By Rabbi Chanoch Bistritzky, Menahel Yeshivas Beis Dovid Shlomo in New Haven, writes about his last interaction with the Rosh Yeshiva Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Kalmenson ZT”L.

By Rabbi Chanoch Bistritzky, Menahel of Yeshivas Beis Dovid Shlomo, New Haven

It will be a long time before I forget the last time I saw Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Kalmenson, of blessed memory, on his very last evening on earth. And in a sense, our last moments together are emblematic of the way he lived: sweet, soft-spoken, and utterly focused on others.

It was after davening on the first night of Rosh Hashanah, and he was walking home from shul along with a guest. As he passed by my house we extended to each other the customary wishes for the new year. And then he stopped, turned to face me with his full attention, and emotionally let forth a stream of blessings. He was so soft-spoken that I could barely hear what he was saying, but I felt the warmth and saw the care in his eyes.

The next morning, we learned the bitter news.

The man with a shy smile, an iron head, and a heart of gold was no longer among us.

But that image of him standing there, holding his hands together, swaying and sharing brochos for the new year will be mine to treasure.

Rabbi Kalmenson was a man of superlatives. By all standards, he was a Gaon. His seforim are classics, used by Roshei Yeshiva around the world–both within Chabad and in the broader community–as they prepare their shiurim.

Yet, he was so humble. Everything about how he lived attested to this. He would stand in line behind the Bochurim, waiting his turn to take some food for himself.

Not because he wanted to broadcast his humility but because he simply did not see any reason to be elevated above his students, who were young enough to be his grandchildren and adored him beyond words.

A bochur once saw the rosh yeshivah standing behind him, and told him, “Please, go ahead of me.” Rabbi Kalmenson shrugged it off, “No, No.” The bochur insisted, “Rabbi Kalmenson, you’re making me uncomfortable.” And the rabbi responded, “No, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

And it was true, he truly was not comfortable being celebrated or even noticed.

There’s no doubt that he was naturally shy and unassuming. Yet, he left yeshiva on a regular basis to do mivtzoyim. He had a long route that he would go on every day, sometimes a few times per day. And throughout the year, his mekuravim would come to zal to put on tefillin or just to sit and speak with him.

To the rest of the world, he was a rosh yeshiva of the highest caliber, but to them, he was the kind rabbi who never tired of helping them put on tefillin and answer their questions.

He was a humble soldier in the Rebbe’s army, and no task was beneath him and no duty ever grew old for him.

In the nearly 50 years that he served in New Haven, there were many ups and downs. There were years when he was surrounded by eager students, and there were years when he had a less receptive group. But it made no difference. He loved learning, he loved teaching, and he loved his students.

When I joined the staff as menahel, I was just 24 years old and he had been on the job longer than I’d been alive. Instead of regarding me with suspicion and waiting for me to prove myself, he greeted me with joy and excitement. I felt intimidated telling him my plans and expectations, but he was so unassuming and welcoming. He would “check in” with me if he needed to miss seder for an appointment or a simchah, as if he really needed my permission.

In the 8 years that I worked alongside him as menahel, I never saw him become angry or raise his voice. Rather, if he needed to chide a bochur or remind them of what they could and should be doing, he’d do so softly and with a smile.

He watched his words, being careful not to utter an angry remark or speak ill of others.

Yet, as gentle and sweet as he truly was, he was not a pushover. He would frequently encourage or even push the students to learn more, daven better, and strive for more.

An alumnus told me how he recently approached Rabbi Kalmenson with an avodah issue he was struggling with. At first, he shrugged and smiled as if to say, “I don’t know. What do you want from me?” But as the bochur pushed him to stop pretending he didn’t know and showed an earnest desire to hear his council, he became serious and directed the fellow to a private place where he could listen, consider, and give a well-reasoned response.

Torah and mitzvos were his only reality, and everyone felt that. This allowed him to “get away” with saying things that would sound trite coming from others. Two examples come to mind:

A speaker once came to yeshiva to speak about his personal experiences with addiction, suicidal ideation, and more. It was a great talk and very well received by the bochurim. After the man finished, Rabbi Kalmenson thanked him and then spontaneously announced to the audience: “If you daven and learn, you will not have all these problems”. That was his world. Torah was the beginning and end of it all. And if you learned Torah, you had nothing to worry about.

A couple of years ago, kapporos chickens got more expensive than they had been and people were complaining. “What?” he said. “Eighteen dollars for a kapporah for all your aveiros? That’s cheap!”

He said it so sweetly, and he meant every word. A Yid before Yom Kippur needs a kapporah, and $18 is a small price to pay for the eternal benefit we gain.

We can never really know, but they say that some people sense when their time on earth has come to an end. In retrospect my encounter with Rabbi Kalmenson that first night on Rosh Hashana felt like a heartfelt goodbye.

Amen to all of your brochos, Rabbi Kalmenson! I will miss you. It’s been a tremendous zechus to work and teach alongside you. May the pure and elevated neshamah of Harav Yosef Yitzchak ben Harav Yekusiel Dov Ber have an aliya and be a source of brocha and kapporah for us all!