As a young child, Shmuel loved escorting his father to daven Shacharis. But the minyan they davened with was no ordinary minyan — it was the quiet, select group that davened with the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman. Shmuel didn’t understand much of what took place there, yet standing in that room — close enough to feel the presence of such a tzaddik — filled him with wonder. Even then, he sensed that heiligkeit didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard.
One morning after Shacharis, as the Rosh Yeshivah returned to his office, Shmuel overheard Rav Shteinman’s grandson pose a question about his daily routine. Each morning began with an early shiur for his devoted talmidim. Then came Birchos Hashachar, recited in a deliberate, resonant voice so that many could answer “Amen.” After donning his tallis and tefillin, he would head to the beis ha’midrash — but not before stopping at the line of tzedakah boxes. There, he placed a 10 agurot coin in each, pausing each time with a quiet murmur under his breath. Many had seen this, yet no one dared to ask what he was saying. His grandson did.
The Gadol Hador smiled softly. “I give one coin for the six million who perished in the war. Another for my father. One for my mother. One for my brother, one for my sister, another for Reb Simchah Zelig, one for the mechaber of Sefer Toras Haaretz, and the last — for someone who was niftar a while back.”
The boy was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Zaidy... I understand giving a coin for each person you loved, but how can you divide one coin among six million?”
“If you’re dealing with money,” the Rosh Yeshivah said gently, “you’re right — it can’t be done. But we’re not dealing with money. We’re dealing with a mitzvah. A mitzvah is infinity; it can be divided endlessly and still have a remainder.” He paused. “And the neshamos, they long for even the smallest zechus. Once they reach the Next World, they can no longer earn mitzvos. Whatever they receive, even a fraction, is cherished beyond measure.”
Then the Rosh Yeshivah shared another story:
A tzaddik once traveled to daven at the kever of the Noam Elimelech. Before he left, his father told him, “Not always is the neshamah present at the kever. Sometimes it is elsewhere. So, before you begin davening, give a coin to tzedakah and say it should be a zechus for the neshamah who will go and call the Noam Elimelech to listen to your tefillos.”
The tzaddik did so, and in that instant, thousands of neshamos rushed forward, eager to carry the message — all for that single coin.
Tears filled the Rosh Yeshivah’s eyes. “The neshamos already know the value of one mitzvah,” he said softly. “They flock like souls dying of thirst for just one more — not only a full mitzvah, but even a fraction of one.”
Shmuel remembered sitting there, hardly breathing, as the Rosh Yeshivah’s voice trembled with feeling. Though he would attend many more mornings after that, that moment stayed etched in his heart. It was the first time he understood that quiet holiness could roar.
[Years later, the Rosh Yeshivah revealed who the “person who was niftar a while ago” was.
“There was a man,” he said, “who once spoke falsely about me. It hurt deeply. But then I thought — what gain is there in holding a grudge? Let go. Move on. I realized he is a hot-tempered fellow, not malicious — just mistaken. So, for him, I add another coin each morning.”
Not only had the Rosh Yeshivah forgiven him, but he had given the man a daily zechus — a coin of compassion. He hadn’t divided the coin at all. He had multiplied its meaning.
Years later, when Shmuel himself was wronged unfairly, he remembered Rav Shteinman’s trembling hands, the quiet clink of coins, and the whisper that filled the room.]
And in that moment, he finally understood: He hadn’t divided a coin — he had multiplied a heart.
