Shifra Zeidman* was already 27 years old. Even her normally unflappable mother had begun to worry. As the youngest of seven siblings, Shifra lived a full life — she worked as a dietician, spent hours caring for her nieces and nephews, and filled her days with chessed. Life was busy, but the silence of the phone told its own story.
When her friends began having their third and fourth babies, reality hit her hard. Her classmates, her neighbors, her camp friends — nearly all had built their families. Though surrounded by people, she felt left behind.
Mrs. Zeidman could not understand it. Her daughter was refined, warm, capable — a true gem. Why wasn’t the phone ringing? Why weren’t shadchanim calling? One morning she cleared her schedule, sat by the phone, and spent hours making calls. But when she finally set the receiver down, her heart was heavier than ever. No leads, no names, nothing.
A few days later, weighed down by worry, she drove to New Jersey to daven at her parents’ kevarim. It wasn’t their yahrzeit — but she felt compelled to go. She poured out her heart in tears, begging Hashem for her daughter’s future. When she left, she felt lighter, as if a stone had been lifted.
Days later, the phone rang. “Is this Mrs. Zeidman? Perhaps you are a Rivlin from Eretz Yisroel — the daughter of R’ Yom Tov Yisroel Rivlin?”
Startled, she answered, “Yes... who is this?”
“My name is Feivel Markstein. I’m a shadchan. I moved from Eretz Yisroel a few years ago.”
Mrs. Zeidman nearly dropped the phone. Mr. Markstein was one of the most prominent shadchanim around. Why was he calling her? But he was indeed calling about Shifra. He wanted information. Enthusiastically, she gave it, and within days he called back with suggestions. Then more. And more. Within weeks he had suggested eight boys.
Two dates materialized, though they didn’t work out. Still, he refused to give up. Day after day, week after week, he kept calling — checking, suggesting, following up. This went on not for weeks, but for months — for eighteen long months. It seemed as though this busy, well-known shadchan had made Shifra’s shidduch his personal mission.
At times, Mrs. Zeidman tried to ask him why. Each time, he brushed it off. Until finally, as Shifra neared thirty, his efforts bore fruit. He introduced her to Yonah Scheiner* of London — her chosson. At the vort, the Zeidmans gratefully handed him a substantial shadchanus. For the first time, he revealed the secret behind his tireless dedication.
“I grew up in Yerushalayim during the British Mandate,” he began. “Those were years of hunger, deprivation, and fear. British soldiers were harsh, Arabs hostile. Families lacked bread, and the Old City was plagued with disease. Many children didn’t survive their first year. Then came the War of Independence in 1948. I was just a boy. Gunfire, grenades, bombardments — the Old City was under siege. Food was scarce, water even scarcer. Fetching it from the public wells meant risking one’s life under constant shelling.
“But one man, R’ Yom Tov Yisroel Rivlin, risked his life every day to bring water to his neighbors. People lined up at his door, begging for survival. I will never forget one blazing hot day. Our water barrel was empty. I hadn’t had water in over a day. Weak and dizzy, I dragged myself to the Rivlin home, dodging shells. When I knocked, R’ Yom Tov Yisroel opened the door. ‘What do you need, my child?’ he asked gently. ‘Water,’ I whispered. ‘Please. I can’t go on.’
“He sighed. His barrel was empty. But when he saw my condition, he didn’t hesitate. He told me to sit, then ran into the open — under fire — to draw more water from the well. I trembled, certain he would be killed. But miraculously, he returned with a full pail. ‘Drink, mein kind. Drink your fill.’ I drank until I could drink no more. He had saved my life at the risk of his own.
“Mrs. Zeidman, that tzaddik was your father. When I later came to America, I searched for him. I finally found you. And when I heard you had a daughter waiting for her shidduch, I knew this was how I could repay him. I put everything aside and focused only on her. And now, Boruch Hashem, the effort has been rewarded.”
The room fell silent. The Zeidmans were overcome. One pail of water, given in the fire of war, had rippled forward through decades — to bring life, joy, and continuity to a granddaughter’s new home. (Excerpted from the ArtScroll book – “Another Handful of Stars”)
Reprinted from the Parshas Bereishis 5786 email of The Weekly Vort.
