My Experience of the First Gimmel Tammuz

By Sruly Meyer – COLlive

It’s pretty shocking to come to terms with the fact that it has been 30 years since the first Gimmel Tammuz.

I was 16 years old at the time of the Rebbe’s Histalkus. It was a year filled with big emotions and tragic experiences. While I’ve told my first account of that day before, I’ve never written it down, and I finally felt it was time to do that. Before I go over the specifics of that night, I wanted to share a bit about what it was like as a kid growing up in the 80s with the Rebbe.

I was both lucky and honored to have grown up during those years, although I was from “out of town,” as they used to say in those days, Miami Beach. We would gather in the main auditorium in Landow Yeshiva on Alton Road when the Rebbe gave a weekday Sicha. It would be on the loudspeaker, and the adults kept us busy by giving us a paper and pen to write down Yiddish words and phrases we recognized. I remember the Chanukah hookups and the Lag Baomer broadcasts live.

I had the privilege of visiting the Rebbe on multiple occasions. I passed by the Rebbe for dollars at least three times that I recall, I received Lekach and Kol Shel Bracha twice. I even remember getting a nickel from the Rebbe outside the downstairs door by 770. After Sunday dollars, when you left 770 with your dollar, you would walk onto the Eastern Parkway, and there were tables of vendors selling things; you could even have your dollar stamped and laminated on the spot.

During the years I did not go to Crown Heights for Simchas Torah, I remember anxiously waiting for the men who did go to come back Shabbos Breishis and tell us their stories. There were many intense stories of the “Miami Section ” in 770 during Simchas Torah. I learned firsthand during my last visit to Crown Heights before the stroke that the “section” was a tower of milk crates, miraculously strapped together and built upward.

During one visit, in between speaking, the Rebbe started to sing a Nigun, and Chassidim would hold a L’chaim and look toward the Rebbe, hoping for a glance back. It took me many such times to do this (with grape juice, of course), but the one time the Rebbe did look back at me, it felt like I had hit the lottery.

When I was 14, I remember being in Yeshiva in Miami Beach and seeing bochurim emerge from the Beis Medrash (Zal) double doors. They told us that the Rebbe “fell,” and although we did not understand right away what that meant, it became obvious very quickly.

When I was 15, I left South Florida to study in the Mesivta in Morristown, NJ, that year. I remember trying to get a ride to the hospital when the Rebbe was having a procedure on his eyes and arriving in Crown Heights as the news broke about the Brooklyn Bridge shooting.

While I did not know Ari Halberstam (hy”d), he was my age, and very close with many other boys in my grade. I actually did meet him briefly in 770, just weeks before. Ari passed away on Chof Gimmel Adar, the day I turned 16. As a Bochur my age during that year, you can’t separate that experience from the story of Gimmel Tammuz.

The morning of Chof Zayin Adar, 2 years after the stroke, I was in the Yeshiva, and someone said, “It’s Chof Zayin Adar, and the Rebbe had a stroke,” and I responded, you mean, it’s been two years since then? The person responded, no, it happened again. I could not wrap my head around that concept—the sheer odds of this happening again on the same day, 2 years later.

After the second stroke, we began going to the hospital every Thursday, where we would continue Seder there in the large auditorium at Mt Sinai and later in Beth Israel. Sometimes, we would stay for Shabbos, but most of the time, I would go back to Crown Heights.

Spending that much time in the hospital at that point in Chabad history was surreal. We would essentially create the Yeshiva experience at a Hospital. I would see Rabbi Leibel Groner (OBM) or Rabbi Yehuda Krinsky walking in the halls and always trying to determine the Rebbe’s matzev from their faces. On a couple of occasions, I even had the Chutzpah to stop Rabbi Groner and ask him if there had been any changes in the Rebbe’s condition.

There were just a few weeks left until Seder for the year, and I decided to stay in the hospital that Shabbos. Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy, but I worked it out, and you could tell from the moment Shabbos began that something was off. People seemed more intense than usual; those same faces I would try to read all looked a little more serious. Shabbos morning, it became very clear something was up. We kept getting very unclear updates. At one point in the afternoon, they were looking for Bochurim to walk from the hospital to 770 to inform people that the Rebbe needed an increase in Tehilim because “the Matzev” was worsening.

I volunteered along with many others, and in what I can only describe as a reverse Taalucha, we walked from Manhattan to Crown Heights to let people know that more Tehilim was needed. I recall people asking me for more details when we arrived, but we didn’t know. We were asked to go, we went, that’s all the info I had. When Shabbos was over I went to a family I would often stay at when I was there for Shabbos to rest a bit. I went to sleep feeling very uneasy.

I woke up to the Shabbos siren blaring, confused about what day it was. I checked my watch and saw that it was around 2 am. My first thought was that it was an accident. I opened the window and saw people walking up the street. I came out and saw my hosts on the phone, talking to other family members; it was clear what happened; no one had to tell me.

I didn’t know where else to go, so I walked toward 770. I turned the corner of Montgomery onto Kingston and saw hundreds of other people doing the same thing. I saw a friend of mine as we were walking and he asked me if I saw the message that came across on the beepers. In those days, many people had beepers, and the technology only allowed short, limited text messages on the screen.

It read, Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad. Baruch Dayan HaEmes.

To see those words, the confirmation of it all, was almost an out-of-body experience. Over the years, I have described this scene as one from a zombie apocalypse movie. I can’t think of any other visual description. Just people quietly, eerily quiet, walking in droves toward 770. You didn’t hear much noise, or maybe it was just how I experienced those moments. I did hear some people crying, almost muted, as if allowing the tears or the sounds of the crying to leave their mouths would make it more real. The only sounds you heard were from the helicopters circling above Kingston.

As I got to 770, I went downstairs and saw a little bit of everything. Grown men sitting on chairs, arched over with their heads in their hands. Some people were dancing, others were singing, others were shouting that Moshiach was here, and people continued to say Tehilim, looking up toward the balcony. The Rebbe would come out at times. As if in hopes that maybe that would still happen.

I went upstairs to the Rebbe’s office and saw a lot of commotion; preparations were being made for what was coming next. I walked outside and saw people sitting on the brick stoops in front of 770 talking. I saw a friend there, and he was talking to another person who wasn’t Lubavitch. He told us how special the Rebbe was to him and how much he’d be missed. He told us he had to come here as soon as it happened. Then he said something to me, which I will never forget: “You had to know this was possible, right?”

No. I can’t explain why not, but no, we did not consider this at all. Despite all the developments, hospital visits, and lack of progress, we thought the Rebbe would eventually recover. I don’t think most Lubavitchers ever considered this a possibility during those years. I know I didn’t. Even earlier that day, when it was clear, things seemed to be going in a bad direction, even after walking from the hospital to 770, even after waking up from the Siren, seeing the text of the beeper, and standing there in that moment. Until he asked me that question I really did not allow myself to consider this would be possible.

The hours that followed were surreal. I started hearing that the Rebbe was headed to his office for Chassidim to pass by and say goodbye. I think it’s worth noting that no one would use certain words or descriptive terms, so even hearing “the Rebbe is coming to the office” was not easy to process in those moments without thinking the Rebbe was coming there, b’guf.

I didn’t even consider what that meant or if it was something I should do. I immediately got in line for it, and without knowing what that would be like, I waited, and eventually, it was my turn. It was strange because, for a short moment, it felt like we were waiting in line for dollars or for the Rebbe to come out and give out a printed Maamer.

Then I passed by, with only moments before being pushed to continue so that others could get a chance, I saw the Rebbe draped in a Taalis, and if it hadn’t yet sunk in, it did at that point.

From there, I went back to make plans to get to the Ohel for the Levaya. Nothing could prepare you for the scene of that night and the following day. Stories of flights being chartered last minute from all over the world. Who would make it in time? Who wouldn’t? I heard money being borrowed and spent in high numbers to get flights and buses. There weren’t enough homes in Crown Heights to host everyone flying in. Everyone I know asked me if I knew of an empty bed in someone’s room. People said they would sleep on couches, floors, and anything available. The rest of the time was filled with people making carpools to get to Queens for the Levaya.

I was lucky I secured a ride earlier, but I remember driving down Eastern Parkway toward Jackie Robinson and seeing people walking behind us. People had left hours before just to walk there because there weren’t enough rides or cars for everyone who came in overnight.

The Levaya itself was a blur. I honestly don’t remember much; I remember just being stunned by what I was seeing, wondering what the Ohel would look like, where the Rebbe was being buried, what the order of events was, or what I was supposed to be doing there. My only strong memory is when the Rebbe was being lowered down, the crowd went from stunned silence to screams and cries, as if that were the moment people could not hold back any longer. It was over before I could even remember it all. I remember feeling stunned. As we drove back, I could still see people walking toward Queens and thinking to myself the devotion of some Chasidim to walk like that.

In the days that followed, it seemed that Seder was up in the air. Most people left Yeshiva a couple of weeks early. We went into that Summer without an idea of what would happen next.

I could conclude this by saying that it’s been 30 years, and while some out there thought Chabad would fall apart after Gimmel Tammuz, it hasn’t. Yet, didn’t we already say that 10 years later and 20 years later? Yes, Chabad has carried on; we have learned to continue the Rebbe’s mission, not without him, but very much with him. How often have you heard someone say, “Is this what The Rebbe would have wanted?” as a battle cry to do better?

In the three decades since, Chabad has had some growing pains, but at its core, the values of the Rebbe continue to guide us. They remind us of what it means to be a Lubavitcher Chossid. I recently heard a story of someone complaining about a Heimishe grocery store ad that the person looked too happy; he was eating fruit with a huge smile, and this wasn’t the Frum way.

It reminded me of something important that I think the Rebbe felt strongly about, if I can be so bold as to say that. While many in the world, post war, were taught to be quiet, don’t make a lot of noise. Don’t be “too Jewish,” along with this concept that post-WW2, we were not allowed to be happy or celebrate life. The Rebbe came along and said the opposite.

Celebrate life. Celebrate your Jewishness. Even more so, the Rebbe’s wishes were for us to make as much “noise” as possible from Chanukah to Teflilin to Shabbos. Broadcast your Jewishness. The Rebbe famously felt very strongly about celebrating your birthday and being B’simcha. If you didn’t see for your own eyes the Rebbe singing a Niggun during a Farbrengen you missed out on the sight of true happiness. The smile I saw as a little kid holding up my grape juice to catch a glimpse of the Rebbe was authentic, real, and powerful.

My takeaway from seeing the Rebbe firsthand and growing up in Lubavitch will always come down to that smile. The smile that gave us the mission to be happy, celebrate life, and most of all, be proud of being Jewish. Spread that pride, spread that love, and do everything possible to make the world a little brighter.

 

– Sruly Meyer runs COLlive Magazine’s food and music sections and owns a marketing agency in Hollywood, Florida. He is a home cook, recipe developer, and an online influencer discussing food, travel, and Jewish parenthood.