After a fire

B"H

Literally same day many decades ago, open miracle

The Flames of Tammuz

The summer night of June 24, 1969, the 8th of Tammuz, wore a shroud of eerie stillness, the kind that precedes a storm. The air was thick with anticipation as Rabbi Elchanan Geisinsky’s wedding celebrations in Boston drew to a close. The echoes of joyous dancing and heartfelt blessings lingered, floating in the humid air like the remnants of a dream. The wedding had been a mosaic of radiant faces and divine intentions, a testament to the unity and faith that bound us.

Nine of us, Chabad yeshiva students, clambered into a beaten station-wagon, our laughter mingling with the hum of the engine as we embarked on our return journey to New York. The night embraced us, cloaking the highway in a blanket of darkness punctuated only by the distant glow of headlights.

The rhythm of the road was hypnotic. The tires hummed a steady lullaby, lulling us into a trance as we cruised along the deserted highway. The moon hung like a silent sentinel, its pale light casting ghostly shadows that danced upon our faces. We were lost in the reverie of the night, our hearts light with the lingering joy of the wedding.

Then, without warning, the serene symphony of our journey was shattered by a deafening roar. A tractor-trailer, hurtling down the highway at seventy miles an hour, loomed behind us like a beast from the abyss. In the blink of an eye, it was upon us, its monstrous form bearing down with relentless fury.

The impact was cataclysmic. Our car was tossed into the air like a leaf caught in a tempest. Time seemed to stretch and contort, each second an eternity as the world spun around us. I remember the sensation of weightlessness, the surreal suspension between earth and sky, before gravity reclaimed us with a vengeance. The car landed with a bone-jarring crash, and then came the fire.

The explosion was instantaneous, a ravenous blaze that devoured the car with insatiable hunger. Flames licked at the night, casting a hellish glow that seared into our eyes. Panic erupted, raw and primal, as the heat closed in. The middle doors were jammed, trapping three of our friends in a fiery prison. Their screams pierced the night, a symphony of agony and desperation.

I felt a surge of adrenaline, a primal instinct to survive. Kicking at the back window, I shattered the glass and leaped into the night, my body rolling across the asphalt. The searing pain in my limbs was drowned out by the urgency of the moment. I scrambled to my feet and turned back to the inferno, my heart pounding with a singular purpose: to save my friends.

One of the boys from the front seats, his face a mask of determination and terror, reached for the door handle. The metal was molten, branding his fingers with fiery kisses. He howled in pain but did not relent. With a superhuman effort, he wrenched the door open, and we dragged our friends from the blazing wreckage, their clothes still smoldering. We rolled them on the grass, extinguishing the flames that clung to their flesh.

The night was a cacophony of chaos, a whirlwind of pain, fear, and disbelief. When the state trooper arrived, his face was etched with shock. “In twenty-five years, I’ve never seen anything like this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackling inferno. “Nine people packed into a car, and everyone coming out alive? And the gas tank didn’t explode? It’s a miracle.”

In the immediate aftermath, amidst the sirens and flashing lights, Rabbi Meir Minkowitz managed to call the Rebbe’s office. It was five in the morning, but his plea for a blessing was urgent. Rabbi Hodakov, the Rebbe’s secretary, listened intently and assured us that if the doctors deemed anyone’s condition life-threatening, he would wake the Rebbe. Otherwise, he would speak to him first thing in the morning.

At the hospital, the doctors were astounded. Despite the severe burns, none of us were in immediate danger. We conveyed this to Rabbi Hodakov, who then relayed something extraordinary. “The Rebbe was thinking about you last night,” he said. “Earlier in the evening, the Rebbe had instructed the publication of five letters written by the first three Rebbes of Chabad. These letters were to communities that had suffered fires, each containing a blessing followed by the saying, ‘Nuch ah seraifah vert men reich – After a fire comes riches.’”

The Rebbe had foreseen our plight. The fire, a manifestation of severity, would be followed by compassion and blessings. The words hung heavy with meaning, a divine promise etched into the fabric of our souls.

In the days that followed, the Rebbe addressed our ordeal multiple times. During Shabbos, he connected our experience to the Torah portion of Chukat-Balak, which spoke of the burning snakes that attacked the Israelites and the subsequent healing. He drew parallels to our accident, underscoring the divine orchestration behind our survival.

A few days later, in his address for Yud Beis Tamm

Tammuz, commemorating the liberation of the Previous Rebbe from Soviet imprisonment, the Rebbe spoke again. He quoted the Previous Rebbe, “Had I been asked before my imprisonment if I want to go through it, then I don’t know if I would have agreed. But once I’ve gone through it, I wouldn’t give up even one moment of that experience.” This profound statement resonated with our own ordeal. The Rebbe explained that our accident, though beyond our comprehension, carried a divine purpose. "Nuch ah serayfah vert men reich – After a fire comes riches." These words now held an even deeper significance for us.

Our wealth was not monetary but spiritual. We were to be rich in Torah learning and mitzvot. The Rebbe’s blessing became our guiding light through the pain and recovery. Rabbi Shalom Ber Levitin, who suffered the worst burns, was initially told by doctors that he would need five months to recover, putting his wedding in jeopardy. Distressed, his father sought the Rebbe’s blessing, who assured them that the wedding date would not change and everything would be fine. Remarkably, Rabbi Levitin made a miraculous recovery and married two months later, as planned.

The rest of us, though bearing physical scars, found solace and strength in the Rebbe’s words. We were to say L’Chaim, to celebrate life despite the trials we had endured. The accident had imprinted itself on our bodies and souls, but it also forged an unbreakable bond between us and the divine providence that had safeguarded us.

Rabbi Shloma Majeski, who later became the principal of Machon Chana in Brooklyn, often recounted this harrowing night as a testament to the Rebbe’s foresight and the miraculous hand of Hashem. The memory of the flames, the terror, and the subsequent blessings became a cornerstone of our faith and dedication to the Rebbe’s teachings.

The fire, a physical manifestation of severity, had indeed brought us spiritual riches. Each time we gathered, the words "Nuch ah serayfah vert men reich" echoed in our minds, a reminder that through the flames of adversity, we emerged stronger, our faith unshakable. The Rebbe’s wisdom and the divine orchestration of our survival became an eternal flame within us, illuminating our path and fortifying our spirits against the trials of life.

In the quiet moments of reflection, I often revisit that night. The roaring flames, the searing heat, the desperate scramble to save one another. And then, the overwhelming sense of divine presence, the Rebbe’s words wrapping around us like a protective cloak. That night, the ordinary had collided with the extraordinary, and we were forever changed.

Through our scars, we bore witness to the miracles that threaded through our lives. And as we continued our journey, we did so with the profound understanding that every trial, every fire, held within it the seeds of divine riches, waiting to bloom in the light of faith and resilience.