Question

Once we were learning the Mishnah from which it appears that one does not clear away a collapsed heap on the Sabbath to save a gentile. Rabbi Kamenetsky stopped the lesson and said: “I want to tell you a story.”
This is what happened. Many years ago I was a rabbi in a Lithuanian town.
Once I went to the post office to buy stamps. I paid, and on my way out I saw
that I had received more change than I was due. I went back to the counter, returned what
I needed to return, and left the post office. On my way home I thought
to myself: “I have known the postal clerk for many years. This gentile does not make mistakes
with coins, not even by a penny. He must have wanted to test the Jews’ rabbi,
to see whether he was an honest man or a thief.” I was convinced it had been a test.
Listen, gentlemen. Years passed, and I emigrated to Canada. In the Holocaust, all the Jews of that town perished
except for twelve Jews who were saved by that postal clerk. Who
knows — perhaps because of the few pennies I returned, the lives of twelve
souls were saved.
And then he went back to teaching. He looked at the text before him and said: “As for
the Mishnah we are learning, it is theoretical.” And I call heaven and earth to witness for me:
I learned with him for three years, five days a week, an hour and three quarters
a day, and afterward too for several more years I learned with him in his home three hours
every Sunday. Never had I seen caution in Jewish law like his; never had I
seen such precision in the commandments, major and minor alike, down to a hairsbreadth, like his. And never
for him was there such a thing as a “theoretical” halakhah. This is exactly what we mean: among the great ones of Israel,
the written text is not the last word, and one can never be sure how matters will actually look in practical halakhic ruling.
And since I have already told several stories, I will make use of one final story, from an educator,
a friend of mine, who was an eyewitness.
In America, where the state of the communities was like the “Wild West,” a rabbinic post demanded
many ethical concessions and halakhic compromises from rabbis. As a result, many
yeshivah students, for reasons of conscience, avoided taking positions as rabbis. Many of them,
those who wanted to dedicate their lives to the Jewish people, entered universities,
earned doctorates in education, and joined the “Torah Umesorah” movement. “Torah
Umesorah” was a new organization on the American scene; it was devoted
to founding and developing “yeshivas” in outlying cities. I write “yeshivas”
in quotation marks because these were not yeshivas in the historical sense
or in the Israeli sense, but full-day schools in which
religious studies were taught in the morning and general studies in the afternoon — like the “Manhattan Day
School” to which we sent our daughters when we were in the United States. These schools
aroused strong opposition from many Jews, who saw them
as harmful to the Americanization of the Jews. We, the religious Jews, saw in them
the salvation of Israel in exile. But as is well known, the separation of religion and state in the United
States meant there was no financial support at all from the government; consequently
the burden of financing these schools fell on the parents and was unbearably heavy.
The rare wealthy people who were willing to support them had great power in their management, just as
the popular saying goes: “He who pays the piper calls the tune.”
It was the practice of the educational directors of these “yeshivas” to gather
once a year to exchange ideas and experiences, to strengthen one another, and for some social renewal. At each
conference they would invite an expert in education. After several conferences
they decided that instead of a professor of education it would be better to invite a great Torah sage of Israel — for religious-spiritual strengthening.
The first guest invited was Rabbi Aharon Kotler, the elder of the heads of the yeshivas in America.
It was successful, and so for the second year they invited Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, the leading halakhic decisor of the generation.
And here the story begins.
Rabbi Moshe’s arrival was a special event for the directors. These young scholars,
former yeshivah students, were God-fearing and careful about sin. The opportunity to be in the presence
of a first-rate Torah scholar famed for his righteousness and integrity
was rare, and they made the most of it. From the moment he stepped out of the car on
Friday, at every meal, throughout the entire night, and all through the next day, they surrounded him
with questions, discussed matters with him, and consulted him. A whole festival of clearing up doubts.
At the third Sabbath meal, toward the end of the Sabbath, he asked to speak — a strange request
in light of how central his presence had been all Sabbath. And he told a story: not
far from Lyuban, his town in Lithuania, there was an elderly rabbi who was asked the following: on Yom Kippur, the synagogue is packed to capacity, and the time for the Torah reading arrives. Several Torah scrolls
had recently been disqualified for various halakhic reasons. The reader begins to read,
and it seems to him that he sees an error in the scroll. What should he do? And the old man answered: “One doesn’t look.”
Silence fell around the table. The young scholars looked at one another, question marks
on their faces.
Rabbi Moshe continued: “Ever since I arrived here you have been flooding me with questions. One
asked me about the wealthy man in town, on whose funding the entire school depends, who is demanding
another hour of general studies at the expense of religious studies. What should be done?
He is upsetting the balance in the curriculum. Another asked: we always
separate the boys from the girls starting in sixth grade, but this year in eighth grade only
four remain in the boys’ group and six in the girls’ group. If we separate them,
the financial burden will collapse the whole thing. What should be done? Gentlemen, don’t ask.
A hush fell over the room.
The leading halakhic decisor of the generation continued: “Let me explain. You are the soldiers at the front; I am in the rear.
I know the principles of Jewish law; you know the subtle considerations of
the specific problem. What is there to fear? Thank God, you are God-fearing and upright young scholars.
Do the best you can as you understand the circumstances, and may God be with you. I repeat: don’t
ask.”
Professor Aaron Kirschenbaum 
‘Between Old and New’