas Chalom, a dream remediation. We looked at each other, we thought he was joking. This Reb Mendel Marasow had a healthy sense of humor, he could be very funny, he often made light of things… maybe he’s pulling our leg. After all, yes, there is the Hatavat Chalom procedure tucked away in the back of the Siddur, but we never looked at it, we never heard of it being done. We first joked around with him about it, but he insisted that he was serious. He needed a court of three and wanted to do this right away first thing in the morning, and we were technically three adults, albeit 50 years his junior. He said his piece, we followed along in the book and that was it.

It occurred to me then, it crossed my mind, that my grandfather also just recently had a very disturbing dream, but I didn’t dwell on it. And then sometime after that the Rebbe had the stroke on the 27th of Adar, the Rebbe’s passing was on the 3rd of Tammuz two years later, and our worlds changed forever.

THIS REBBE AND THAT REBBE

There was a time that I’d walk my grandfather home from the Rebbe’s farbrengens on Shabbos afternoons. He suffered from asthma or a breathing condition that became more pronounced in his later years. Farbrengen Shabbos was big ordeal for him. He got up early, went to 770 (address and beloved name of the Rebbe’s synagogue and office), sat up in the front near the white brick wall. He wouldn’t eat or drink much before farbrengen because of his great fear of having to exit to go to the restroom in middle of the farbrengen. And although he had a front row prime seat, just in front of the Rebbe’s table, it was a tight squeeze and he was a small man and it wasn’t easy. So there were times that I’d help him walk home, up Kingston Ave and the long blocks of President Street until Utica Ave.

Now and then he’d stop on a stoop, or rest for a few moments to catch his breath leaning on one of apartment building pillars near the sidewalk. And we would talk. We shared a little from the farbrengen, we talked about other things.

One week he said to me, “This Rebbe (our Rebbe) is different than that Rebbe (the Previous Rebbe).” Der Rebbe is nisht vee Yeneh Rebbe. I asked him to explain, after all, he was a Chassid of both Rebbes, one of his youth, and one of his older years. He explained it this way: “When you went into the Previous Rebbe with a personal problem, he would sigh, he would empathize, he would cry along with you. This Rebbe? He encourages, he uplifts, he tells you to double your efforts.” So I asked him which type of Rebbe his prefers, and he said, “Each generation has the Rebbe it needs.”

TWO THINGS ABOUT MEALTIME

I ate many, many meals in their home. The first one I sat on the radiator, and they served a Borscht with eggs and vegetables in it, and it was a tough one to swallow, I wasn’t used to that. My Bubbe made many deeply flavorful soups (she cooked with thyme). I liked her cooking a lot. A lot of the weekday meals were one-pot meals that she served in components, a main course, and the soup. Her fish soup was an acquired taste for me, but I learned to really love the potatoes from the fish. Of course she also made fresh salads and homemade compote desserts, too. Here’s one thing that was consistent at every meal. They sat down to eat, and one of the first things one of them said was “Es Felt Zaltz” or “Tzufil Zaltz” either it is missing salt, or too much salt. There was no way of predicting this. Sometimes my grandfather felt it didn’t have enough salt, sometimes my grandfather felt that way – or too much salt. But they always discussed the salt. And even after being married for decades, living through WWII, and everything else they went through, and years of settled life in Brooklyn, they never got the salt down pat. It was always a variable. Even though my grandfather was punctual and planned out, meticulous and orderly, there’s just some key things in life you can’t have figured out.

There was one rule that my grandfather blatantly ignored. That was the rule about not drinking alcohol with medication. Although a Russian, he wasn’t much of a drinker, there never was much alcohol in the house aside for the Kiddush wine in his dining room cabinet. He had small Smirnoff bottles, the short wide ones, for special occasions. But he dutiful took his medicine each day with a small shot of vodka. That’s exactly how he took it. Maybe it was his way of making a toast to good health. Lchaim!