By the grace of G-d, 8 Elul, 5718 (1958)
It’s already been several days that I very much desire to write
I haven’t been feeling so well. But it has passed, thank G-d. But
when I took my journal in hand, I was faced by a dilemma as to
whether I should tear up what I have previously written for fear
that my son (long may he live) may one day read it. What purpose
would it serve to cause him pain? Nevertheless, I didn’t actually do
8 Cheshvan [5719 (1958)]
The month of Tishrei has passed. May G-d grant that everyone
I have been “compensated” [for my loneliness] by the
accomplishments of my son, long may he live, which have given me
so much vitality and pleasure.
My only grandchild’s birthday
[End of Cheshvan, 5719 (1958)]
It was recently the birthday of my one and only grandchild,
Dalia, long may she live, who has turned 14 years old. May she
have a long and good life.
I haven’t met her, and I haven’t seen her father for 29 years.
This is a very painful matter, and G-d alone knows what the future
I prefer not to think about it, but even from a purely rational
perspective, with no role played by the heart, everyone would agree
it’s not the way it should be.
After all my difficult experiences, including my husband’s bitter
end (may his memory be blessed)… Nor do I know what’s happening in [Soviet] Russia. If there would be any good news, I
believe I would have found out about it… It seems to me that I’m entitled to see my family. So, go and make it happen!
I don’t often receive letters [from my youngest son], although I’m happy when I see his handwriting.
But I know virtually nothing of what I would desire to know.
The Rebbe’s bar-mitzvah
Following Shabbat, Rosh Chodesh Adar I, 5719 (1959)
At a time when we look forward to a good week, and it’s also
Rosh Chodesh, particularly of the month of Adar, when “we increase
joy,” I should write in a cheerful mood.
However, I’m sitting alone at home, not so upbeat. On the 28th
of Tevet, I became 79 years old. Thank G-d that I’ve been able to
keep going until now in my present condition, emotional and
physical, but it gets more difficult every day.
This week was the bar-mitzvah celebration of a friend’s son.
It reminded me of the bar-mitzvah of my older son, long may he live
in good health and with success. All the bar-mitzvahs of our sons
were celebrated by us in a fine manner. But my older son’s was
something special, extraordinary, on a highly sublime level. It was
our family’s first personal celebration.
My husband, of blessed memory, was held in high regard. This
was despite the initial “birth pangs” of his rabbinic position due to
opposition by non-Chasidim and Zionists against Lubavitch, which
they considered him to personify and which is why they didn’t want to accept his appointment.But now it was already seven
years that we had lived in the city, and our supporters were proud
of my husband’s accomplishments, while those opposing had often
expressed their remorse. Now both sides had an opportunity to