Tuvia Bolton

"Tell me, Rabbi," he called out anxiously, "if... if I put on tefillin, will G-d protect me?"

When the two pupils approached, they saw their master sitting in the snow, weeping and praying. They hurriedly departed from that place.

The year was 1945, just after the war. The place: a refugee camp somewhere in Germany. Jews just out of concentration camps had gathered in a barracks-turned-Synagogue for the Yom Kippur prayers

The rebbe took the gold coin, wedged it in a crack in the wall next to his desk, and said no more.

A Russian peasant once said to his friend: "You know, Ivan, I have been thinking, it is really very stupid for us to pay taxes to the Czar."

It was a drastic move, but they felt they had no choice. They fasted and recited Psalms all day. Evoking ancient Kabbalistic formulas, they asked to be given a sign that night in their dreams.

“If your Bible says that you must follow the majority,” argued the king, “then you should forsake Judaism and believe as we do!”

Rabbis and beggars alike avoided the home.

He was full of gratitude to the wagon driver, but his gratitude did not keep him warm. After a few minutes huddled between the barrels, he was abruptly reminded that he was still freezing to death, and not being able to move didn’t help any.

“What have you been doing for the last year?” asked the incensed father-in-law. “What have you accomplished wasting your time by those wild men?” “I learned that G‑d creates the world,” answered the young man.