Mishpacha Magazine: Lead Like a Lion

The rabbi has lions in his study.

Sure, he has rabbi stuff — seforim and letters, pictures and shul artifacts — as well, but the ornamental beasts of brass, stone, and glass crouch all around.

Part metaphor, part history, part mission statement; they represent Rav Avrohom Yitzchak Levene’s legacy. The lion hints at the first names of two of the most seminal figures in his life, his paternal grandfather, Rav Aryeh Levine of Yerushalayim and his maternal grandfather, Rav Yehuda Leib Levene of London.

It serves as a symbol of the leadership model that served him through more than a half-century in synagogue rabbanus.

The impeccably dressed rabbi — elegant black and gold smoking jacket perfectly matched with his necktie — is in darshan mode. Many of the figures who play roles in the rich life of Rabbi Levene occupy places of honor in the communal memory-bank. Happily, his raconteurial abilities match the color of his subjects; his recollections do them justice.

I WILL BE THERE

There are people who tell stories. Like an actor dropped on stage in mid-scene, Rabbi Avrohom Yitzchak Levene was born into a story.

Where to begin? Like all good tales, it starts in Jerusalem, where a young couple awaited the birth of their eldest child. It was a time of unrest in the Holy City, and the shock caused by an explosion near the small apartment had sent the expectant woman into a mini-coma.

Her father-in-law, known as “the” tzaddik in a city filled with saints, and her husband, one of the most accomplished young scholars in a world where there was no currency other than scholarship, poured out their hearts in prayer.

One night, Rav Chaim Yaakov Levine sat learning, his unconscious wife in the next room. He dozed off and dreamed that his father’s recently departed rebbi, Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohein Kook, appeared to him.

“Why is the Rav here?” Rav Chaim Yaakov asked.

“I came to be mevaker choleh, to visit your wife. She will have a refuah sheleimah.”

“And what will be with the child?” asked Rav Chaim Yaakov.

“The child will be fine, and I will be at his bris,” the otherworldly visitor assured him.

A healthy boy was born and named in honor of Rav Kook, little Avrohom Yitzchak Levene, one of the first children to carry the illustrious name.

Now, close to eight decades later, that child — recently retired from one of the more prestigious pulpits in the United States — welcomes me to his attractive Philadelphia home.

FIND ANOTHER JOB

There is so much to look at here, so much to see. The house is charming, bursting with personality and flair, but the people are even better. What gets you is the smile: it’s the Levene brand and they’ve been doing it for generations.

But there is something in Rav Avrohom Yitzchak’s appearance that sets him apart from others in his family; a certain firmness, the way he squares his shoulders, the tight grasp of his handshake that tells of a certain resolve.

He laughs at the observation. “I’m a shul rav; if you’re not prepared to fight for what you believe, find another job.”

And with that, he tells me about the other part of his birthright, the lesson received from the other “leib,” his maternal grandfather.

NEVER BE AFRAID

“My maternal grandfather, Rav Yehuda Leib Levene, was a talmid of the Chofetz Chaim and lived in London. My zeide Reb Aryeh was close with him for years before they would become mechutanim, he’d even stayed at his home when visiting London.

“My mother, who had graduated business school in London with honors, had one ambition in life; to marry a talmid chacham. Knowing that the chances [for a shidduch] were better in Eretz Yisrael, she saved up her money and traveled there. Of course, my zeide Reb Aryeh, who felt like an uncle toward her, insisted that she be his guest. Different as she was in background from my father, she was similar to him in her burning ahavas Torah and my zeide wanted her for his son, prize talmid of Rav Boruch Ber Leibowitz and one of the most sought-after bochurim in Yerushalayim.”

Shulamis Levene’s dream of becoming an eishes chayil was fulfilled. “Chayi’’l is an acronym of my father’s name, Chaim Yaakov Levene,” her son jokes. “But on a serious level, it was a perfect match. My father never stopped learning and she never stopped being proud.”

(In time, Reb Chaim Yaakov and his children would adopt the spelling of the London Levene’s for their own last name, even as the more standard “Levine” is generally used for Rav Aryeh and others in the family.)

“I vividly remember visiting my grandparents in London, even though I couldn’t have been more than a few years old.”

A painting hung on the wall of the Levine home, a young girl sitting on top of a haystack. “Something about the picture made me so sad. My uncle saw how upset I was and he removed the picture from the wall. My zeide noticed and asked why he’d taken it down. When my uncle explained that it frightened me, my zeide directed him to hang it right back up. Then he carried me over to the picture and spoke gently, softly.”

“You should know,” Rav Yehuda Leib whispered in his grandson’s ear, “that a Jew should fear nothing except the Ribbono shel Olam; there is nothing else to be scared of. A Yiddishe kind has to know that.”

“I was a rav for close to 60 years,” Rabbi Levene says, leaning back in his chair, “and I never forgot that advice. I repeated this story in my mind countless times over the years. He used a Russian expression, Nyeh bayus yah, which means to never be afraid. I was never scared of opposition, of threats, of losing my job, because my zeide told me not to be. Only of the Ribbono shel Olam.”

Against the backdrop of these two stories — piety and resolve — he weaves a tale of one of the most successful rabbinic careers of the last half-century.

WHAT IT MEANS

Young Avrohom Yitzchak was raised in various locales. His parents were visiting London when turbulence in Eretz Yisrael closed its borders. Rav Meir Bar-Ilan suggested that America was in desperate need of a talmid chacham of Rav Chaim Yaakov’s stature.

“My father was offered to say shiur at Yeshiva University and when he tried it out, an elderly gentleman came in along with the bochurim. He explained that he was the maggid shiur who’d just retired and he just wanted to ensure that his replacement was a talmid chacham. My father perceived that the fellow hadn’t gone of his own volition, so my father turned down the job.”

This fusion of gaonus and exalted middos wasn’t unique to Rav Chaim Yaakov. “My zeide had this close-knit chaburah of friends from when he’d been in yeshivah in Halusk [Poland], so when we arrived in America, we went to visit them; Rav Yitzchak Segal of the Agudas Harabbanim and Rav Yosef Eliyahu Henkin.

“We went to Rav Henkin’s home directly from the port and I was starving. He served honey cake and when I asked for a piece, he looked at my father. ‘You’re planning to send him to school here, in America, but he speaks English with a British accent. Teach him to speak like an American so he won’t be embarrassed here.’ ”

The comment made an impression on the young boy. “I was only four years old, but I understood his message. I think he was making a point about the importance of communication, about what it means to be a rav.”

A DREAM

The Levene’s made several stops in North America. Rav Chaim Yaakov served as rosh yeshivah in Seattle, Washington, before finally establishing himself as a rav in Jersey City, where he remained for years, making a major impact.

When he turned 12 years old, Avrohom Yitzchak became the youngest talmid at the relatively new Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland, Ohio, before it established itself in Wickliffe.

“But I dreamed of learning by my zeide Rav Aryeh and eventually, my parents agreed.”

The teenager set off, spending the Yamim Noraim in London with one zeide before continuing on to Eretz Yisrael, to the other one. Arriving on holy soil was like being dropped into the middle of a storybook, a fantasyland of saints and scholars, the pious and poor.

“Those were the most glorious times… I learned by my uncle, Reb Leizer Plachinsky. The chevreh included many cousins, At night, I hung around with the Zeide. I would join the shiur he gave in a little shul in the Knesses neighborhood.”

On Shabbos, the American grandson would accompany his zeide on his visits. “He would go visit his mechutenes, whom he called ‘Hummler Rebbetzin’ — the mother of Rav Elyashiv!”

And of course, the uncle himself. “In later years, whenever I would come to Eretz Yisrael and try to get into Rav Elyashiv, my Doda Chaya would push me to the head of the line. ‘My husband likes talking to you,’ she would say.”

In later years, when Rav Elyashiv carried the responsibility of ruling for a nation and his nephew was leading a congregation in Philadelphia, Rav Elyashiv — interested in the perspective of a shul rabbi about certain issues — would ask what his nephew thought about various topics.

“There was a mess here in Philadelphia when two Jewish kids were playing around, there was a mock wedding, and the teenage boy was mekadesh a girl as a joke. It was a very serious sh’eilah as to how to proceed. On my next trip, Rav Elyashiv wanted to hear how we handled it: He was pleased with my psak.”

Another family member with whom he got acquainted was the chassan of his cousin. “My cousin Batsheva Elyashiv got engaged to a brilliant bochur, a son of the Steipler Gaon of Bnei Brak. I remember the shtickel Torah he said when he came to visit the Zeide, about a Rambam that appears to miss a gemara.”

Many years later, the Philadelphia cousin was visiting Rav Chaim Kanievsky and he reminded the gadol about the insight. “He was delighted to be reminded about that shtickel Torah.”

Which Rambam, I ask, curious. My host studies me for a long moment. “Aha, you want it to come so easy? You heard what I said; it’s a Rambam that appears to overlook a gemara, that should be enough information to get you started… go figure it out,” he challenges.

IF HE WANTS

At the festive wedding, Reb Aryeh brought his American grandson over to receive a brachah from the chassan’s uncle, the Chazon Ish.

“I saw him. I saw the Brisker Rav. Listen to this story.”

If someone would tell me that they are giving out $20 bills outside, I don’t think I would be able to get up. I’m in complete surrender to this man and his stories.

“My uncle, Reb Leizer Plachinsky, was a talmid of the Brisker Rav, so I longed to visit him. Finally, the opportunity presented itself and I visited the apartment.”

The American bochur was offered a seat and the Brisker Rav studied him. There was total silence in the room.

“The Rav made a brachah on his tea and I said ‘Amen,’ waiting for him to talk. Finally, it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything more than ‘Nu.’ ”

The bochur shared a shtickel Torah he’d developed. The Rav listened, and then said, “Ess toig nisht, it’s not correct.”

“That was it. The conversation was closed. I stood up and left.”

A full year later, when Avrohom Yitzchak was preparing to return home, Reb Aryeh wanted to take the bochur to the Brisker Rav for a farewell brachah.

The Rav welcomed Rav Aryeh and invited him to sit down. Reb Aryeh introduced his grandson, “This is my einekel from America, he’s going home and wants a brachah.”

The Rav looked up. “Fuhr gezunt, kum gezunt,” he said, safe travels.

“He also wants a brachah for hatzlachah in learning,” Rav Aryeh prodded.

“Oib ehr vet vellen, if he’ll want,” the Rav replied, “then he’ll be successful.”

The Rav fixed his stare on Avrohom Yitzchak. “Farvoss toigt ess nisht?” he demanded. What was wrong with the shtickel Torah of the previous year.

The bochur told the Rav what he imagined the error was and the Ravv’s face brightened.

He looked at the bochur with satisfaction and aid, “Nu, efsher vet ehr takeh vellen, maybe he’ll actually want.”

Rabbi Levene attributes much of the blessing in his life to his daily encounters with Rav Isser Zalman Meltzer.

“There was a near-constant state of war during that period, so there was no such thing as fresh milk in Yerushalayim, only powered milk. Though Rav Isser Zalman allowed its use for others, he himself wouldn’t use the substance.”

But the elderly rosh yeshivah needed milk for his health, so Rav Aryeh Levine located an old Yemenite gentleman who owned a goat, and arranged to purchase goat milk for Rav Isser Zalman.

“Each morning, I brought him a jug of milk, and the shower of his brachos would accompany me down the long staircase.”

Though his rapture at being in Holy City kept growing, there was pressure from home to return.

“In addition to the constant danger and shortages, I had health issues as well and my parents wanted me back, to learn closer to home.”

The trail of great stories followed him onto the airplane home as well. “Before I left, my zeide handed me a well-wrapped package, a gift for my father, and he told me to watch it carefully. When we got to the airport, my zeide greeted this distinguished looking rebbetzin and introduced me, his einekel. It was Rebbetzin Hutner, wife of the rosh yeshivah of Chaim Berlin, and she told my grandfather, ‘Daageh nisht Reb Aryeh, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your grandson on the flight home.’ ”

At one point on the long flight, the teenage traveler needed the washroom. “I wasn’t sure what to do with the package, the Zeide had told me not to let it out of my sight. The passenger next to me was drunk. I approached Rebbetzin Hutner and told her I have a sh’eilah. ‘The Zeide told me to watch this package, and he asked you to watch me; perhaps you can watch this for me?’ ”

She smiled and said, “I’m not a rosh yeshivah or rav, but I am sure it’s fine if I watch it.”

The package turned out to be a most precious gift, a on