Dearest Chaim Tzvi,
Shortly after you “slipped away” from us last Rosh Hashanah, I asked your good friend, Reb Sruly Besser, if he would possibly write a book about you. He replied that it’s an impossible task for two reasons. Firstly, because most of what you did no one knows, for you kept all that you did under wraps. Secondly, so much of what you did for others was done in a way that made them feel that they were doing you a favor. If the book would come out, so many people would be embarrassed to discover what you were doing for them all along, rather than the other way around.
As time passes, and more bits and pieces about your life come to light, the truth in Reb Sruly’s words becomes more and more evident. Your rosh yeshiva, Rav Pesach Cohen, told me that he realized long ago that you constantly actively worked on covering up all your maasim tovim. Oftentimes, when you made a joke about something, it was actually a cover-up for something good that you did. A good friend of yours told me that Rav Pesach commented long ago that when you would spend a long time on the phone, “He’s not just hocking. He’s busy with mitzvos!”
You know, we spoke just about every night, and yet I don’t remember you ever talking about anything you did — not your mitzvos, not your accomplishments. Nothing. Period. You didn’t talk about yourself or take any credit for anything you did.
So, I guess it’s no wonder that we didn’t realize what a gavra rabbah you were in so many ways and how you were constantly busy with unbelievable maasim. How was I to know when I called you — and more often than not, you would either tell me or text me, “I’m busy with a friend. I will call you later” — that many of those “friends” were distraught people or struggling bochurim who you were being mechazeik?
Many of your friends in the music world attested that you were the “rosh yeshiva” and therapist for the whole olam. They told of how when they did a job with you, they would spend hours with you discussing their problems till the wee hours of the morning. And you were able to size up their situation and give them a one-line answer that got right to the heart of the issue.
Reb Sruly Besser mentioned that you were the mentor for the whole olam of Yeshiva Ateres Yisroel (a.k.a. “Cohen’s”). So many have also told of how many struggling bochurim you kept up with and kept “on track.” And yet, when I once was trying to convince you to enter the field of dealing with bochurim who have struggled, especially since you were brilliant both in learning and in your understanding of people, and you experienced much pain yourself after Mommy’s petirah, you responded by saying, “I’m not the kiruv type. It’s not for me.” Yet, you were doing it “on the side” anyhow, without acknowledging it!
Your roshei yeshiva and rabbeim attest that you had tremendous she’ifos to become a true talmid chochom. Yet, you never told me about it. You wore nothing on your sleeve and everything on your heart.
One of your good friends commented at the shivah that the “velt” was mistaken about you. They viewed you as a singer, someone who was primarily into music. But anyone who saw you fighting in learning in the yeshiva knew that your primary focus and simcha in life was your learning. You also did some music on the side. People may have been mistaken, but I gather that it wasn’t by mistake, but by design on your part.
Some of your friends from the music world commented, “We didn’t know that he was a lamdan, that he knew how to learn.” You kept the secret of who you were even from your close friends.
A bochur came over to me at a chasunah shortly after your petirah and told me the following: He learns in yeshiva during the day and he sings at chasunos at night. Whenever he would meet you, you were always mechazeik him, saying, “It’s so choshuv that you are still in yeshiva and just sing at night.” But you never mentioned the fact that you were doing the same for years. He had no inkling that you spent your days learning.
About two weeks before your petirah, I mentioned to you that I was sending a check to your yeshiva. You asked me, “Vos eppes now?” and I said, “It’s not like I’ve been paying all that much tuition, and I have the money now. It’s before the Yomim Noraim, so I figured I would send a check.” You didn’t respond. And then, during the shivah, your rosh yeshiva, Rav Naftali Cohen, told me how at the end of every month for the last few years, you gave him your credit card to use to pay the yeshiva’s utility bills. You were giving the yeshiva hundreds of dollars monthly, yet you didn’t even mention it to me when I told you that I hadn’t been giving all that much to the yeshiva.
During the summer, a good friend of yours, Reb Hershey Weinberger, the well-known singer and composer, came to sing in camp. When he heard that I was Chatzi Katz’s father, he told an incredible story about you. He once came to Lakewood to do a job and brought along an acquaintance of his, an eltere bochur who “is not so regular,” in his words. You went over to shmooze with him and told him afterwards, “Now we’re friends. Let me have your number and we’ll keep in touch.” A few weeks after your petirah, this fellow called Reb Hershey and asked him, “Do you know if Chatzi is angry with me? I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks.” Realizing that he hadn’t heard of your petirah, he told him, “Let’s go out to eat. I want to discuss something with you.” Upon meeting with him, he slowly broke the news. He began sobbing and said, “You know, since we met, Chaim Tzvi called me every Friday and shmoozed with me. Then he would sit down by the keyboard and play and sing some songs for me. The past couple of weeks, I didn’t hear from him. I was wondering if he was upset with me.”
Only the Ribono Shel Olam knows how many more tzubrocheneh people you met up with and kept up with. I’m sure that only a small fraction of what you did has come to light. Reb Hershey Weinberger told the olam, “In 50 years from now, you’ll still be hearing stories about Chaim Tzvi z”l!” And yet, many will never be told.
And then there’s your gadlus in middos that we weren’t aware of either. I’d be rich if I’d receive a dollar for every person who told me that they never heard a bad word from you about anyone, despite the fact that with your brilliance and depth, you had an uncanny ability to size people up. Yet, although you knew everyone’s shortcomings, you never said a bad word about anyone. And when you suspected that someone was about to say something derogatory about someone, you abruptly stopped the conversation. Such gadlus in middos, yet all in your nonchalant way.
And of course, you never let on to the fact that you had multitudes of people all over for whom you were their voice, their mentor, and who were admirers of yours.
You came across as someone who did music and liked fancy ties and expensive restaurants. Yet, all that was a façade, behind which was hidden someone with tremendous she’ifos, unbelievable middos and unfathomable maasim tovim.
Of course, you can imagine with how much pain I write these lines. Not a second has gone by that I don’t think of you. And although I wrote this as a letter to you, I hope you don’t mind if I publicize it. You see, Rabbeinu Yonah says in Shaarei Teshuvah that it’s a kiddush Hashem if someone conducts himself in a way that people learn from his maasim. I feel strongly that the kiddush Hashem that you made during your short years will continue for many years to come as people will continue to learn from your maasim. I know you wanted for everything that you did to remain concealed, but the time has come to reveal to the world who you really were. It will be the greatest zechus for your lofty neshomah that your maasim will continue to inspire people for years to come, iy”H.
With deep pain and everlasting love,
Abba
