When I was a young boy, my parents sent me to yeshiva in England to learn under the guidance of the esteemed Rabbi Chaim Shmuel Lopian, zt”l, Rabbi Shammai Zohn, zy”a, Rabbi Binyomin Zev Kaufman, shlita, and Rabbi Yisrael Malul, shlita. It was Elul 1966, and I was overcome with overwhelming homesickness for my family. It was six years since I had last seen them.
- HaGaon, HaTzaddik, Rabbi Shammai Zohn, zy”a, Rosh Yeshivat Sunderland, England
Those were the years that Father, zy”a, was secluded in his house, by order of his father, Rabbi Chaim Pinto, zy”a. I found out that Father had suddenly ceased this practice and traveled to the graves of the tzaddikim in Eretz Yisrael. On his way home to Morocco, he had scheduled a one-day stopover in France.
I decided to ask permission to travel to France and spend some time with my beloved father. There was only one hitch in this plan. My Moroccan passport would expire within the next few days. If I intended to travel to France, I would have to spend some time there, renewing my passport at the Moroccan embassy.
I spent a long time trying to reach a decision. Should I remain in the yeshiva and forego the opportunity to see my father in the near future? Or should I take the trip, and with it, the risk of spending an unforeseeable amount of time renewing my passport?
With the wisdom of hindsight, I now realize that it was the Satan who lured me to travel to France. The deep longing for my father, coupled with the excitement of a boat ride, a train ride, and a tour of France, were far more attractive than staying put where I belonged, in the yeshiva. However, the Satan convinced me that I was fulfilling the mitzvah of honoring my father by making time to visit him. Who could know when the next opportunity would present itself? I took the trip.
Had I been more firmly anchored to my Torah studies, I could easily have overcome my inclination. Father had not asked me to see him. He certainly would have preferred that I remain in the safe walls of the yeshiva, and not waste time (and money) on this superfluous expedition. I was also faced by the issue of my passport. It would likely be a good few days until I was issued a new one, especially since I had to go through a lot of bureaucracy to obtain it.
The Roshei Yeshiva did not compel me to remain in the yeshiva, seeing my great homesickness. I did not hint about my passport. They allowed me to go. I packed nearly all of my clothes, proof that I did not expect to return too soon, and set on my way.
The trip to France went pleasantly enough. Before I knew it, I was in my father’s warm embrace. But we were together for only one day. That evening, he was scheduled to return to Morocco. In contrast, I decided to spend some time in France. I even considered staying there for the Yamim Nora’im.
I was invited to the home of Rabbi David Busseau, shlita, son-in-law of the Baba Sali, zy”a, and a great man of kindness. He heard I was a grandson of Rabbi Chaim Pinto and allowed me to stay with his family during my stay in France.
Father had given me some money for my needs, but I foolishly squandered it on nonsense. When I went to pick up my luggage, which was being stored in the train station, I had not one franc to my name. It was the day before Rosh Hashanah, and I was understandably nervous. All of the things I needed for the upcoming holiday were in my suitcase, but I had no way of redeeming it. I was too ashamed to ask my host for the money. I decided to turn to Hashem in prayer, asking that He allow me to find a fellow Jew to help me out of my predicament. Or maybe I would find the money in the street. I took a walk down Rue des Rosiers in Paris, which was a Jewish center in those days, and tried my luck.
It was Erev Rosh Hashanah. Countless Jews were making their holiday purchases. I lifted my eyes heavenward and supplicated Hashem once again, arousing the merit of my fathers so that I should feel no shame on the holiday.
It was then that feelings of regret began to settle in. I remembered the Yamim Nora’im in the yeshiva. They would be spent in prayer which touched the soul. Rabbi Shammai Zohn, especially, had everyone moved by his emotional Tefillat Musaf. Suddenly, the glimmer of Paris was dulled. I wanted to run back to the yeshiva, if even for one hour. I knew I had no one to blame for my predicament but myself. A sense of remorse overtook me. What was I doing here altogether?
Suddenly, my host approached me. “David, did you get your luggage from the train station yet?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of it,” I quickly replied. “Don’t worry about it.” I was too ashamed to let on that I had wasted all my money. Afterward, I felt bad about my misdeeds and fortified myself with faith in Hashem. Only an open miracle could turn around my fate for the good.
The streets began emptying. I prayed fervently for direction. I spoke to Hashem from a broken heart and keenly felt the fulfillment of the verse (Tehillim 27:10), “Though my father and mother have forsaken me, Hashem will gather me in.” My relatives were all abroad. I was a sixteen-year-old in a foreign country.
I decided to enter a clothing store and buy the clothes I needed for the holiday. I gathered what I needed: a suit, shirts, shoes, etc. The salesman was very eager to help me, seeing the huge purchases I was about to make. He was happy that I did not ask him to lower the prices. I put on a calm expression, as though money was not an object. But I was broken in spirit, knowing I did not have any way to pay for these things.
I made my way to the counter, quaking inside. The man added up the bill, which amounted to five hundred francs. I told him, “If it’s okay with you, give me half an hour to bring you the money. Don’t close the shop – I’ll be back!” The man saw my sincerity and even said, “If you return earlier, I’ll give you a reduction of fifty francs.”
I left the store, begging Hashem for help. I looked around; maybe I would find a familiar Jew who would gladly lend me the money. I looked down; maybe I would find money on the ground. But I could not find anything, aside from fallen leaves and litter.
Half an hour was almost up. I was dreadfully tense. I turned to Hashem once again and said, “Ribbono shel Olam, is it difficult for You to give me five hundred francs for expenses for Yom Tov, which You have given us? Am I asking to wear these clothes for personal enjoyment? I want them to honor Your holy days, Hashem, which we are commanded to honor and enjoy with nice clothes. I have sinned before You. Please forgive me, and I will never forget Your kindness. Make a miracle for me which I will never forget.”
Suddenly, I heard someone calling, “David! David!” I looked around and found a short man wearing a green shirt and sporting a kippah. He gave me a big smile and said, “Aren’t you David Pinto, son of the tzaddik, Rabbi Moshe Aharon?” I affirmed his assumption.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to France to visit my father, who passed through on his way home from Eretz Yisrael. I got stuck here, since I have to renew my passport after the holidays.”
“And where will you be spending Rosh Hashanah?” he continued.
I told him the name of my host in Paris.
He gave me a huge smile and confided, “Listen, I have an envelope with five hundred francs which your host lent me a number of years ago when I was in Eretz Yisrael. If it’s not too hard for you, would you pass it on to him, with my warm regards?”
The man gave me the envelope, wished me a good new year, kissed me on the forehead, and was gone, without leaving his name or address. I was left very confused by what had just transpired. I had not asked a thing about this man, who came at just the right time to bring me the money I needed for my purchases.
I took a look at the envelope which contained my host’s name and address and looked up to see the man, but he had gone as quickly as he had come. I glanced at my watch and saw that half an hour had passed. I rushed back to the store with the envelope in hand. The man was about to close shop, but I begged him to open again, showing him that I had the money. I paid for my purchases and went toward my host’s house in good spirits. The entire way, I murmured praises to Hashem for the great kindness He did with me.
Throughout the holiday, I did not breathe a word regarding my rendezvous with the green-shirted man. Only afterward, when a messenger from Morocco came with money from my parents, did I place five hundred francs in the empty envelope. I brought it to my host and spilled out the entire story.
When he heard my tale, he was visibly shaken. “I cannot take the money from you. I was never in Eretz Yisrael and never lent such a huge sum of money to anyone. This money is not mine.”
But I would not give in. “Look!” I said. “Your name and address are printed on the envelope. The money is yours. Moreover, the man I spoke to knows who you are.”
My host took the envelope and entered his room, trembling in fear. A few moments later, he emerged. “This cannot be happening. Either your holy grandfather descended from the World of Truth to help you in your hour of need, or it was Eliyahu Hanavi. In any event, I cannot take the money from you.” He insisted on leaving the money with me.
Years later, when I told Father the whole story, he asked, “Where’s the suit?”
“I outgrew it and got rid of it.”
“What a shame!” Father said in anguish. “You should know that you got that suit directly from Heaven, sent by an angel on High!”
This is the power of prayer. I do not take credit for the miracle, chas v’shalom. It is the awesome power of tefillah from the depths of the heart and a feeling of “there is none other than Hashem” which brings a person salvation and Heavenly assistance.
