NOV. 12, ‘25 // v’shalom—can hurt even a neshomo that still hears!” The woman sobbed. “Please, Rabbi, maybe you can help us?” Reb Shlomo didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and hat. “Come,” he said. “To the Florence Nightingale Nursing Home. Quickly.” Minutes later he was running through the hospital corridors, whispering Tehillim with each step. When he reached the room, the sight broke his heart. A small boy, motionless, his little chest rising ever so faintly beneath a nest of wires. His parents stood by, pale and shattered. Reb Shlomo turned to the nurse. “How is the child?” She sighed, almost mechanically. “Not good, Rabbi. The doctor says the funeral will be Monday.” Those words again. The Rabbi’s eyes filled with fire. “Please tell that doctor something from me,” he said. “Tell him that no one—not even the greatest expert—knows whose funeral will be Monday. Only the Ribono Shel Olam decides that.” He walked to the bedside and looked at the child. Something stirred within him. The lips, the eyelids, a faint tension—the spark of life was still there. The neshamah could still hear. He whispered softly, words of tefillah and chizuk, then quietly left the room. Back home, the aunt was waiting anxiously. Reb Shlomo sat at his desk, wrote a short telegram, and sent it straight to the Satmar Rebbe, Reb Yoel, zt”l, in New York. He had no time to explain, only the boy’s Hebrew name and his mother’s, with a plea: “Please daven for the life of this child.” Then he turned to the aunt. “Tell the entire family,” he said, “parents, uncles, cousins—everyone—to come to my home for Shabbos. We will eat together, daven together, cry together. And no one should drive. If it’s too far, I’ll arrange places for them nearby.” That Friday night, the Poupko home was overflowing. Over forty members of the Kauder family came. Some were Shomrei Torah, many were not. But that night, they were one family, united by tears, by hope, by the desire to see Hashem’s mercy. After Kiddush, Reb Shlomo rose to speak. “My dear Yidden,” he began softly, “we all want little Dovid to live. We want Hashem to perform a miracle. But to awaken rachamim in Shamayim, we must move ourselves first. Let each of us take upon ourselves something—one mitzvah, one step closer to the Ribbono Shel Olam—for Dovid’s sake.” He spoke about Shabbos, kashrus, the kedushah of a Yiddish home. One by one, they nodded through their tears. “We’ll do it,” they whispered. “For Dovid. For Hashem.” Shabbos in that home was unlike any other— 148
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