The Rebbe’s Strange Birthday Blessing: Four Words That Saved a Life

Sometimes a few quiet words from a tzaddik carry layers of meaning that only Heaven fully understands. What seems puzzling in the moment can turn out to be a message of protection stretching across decades.

A Birthday Blessing That Didn’t Make Sense

Fischel Margolies, a Ger chasid from Brooklyn, was learning in the Sfas Emes yeshiva in Jerusalem. On his sixteenth birthday, he entered the room of the Rebbe of Ger, known as the Beis Yisrael, to receive a blessing.

He had spent a long time preparing for this moment. He carefully wrote his request on a small note. He asked for an aliyah to the Torah, refined character traits, and true awe of Heaven.

Fischel walked into the Rebbe’s room. The Rebbe took the note in his hands and read it slowly. As he read, furrows formed across his face. A minute passed that felt like an eternity. The silence was heavy.

Then the Rebbe lifted his penetrating eyes and said, in a tone that was hard to interpret, “Nu… tzedakah saves from death.”

That was all.

Fischel was stunned. He had expected warmth, guidance, perhaps a detailed blessing. On his birthday, was this the entire response? Before he could gather his thoughts, the Rebbe extended his hand briefly, and the meeting was over.

Fischel left confused and uneasy.

A Hidden Chapter from 1941

A few weeks later, during Passover break, Fischel returned home to the United States. The family gathered for a festive meal to celebrate his return. Fischel shared the story of the Rebbe’s puzzling words and the fear that had quietly followed him ever since.

As he spoke, he did not notice his mother’s face draining of color.

“I know what the Rebbe meant,” she said softly. “I will explain.”

She took them back to 1941. The Holocaust was raging. In a small, filthy room in the Łódź Ghetto, she huddled with her mother and her little brothers and sisters, may their memories be blessed.

At noon, her mother would take from a hiding place a few small pieces of bread she had managed to obtain at great personal risk. She was just a young girl then. One day she held her thin slices of bread in her hands and struggled with herself. She was starving. Yet she thought perhaps it would be wiser to wait until evening, when the hunger would be even worse.

As evening approached, she took the slices from their hiding place, washed her hands, and prepared to eat. Then she heard knocking at the door. It was not the harsh pounding of the Gestapo. It was weak, barely audible.

She opened the door slightly. A ghostlike elderly Jew stood there, dressed in rags. His wrinkled face pleaded without words.

“Do you perhaps have a piece of bread?” he whispered. “I am about to die of hunger.”

She felt torn apart. After waiting the entire day, could she give it all away? Inside her, a fierce struggle began. Yes, you are both hungry, she told herself. But you are young. You can survive another day. This frail old man may not survive the night.

After that inner battle, she reached into her pocket and, with a smile, handed him her precious slices of bread. The Jewish heart overcame the empty stomach. Spirit triumphed over the body.

“The look in his eyes,” she said, her voice trembling, “I will never forget. A spark of life returned to his face. That image stayed with me through the entire war.”

The Image That Protected Her

During the war, she faced death again and again. In cruel selections. In backbreaking forced labor. In moments when survival seemed impossible.

“More than once I saw death right in front of me,” she said. “And every single time, the image of that old man I had saved appeared before me. I knew that the merit of that act of kindness would protect me.”

She survived the war alone. Slowly, she rebuilt her life. The image of the old man faded with time. She rarely spoke about those terrible years.

Then, many years later, after decades in which she had not seen his face, he appeared again.

The Dream and the Warning

On the very night Fischel turned sixteen, the night he stood before the Rebbe, the old man came to her in a dream.

His face looked as it had in the ghetto. Gaunt. Urgent. Disturbing.

“Give tzedakah,” he cried from his toothless mouth. “Tzedakah saves from death.”

She woke up shaken. The dream felt vivid and frightening. A heavy sense of foreboding filled her heart. She remembered his words clearly and hurried to give a generous sum to charity before leaving for work.

Her heart felt slightly calmer as she stepped into the street.

A Miracle in Broad Daylight

On her way to work, she crossed a wide, busy, multi lane street packed with cars. Suddenly she heard a terrible screech of tires. She lifted her head and froze.

A massive semi-trailer truck was hurtling toward her at terrifying speed. The crosswalk was wide. She could not move back. She could not move forward.

Through blurred vision she saw the driver, helplessly trying to control the steering wheel and failing. The truck charged forward like an unrestrained beast.

In those seconds, she saw death before her eyes. In her heart she silently said goodbye to her beloved family. She squeezed her eyes shut and prepared for the worst.

Then came the crash. A thunderous explosion of metal and glass. The truck slammed into a utility pole at the edge of the sidewalk, just a few yards from where she stood. The driver was killed. She was untouched.

She stood trembling and thanked the Creator of the world for the open miracle.

“The tzedakah saved me again,” she said quietly. “From death to life.”

She turned to her son.

“Now you understand, Fischel’e, what the Rebbe meant when he said, ‘Tzedakah saves from death.’”