That night in Peabody, Massachusetts, our Chabad House was full.
I stood at the front in my white kittel, tallis draped across my shoulders, as the haunting melody of Kol Nidrei filled the room. The atmosphere was thick with reverence. You could almost feel the weight of the moment pressing down — like even the walls knew it was Yom Kippur.
And then — it was over. Kol Nidrei is powerful, but brief. Within an hour the service ended. And on Yom Kippur, there’s no kiddush, no cake, no soda, no chance to schmooze over food. People lingered a few minutes, speaking quietly, and then began collecting their things and heading home.
I stood near the front, watching the crowd, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
∑
A man shifted uncomfortably, looking embarrassed. “Rabbi,” he whispered, “I really need the restroom. But it seems to be locked. I’ve been knocking and no one answers. Could you... maybe check? Please — I really need to go.”
His face flushed red.
My brow furrowed. Who could be inside so long? I glanced around the shul. Almost everyone was accounted for — almost. Then it struck me. Leonard, the elderly gentleman who always sat in the back, wasn’t in his place. His wife was still in the women’s section. He couldn’t have left without her.
With a sinking feeling, I walked down the hallway and tapped gently on the restroom door. “Leonard? Are you in there? Do you need help?”
For a moment there was silence. I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Then, from the other side, came a faint, shaky voice. “...Please... call my wife.”
I hurried back, found Mrs. Greenberg, and she rushed to the restroom. She slipped inside quickly and shut the door.
When she came out again, her face was pale. She leaned close and whispered. “Rabbi... I’m so sorry. My husband... he had an accident. You know how it is with older people. Sometimes the body doesn’t work the way we want it to. Please — could you clear the hall so we can slip out the back without anyone noticing? I don’t want him embarrassed.”
Her eyes were pleading. It wasn’t just about helping Leonard. It was about protecting his dignity.
I nodded gently. Within moments I had redirected the few people nearby, sent others through the front, and made sure the hallway was empty. Quietly, the Greenbergs slipped out the back door and into the night.
∑
I thought that might be the end of it. They were gone, their dignity preserved. Maybe I could just walk away.
But something inside told me I had to look.
I pushed the door open — and froze.
It wasn’t a small accident. The floor was covered. Even the walls were stained. And then the smell hit me. Sharp, sour, overwhelming. It filled the little room so fast I had to step back and cover my mouth. For a moment I thought I might throw up.
I leaned against the doorframe. What now?
Normally, this would be a job for the cleaning crew. But it was Yom Kippur night. There were no phone calls to make, no staff to call in. Tomorrow morning people would come back to shul — and if they walked into this... it could be terrible. It would humiliate the Greenbergs, and it could even drive people away.
There was no one else to handle it. No cleaning crew. No caretaker. No one but me.
I glanced toward my father, Rabbi Gershon Schusterman, who had been the chazzan that night. He met my eyes. His expression was calm, steady — but his look said everything: This is yours to do.
For a moment my stomach tightened. I wasn’t trained for this. I didn’t even know which spray was for which job. But I knew I had no choice. This was my shlichus now.
Hashem is busy tonight, I thought, cleansing the neshamas of His people. And here I am, cleaning a bathroom.
I opened the janitor’s closet and grabbed whatever I could find — brushes, sprays. Later I would laugh (a little) when I realized one of the bottles I used was tire shine, not floor cleaner. But at that moment, I didn’t care.
I rolled up my sleeves, dropped to my knees, and began to scrub.
The smell was awful. I gagged, coughed, nearly retched. But I didn’t stop. Spray, scrub. Again and again. Sweat poured down my back. My hands ached. Slowly, slowly, the mess began to disappear. The bathroom began to look — and smell — normal again.
When at last I stepped back into the hallway, drained and dripping with sweat, my father was waiting. He put a hand gently on my shoulder.
“Nechemia,” he said softly, “this was your Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev moment. Loving Jews isn’t only about the beautiful parts — singing, davening, giving speeches. Sometimes it means bending down and cleaning up after an elderly man. Sometimes, it means getting your hands dirty.”
∑
At the time, I thought that was the end of the story. But Hashem had written a different ending.
Months later, during a Torah class, I was teaching about Moshe Rabbeinu. I spoke about how his greatness wasn’t in standing tall above the people, but in bending low with humility — caring for each Jew as if they were his own child.
When the class ended, a man named Kyle Herskowitz walked up to me. He had only recently begun coming to Chabad. In fact, he admitted, his first time had been that Kol Nidrei night.
“Rabbi,” he said, “I need to tell you something. Religion never meant much to me. My wife dragged me here on Yom Kippur, and honestly, I had no plans of coming back. But that night... I saw you. I saw you on your knees, scrubbing that bathroom floor.
“You didn’t preach about loving Jews. You lived it. I thought: This is what leadership looks like. Not a rabbi in a big chair giving speeches. I grew up in Reform temples. I’ve heard plenty of sermons. But you were different. You were a rabbi willing to clean the floor for another Jew. That’s why I came back. That’s why I’m still here.”
His words pierced me. On the holiest night of the year, Hashem forgives us and washes away the stains of our souls. And that night, in my own small way, I had done the same — scrubbing away the mess so another Jew could keep his dignity intact.
And from that, another Jew found his way back — not through a sermon, not through a class, but through some soap, and a rabbi willing to get his hands dirty. That Kol Nidrei night, I thought I was cleaning a bathroom. But really, Hashem was showing me — and Kyle — what true leadership means.
