It all happened pretty quickly. We were busy working local jobs in Kfar Chabad, but we decided we wanted to do something more impactful; something more than just working 9-5 for a paycheck.
We searched through shluchim websites, where we found a posting in Romania. We applied for the position. A month later, we met with Rabbi and Mrs. Deitsch, the shluchim in Bucharest. Two months after that, we were on a plane to Romania.
Romania is a country steeped in Jewish history. Its shtetlach nurtured famous Chassidic dynasties whose chassidim number in the thousands. Millions of Jews called Romania home. Now, after World War II decimated the European Jewish population, only about 8,000 remain. It is our honor and privilege to reach every one of those Jews and return Romania to the spiritual oasis it once was.
We spent four years in Bucharest, working hand-in-hand with the Deitsches. We knew the city of Cluj needed a fresh infusion of Yiddishkeit. One Chanukah, my wife fried endless batches of donuts, and I packed the car for the trip. I drove for seven hours, reaching Cluj in time for the second lichtel. I invited some students to join me for a Chanukah party, and started making contacts in the city. It was another two years before I convinced my wife to move there permanently, but on Chai Elul 2018, Chabad of Cluj-Napoca proudly opened its doors.
Cluj, originally known as Klausenburg, was the seat of the Klausenberger Rebbe before the war. I had a chance to visit the current Klausenberger Rebbe with my wife’s grandfather, whose father had been with the Klausenberger Rebbe in Auschwitz. When I walked into the office, I was greeted with, “Ah! The actual Klausenberger Rav!”
The beginning of our independent shlichus was slow. The first Shabbos, just myself, my wife, and our children sat around the table. On our second Shabbos, our table was expanded by two students. Now, five years later, we expect between 70-100 people every Shabbos. Our table is a colorful mixture of locals, tourists, and students, so our meals are multilingual! We speak in Romanian for the locals, Hebrew for the tourists, and English for the students.
We are so thankful for the Nigri Shluchim Online School, which allows our children to have a well-rounded Jewish and chassidishe education, although they only meet their classmates once a year. It’s a mesiras nefesh to exile ourselves from a place of Torah, but our children’s chinuch is a value we will never sacrifice.
I visit local prisons every so often, searching for Jewish prisoners in need of connection and inspiration.
I was getting ready to start out on one of these visits, but my car wouldn’t start. I didn’t have time to tinker around with it, so I called a taxi. As I climbed in, I noticed the large cross dangling from the rearview mirror, but I didn’t say anything.
The driver kept glancing at me in the mirror, noting my black suit, hat, and beard with curiosity.
“Are you Jewish?” he finally blurted out.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m the rabbi in Cluj.”
He was silent for another moment. “I think I have Jewish roots,” he finally said. “My mother’s mother survived the war. I think she was Jewish.”
It was a painful reminder of how much the Nazis ym”s destroyed. Not only did they murder six million innocent souls, hundreds of thousands more were left orphaned, confused, and unsure of their identity. Romania is full of their descendents, who have only the vaguest idea that they’re Jewish. For many of them, recent history is too traumatic to even admit to their Jewishness.
I was so happy to make Andrei’s acquaintance - one of these lost souls who was willing to admit his Jewishness - and even explore it! When we returned to the Chabad house, Andrei put on tefillin for the first time in his life. It was a moving and emotional experience for both of us. Andrei is becoming a member of our community, rediscovering his grandmother’s heritage.
The first public menorah lighting in Cluj was in Kislev, 2021. I was in the middle of addressing the crowd when I felt someone tugging my coat. I looked down to see a wizened old man, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“How can I help you?” I asked him.
“Please, Rabbi. I want to say something,” he begged.
I couldn’t refuse. He stepped up to the microphone and began to speak, his voice shaking with emotion.
“If anyone would have told me, when I was a child, that I would stand in the center of Cluj, with a huge menorah behind me, surrounded by Jews singing Haneros Hallalu and eating donuts, I would never have believed them. Never!”
The elderly gentleman broke down in tears, while the menorah behind him seemed to shine more brightly.
