Tribute to R’ Morty Mayberg at His 10th Yartzeit

Bryna Aviva Bloom (nee Mayberg) shares memories of her father R' Morty Mayberg obm, and the impact he had on those around him, at the occasion of his 10th Yartzeit.

BY BRYNA AVIVA (MAYBERG) BLOOM

Hoshana Rabba was the 10th yahrzeit of my father, my teacher, my role model and, most of all, my best friend, Moshe Tzvi ben R. Dovber Hakohain, known to all as Morty Mayberg.

He was born 99 years ago and raised in the out of town community of Providence, Rhode Island, in a home where Yiddishkeit, family and love were at the heart of everything. The values he learned growing up with his grandparents (the Shaulson family) imbued him and his 3 siblings with a unique love of Yiddishkeit. It is so very exceptional that the children and grandchildren of all 4 Mayberg siblings are Bnei Torah.

In the 1950s my father moved to Miami Beach for business reasons. There he met my mother, Judy, marrying soon after, raising 6 children. My father was a pioneer in so many ways, and it was in Miami Beach, at the local shul, that my father’s life profoundly changed when he met Rabbi Abraham Korf (z’l), a young shaliach of the Lubavitcher Rebbe who had only recently arrived in Miami, speaking very little English. My father would drive him and often talk for him when meeting important members of the community.

It was my father who pushed and persuaded Rabbi Korf to open a Chabad school, which today boasts almost 2,000 students. In its early days, when there were only a few families sending their children there, my mother was the bus driver and my father would be writing checks at the last minute to keep the teachers paid and the electricity from being cut off.

From Miami, Chabad spread all throughout Florida and from there throughout the Southeast. But it started in Miami Beach. And my parents were instrumental in its establishment there.

My father was an Ehrliche Yid, well respected by everyone locally and throughout the world. He had a great sense of fashion and always looked so dapper. He was cognizant of his dress and behavior, knowing that he was representing Orthodox Judaism, especially at a time when there were far fewer shomer Shabbos Jews in Miami.

He was also, very much, a Chosid of the Rebbe. And he was privileged to have Yechidus (private meetings) with the Rebbe. When my parents would come to New York each summer, we – all the children – would join them in these private meetings.

My father merited to have a special relationship with the Rebbe, who would often remind him of his status as a Kohain. When he would get lekach (honey cake) from the Rebbe before the High Holidays, the Rebbe would often request that he “also keep him in mind” during Birkas Kohanim. His connection to the Rebbe and pride in being a Kohain were deeply woven into who he was.

For almost ten years my parents had only two daughters, my sister Miriam and me. The Rebbe told them that as a Kohain, my father will need sons to serve with him in the Beis Hamikdash. One year later, my brother Yossi was born, followed soon after by Mendy, Zalman and Shalom. My father longed to serve in the Beis Hamikdash, together with my four brothers.

But what I remember most about my father was the way he made people feel. He was loved and respected by all. Our Shabbos table was often filled with the most interesting people. Some were very successful and sophisticated and others were much less so. He treated them all with such honor and respect. We had people who would stay with us for extended periods of time, including one man who came for a few months every year. He was unkempt and would be ignored by most people. But my father saw the shining spark of each person’s neshama. He would build these people up, including encouraging them to maintain proper hygiene and purchasing nice clothing for them to wear.

As a young girl, I used to imagine these visitors were hidden Tzaddikim. What I came to realize was that it was my father who was the hidden Tzaddik — hiding within plain sight in our home for all to see.

I was so blessed and privileged to be his daughter. I miss him in ways that words can never fully express. And although 10 years have passed, the love between a father and daughter doesn’t have an expiration date.

His kindness, his faith, his humor, and his love continue to live on in me, in my family and in everyone whose life he touched.

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