The Story of Rabbi Tzvi Rotenberg and the Timeless Message of Matot–Masei: Standing Firm in Your Principles Wherever Life Takes You.
Lately, I have met quite a few people who are struggling with stress, pressure, and anxiety. Perhaps it is because Tishah B’Av is approaching, or perhaps because of everything happening around us, but it feels as though many people are carrying a heavy burden on their shoulders.
Just this week I came across the life story of someone I have known when I was growing up in Israel—Rabbi Tzvi Rotenberg, who is now 88 years old. I do not intend to tell his entire remarkable story, but rather to focus on a few episodes that can help us face everyday life, appreciate how much good we have, and emerge stronger.
Rabbi Rotenberg was born in Poland a few years before the Second World War. His family endured the horrors of the war, wandered through Russia, and after years of upheaval finally arrived in the Holy Land.
They settled in south Tel Aviv, and the boy, then about twelve years old, simply could not find his place. All the children around him were native-born Israelis. They spoke Hebrew, played soccer, and felt at home. He, by contrast, was a thin boy from Europe who spoke Yiddish and felt like an outsider. He wandered the streets alone, with no framework and no direction.
One day, a Jewish man stopped him and asked, “Young man, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?” Without asking many questions, he took him to the Chabad yeshivah in Tel Aviv. He walked over to the principal, pointed to the boy, and said, “I found this diamond on the street. He belongs in the yeshivah.”
At that moment, the man gave him far more than a school. He gave him an identity. He gave him a sense of belonging. In a single day, he went from being a lonely refugee with no future to someone who had a home and a life.
He studied in the Tel Aviv yeshivah and later continued at Tomchei Temimim in Lod under the guidance of the renowned mashpia Rabbi Shlomo Chaim Kesselman, where he was immersed in a deeply Chassidic atmosphere.
Then one day, a storm swept through the yeshivah. Rabbi Zushe Wilmowsky—known simply as “the Partisan”—arrived.
In those years, the Rebbe had entrusted him with establishing Chabad schools throughout Israel. Thousands of immigrants had arrived from North Africa, Yemen, Persia, and many other countries. Most were traditional Jewish families who wanted their children to receive a Jewish education. Yet in practice, many of those children were sent to secular schools and drifted away from Judaism.
The Rebbe instructed that everything possible be done to save these children and establish schools wherever needed.
But Zushe faced one enormous problem. He had schools—but no people. He urgently needed teachers, principals, and educators. How do you build schools without anyone to run them?
He came to the yeshivah in Lod, where the older students were learning. He knew that if he asked permission from the administration, they might not allow him to take the students. So he quietly gathered them for a private meeting.
With burning passion he said:
“How can you sit here peacefully studying while Jewish souls are waiting outside for you? Children from Morocco, Yemen, and many other countries do not even know how to say Shema Yisrael. They are being sent to schools that distance them from every trace of Judaism, and you are sitting here as though everything is normal?
The house is on fire! Jewish souls are being lost! This is the time to go out and save them!” His words penetrated deeply. They ignited a fire in the hearts of the students. A few days later, Rabbi Shlomo Chaim met Zushe at the yeshivah.
“Zushe,” he pleaded, “please don’t take my students. Don’t destroy my vineyard.” Zushe answered firmly, “They aren’t yours—they belong to the Rebbe. And the Rebbe needs them now on the battlefield.” A passionate debate followed.
Rabbi Shlomo Chaim argued, “These young men still need to grow. They need more learning and more time to build themselves. They are not yet ready to become teachers.” But Zushe replied with equal conviction: “We don’t have the luxury of waiting. The children of Israel are drowning right now. When someone is drowning in a river, you don’t first enroll in swimming lessons—you jump into the water and save him. Every day that passes, another soul may be lost. History will never forgive us if we stand by.”
Tzvi stood listening to every word. Suddenly Zushe turned to him and said, “Tzvi, you’re coming with me.” Their destination was Moshav Brosh in southern Israel, a community of newly arrived immigrants from Middle Eastern countries. They urgently needed a teacher to teach Torah to the local children.
Tzvi left the yeshivah. He knew he had a mission. This was what the Rebbe wanted. He arrived at the moshav and devoted himself completely to teaching.
The Draft Notice
Some time later he received a military draft notice.
He was stunned. He had assumed that as long as he was engaged in Jewish education, his yeshivah deferment remained in effect.
When he arrived at the induction office, they explained, “The moment you began receiving a salary, you were no longer considered a yeshivah student. You’re employed now, so you must serve.”
There was little discussion. He was placed on a bus and sent directly to the Armored Corps. In an instant, a yeshivah student found himself inside one of the toughest military environments imaginable. But he made a decision.
“I will be the best soldier I can be. At the same time, I will not compromise on a single mitzvah or a single hiddur.” When he realized what was happening in the army kitchen, he decided he would eat nothing cooked there. He survived on bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, and anything else that had not been prepared in the kitchen.
Armored Corps training was grueling. His body desperately needed nourishment. While the other soldiers devoured hot dinners each evening, he sat quietly with two slices of bread, a few cucumber slices, and some tomatoes. That sustained him for many weeks.
One afternoon, at a military base between Kiryat Malachi and Ashkelon, he was walking with his metal army tray. On it were two slices of bread, a little tomato, and several cucumber slices. Suddenly the brigade commander, General Israel Tal—better known as “Talik,” later famous as the father of the Merkava tank—stopped him. Talik was a tough commander who overlooked nothing.
He blocked his path. “Soldier, what’s on your tray?” Tzvi immediately stood at attention. “Food, sir.” Talik looked at the tray. “Food? That’s bird food! Why aren’t you eating in the dining hall? They’re serving meat patties today.” Tzvi knew there was no point trying to be clever.
“Sir, I can’t eat there. The kitchen isn’t kosher.” Talik looked surprised. “What do you mean? There’s a mashgiach. The kitchen is certified according to the Military Rabbinate.” “That’s true during the day,” Tzvi answered quietly. “The mashgiach does his job. But at night, after he goes to sleep, other things happen.” “What happens at night?”
“The soldiers take jeeps into the fields, hunt animals, bring them into the kitchen through the back entrance, slaughter them on the countertops, and cook them in the same pots used the next day for everyone’s meals. The entire kitchen is non-kosher.”
Talik stared at him. “How do you know this?” “I’m the one who signs their jeep permits at night. I know exactly where they go and what they bring back.” Without another word, Talik said, “Come with me.”
They went straight to his office. He summoned the kitchen manager, who had no idea any of this had been happening. From that moment, everything changed. Talik ordered the entire kitchen to be re-kashered. Every utensil was kashered, and full kosher standards were restored. He also instructed the mashgiach to tighten supervision so that nothing like this could happen again.
Then he pointed to Tzvi and told the kitchen manager: “You are personally responsible for this soldier. I don’t ever want to see him living on cucumbers and tomatoes again. Make sure he has kosher food that he can eat.”
The kitchen manager had no idea how to obtain glatt kosher food. After several phone calls, he reached the army’s chief supply officer, and within a short time a special shipment of kosher l’mehadrin food was arranged. From then on, Tzvi no longer had to survive on bread alone.
But the story did not end there. Toward the end of his military service, General Tal called him in for a private meeting. This time, the tone was completely different.
“I want you to stay with us,” Tal said. “I see in you the potential to become an outstanding commander. Go to officers’ training, come back to me as an officer. I personally guarantee that all your religious needs will be taken care of. You won’t have to train on Shabbos. You’ll receive kosher l’mehadrin food. Whatever you need. The army needs people like you.”
Tzvi listened respectfully. Then he quietly replied, “Commander, I deeply appreciate your offer. But I’ve already signed.” Tal looked puzzled.
“You’ve already signed? Signed where? Permanent service?” Tzvi smiled. “I signed with Chabad. I signed with the Rebbe. My mission is to educate the children of Israel, not to command tanks. That’s where I belong.”
Tal looked at him for a long moment. He realized this was not about comfort or convenience. He smiled, stood up, shook his hand, and said, “I respect your decision. Go be an educator. I wish you success.”
Years later, Rabbi Rotenberg would say that when he walked out of that meeting, he learned one of the greatest lessons of his life: When a person stands proudly by his principles without apologizing for them, even the greatest generals salute him.
The Stick that Doesn’t Bend
This week we read the double portion of Matot–Masei. The Rebbe often taught that the names of the Torah portions themselves contain their central message. On the surface, Matot means “tribes.” But the Hebrew word mateh also means a staff. There is a subtle difference between a shevet and a mateh. A shevet is a branch still connected to the tree. It is alive, flexible, and bends. A mateh, however, is wood that has been cut from the tree, dried, and hardened. It no longer bends. It stands firm.
That is the message of Matot: a Jew must possess a strong backbone—someone who does not bend under pressure or change his values according to whichever way the wind is blowing.
Immediately afterward comes Masei, which means journeys—travel, movement, progress from one place to another. At first glance, the two ideas seem contradictory. If we are supposed to be like a firm staff, unmoving and steadfast, why does the Torah immediately begin speaking about travel and movement?
The Rebbe explains (Farbrengen of Shabbos Parshas Matot–Masei 5746) that Matot and Masei appear to describe two opposite states.
A person naturally displays his greatest strength when he is at home, in familiar surroundings. That is Matot—firmness and stability. When a person is traveling, away from home, he naturally feels less secure. Even if he wants to remain as steadfast as always, it is much harder.
Yet the Rebbe explains that G-d grants every Jew special strength to combine these two seemingly opposite qualities. Even while traveling—even when away from home—a Jew can remain just as steadfast as when standing in his own home.
The practical lesson is especially relevant during the summer, when many people travel. When a Jew is a guest in someone else’s home, it can feel uncomfortable to maintain every personal standard and stringency. One may think, “How can I tell my gracious host that I can eat only fish and don’t want meat? Wouldn’t that be offensive?”
The Torah’s answer is found in the connection between Matot and Masei. Even while traveling, even as a guest, a Jew should maintain his standards with the same quiet confidence that he would in his own home.
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