One of the tzaddikim who fought the Zionist movement was the Rav of Yerushalayim, R’ Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld. Understandably, the Zionists were distraught, since the very own Rav of Yerushalayim spoke outright against them.
At one particularly heated moment, a group of Zionist teenagers broke into his home, holding him to the wall and threatening to take his life. This was not something bizarre, as it was known that Zionists were responsible for the death of Professor Dehan.
While keeping cool, R’ Yosef Chaim peacefully replied that he’d continue spreading what the Torah requires him to say, without compromise. Opening the buttons of his shirt, R’ Yosef Chaim told them, “Now you can shoot!”
Seeing the awesome scene, they dashed for the door and never returned.
After they left, the family members, who were aware of what had occurred, came running in to ask R’ Yosef Chaim how he’d been saved. Was it a mofes?
He replied that his salvation was in no way a miracle. This is part of the makeup of the creation—something anyone could perform.
Seeing the wonder on his family members’ face, he continued, “The pasuk tells: ‘k’mayim panim el panim — the way the water reflects the face of the one looking into it, k’eyn lev ha’Adam el Adam — so reflects to heart of a person to his fellow.’ When I saw them, my heart wailed with compassion and pity. They have fallen to the degree that they are ready to take the life of the Rav of Yerushalayim — for what? For me not agreeing with their misbeliefs?! Isn’t that a tremendous pity?
“That’s why they ran away. When they saw the compassion that I had for them, and that my ka’na’us wasn’t against ‘them’ but rather all I wanted is that they return to Torah and mitzvos, they all vanished and disappeared.”
R’ Yosef Chaim then expressed a similar story that had transpired years earlier. In Europe, the Jewish community had suffered from an individual who snitched, leaking the Yidden’s information to the government. Every week, he would come to shul demanding shlishi, the best aliyah (at least in some circles). Scared of him, the gabbai obeyed his request, hoping to spare the community from additional, unwanted suffering.
Sometime later, the community got a new Rav. When the new Rav came into office, he exclaimed that under his leadership, that rasha would not be getting that aliyah — if any aliyah.
Trembling for the community’s future, the gabbai disregarded the words of the Rav and honored the rasha with his aliyah. When he was called up, the Rav made his way to the bimah and publicly declared that under no circumstances would that snitcher be getting any aliyos. “He is not fit for an aliyah. As long as he snitches on the city’s residents, he is not entitled to an aliyah. We are putting an end to this.”
Having his honor publicly shamed, he picked up his arm and publicly declared that the Rav would already hear from him. He wasn’t going to let this go. The crowd feared the worst. “How is this going to end?” they wondered.
During the following week, the Rav was called to perform a bris in the neighboring town. Traveling down the road, he spied the rasha holding a revolver in his hand. The Rav knew exactly what this meant.
Right then, the Rav started pitying him how far he had fallen—to the point of coming to dispatch the Rav. He had such rachmanus on the rasha. As the rasha approached, the Rav told him that he didn’t fear him or the gun he carried.
Right after he finished talking, the rasha dropped his gun, started crying like a baby, and pleaded for the forgiveness of the Rav.
Over the next few days, the rumor went around as to how that man had returned to Hashem and committed to keep the Torah and mitzvos. The congregants were puzzled at this turnaround. What did the Rav tell him that caused such a return?
The Rav explained to them that the matter was simple. “The first time I heard of this man, I was filled with anger. How could it be that a Yid would snitch on his brethren and then come to shul demanding an aliyah? It annoyed me.
“The following week, when I saw him confronting me with the gun, I saw that he was ready to take my life. Seeing this filled my heart with compassion toward him. An observant Jew had become such a person? I started feeling so bad for him and where his life was leading him to. He felt this feeling too.
“He knew that instead of feeling anger toward him, I had compassion to him—compassion on his spiritual level—and that my anger was not against him but rather what he was doing. Feeling this caused his return.” (Tiferes Shmuel, Vayishlach, p. 5)
