“But,” I continued, “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to manage. I have no family, so I’m afraid that I won’t know what to do or have anyone to ask for advice.”
“No one?” asked the Rebbe.
“Just my husband, and no one else. I would like it very much if the Rebbe could adopt me. Then I wouldn’t feel alone anymore.” It was an unusual question, but it was what I needed.
“Alright,” said the Rebbe. He took a little black book out of his pocket and wrote down the names for me, my husband, and Yanky.
We agreed that when I had more children, I would send their names to the Rebbe, so that he could add them to his book.
Then the Rebbe told me to always be happy, that everything would be fine, and that he would see me next year. Going through the Holocaust had caused me a lot of unhappiness, but in that moment, I felt very happy. I thanked the Rebbe a million times, and off we went.
We came back the next year, and by then we had another baby — Hershy. The Rebbe asked about the children and about me, and I mentioned that I had been taking some medication for a stomach problem.
The Rebbe understood what the issue was and had a suggestion: “Don’t use the medication – you can drink Saratoga water instead.” He was talking about the special mineral water of Saratoga Springs, New York; they sell it everywhere now. So, on the way back to Montreal, we stopped off there and got some of the water.
At one point during that meeting, Rabbi Leibel Groner, one of the Rebbe’s secretaries, began knocking on the door to bring the audience to a close.
“Please, Rebbe,” I begged, “I don’t want to go yet. Tell him to leave us alone.”
Hearing that, the Rebbe told Rabbi Groner that the next person in line would wait until I came out.
Generally speaking, we would come back every year for Simchat Torah, putting all of the kids into our station wagon and driving to New York. But before long, with no family in New York and so many kids, finding a place to stay became impossible; most people couldn’t handle so many guests!
So, one year, I brought it up with the Rebbe. “It feels like everybody’s house is full with their own family,” I complained. “We would love to continue coming every year, but we have no place to stay.”
“Don’t worry,” the Rebbe reassured me, “You will have a place.”
When we came back the next year, Rabbi Binyomin Klein, another one of the Rebbe’s secretaries and a very nice man, brought us a set of keys. They were for an apartment just behind 770 that was recently purchased by the Rebbe’s office. Later, that building housed a kollel for young married men to study Torah, but at that point, it was going unused.
“Here are the keys,” he said. “When you are finished, bring them back.”
I couldn’t believe it. We brought some beds to sleep on, and every year, that was where we would stay.
I felt that being with the Rebbe in New York for the holidays each year gave me the strength to take care of my kids the rest of the year.
One time, when I confided in the Rebbe about some of my fears and concerns — I was always worried about everything — he told me, “Don’t be a worrier, be a warrior!”
I felt very close to the Rebbe, as if he was my only friend. He understood me and always gave good, compassionate advice. He understood that we needed him, that we believed in him, and trusted that whatever he said was right — and somehow, it always was. He was someone I could count on, and he never disappointed me.
After surviving the Holocaust, Mrs. Miriaim Fellig, together with her husband Joe, went on to have ten children, and many more grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She was interviewed in January 2009 and passed away in November 2021.
