The Mystery Doctor
Like so many other fine chasidishe meidalach, Esther Malcha was married at the tender age of eighteen. The oldest daughter in a family of eight, her parents anxiously awaited word of an soon-to-arrive grandchild. However, a year after her wedding, no such news was pending. When another year past and then another, their anticipation turned into anxiety and their dreams to despair. Doctors were consulted; specialists brought in, but each new examination only pushed the family deeper into hopelessness. The last diagnosis was the hardest.
“Mrs. Stern,” said Dr. Lewis, one of Manhattan’s top gynecologists, “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but my findings show that you suffer from an incurable, chronic disorder which will never allow you to have children.”
The blade had fallen. Esther Malcha and her husband, Chaim, sat there in silent shock, their worst fears realized.
And yet, Chaim Stern didn’t fully despair; he still had one final hope. He took his wife to Williamsburg, to the home of the tzaddik, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, the great Satmar Rebbe. If the Rebbe would give them a bracha, things would certainly turn out for the best.
The Satmar Rebbe greeted them warmly and with honor. Esther Malcha was the daughter of a prominent rabbi from the CRC – the Central Rabbinical Congress of the U.S.A. and Canada – and could trace her family back to some of the great Rabbis of Eastern Europe. Chaim was a young Torah scholar. The Rebbe listened sympathetically to their story. Esther cried and pleaded with the Rebbe for a miracle.
“Ver veyst – can we be sure that that doctor was right?,” the Rebbe replied. “I want you to get a second opinion. Go to Dr. Henry Falk. He’s very good. Make an appointment and hear his diagnosis.”
“Antshuldigt mir, Rebbe,” interrupted one of the assistants, “No one’s been in touch with Dr. Falk for years. The heimishe velt hasn’t used him in a long time. He must be retired by now; who knows if he’s still among the living. I’m not sure we can even find his phone number.”
“The Rebbetzin certainly has his number” the Rebbe replied. “Go and ask her.”
When Chaim and Esther Malcha approached the Satmar Rebbetzin for help, however, she repeated the gabbai’s sentiment. “It’s been so many years since we’ve used him. I doubt that he’s still working as a doctor. Why do you need him specifically?”
“It wasn’t our idea,” the couple explained. “The Rebbe himself told us to see him and sent us to the Rebbetzin to help us find his phone number.”
The Rebbetzin turned to the Rebbe with her complaint – surely Dr. Falk was no longer available, could the Rebbe please suggest someone else? But the Rebbe was insistent.
“They must go to this doctor. Ich bet – I implore the Rebbetzin to help them find his number.”
The Rebbetzin, who had founded the Satmar Bikur Cholim some twenty years earlier, knew every physician in the New York area, but even with a careful search through her personal address book, Dr. Falk’s number didn’t turn up. Finally, in a dusty, old phone book tucked away in her office, she found it. She wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to the young couple.
That same day, Esther phoned. An old voice, crackly and hoarse, answered. Briefly, she explained the situation, and that the Satmar Rebbe had sent her. When she finished speaking, there was silence on the other end of the line.
“You can come to see me tomorrow,” Dr. Falk finally said.
“Thank you,” Esther replied. Dr. Falk gave her his address and the time of the appointment and hung up the phone.
The next day, at two in the afternoon, Esther and her mother knocked on the door of Dr. Falk’s office. An elderly man in his late eighties opened for them. He was short and bald, with thick glasses and a yellowing white shirt tucked loosely into his pants, which he wore high on his waist.
“Come in, please,” he said.
Esther and her mother looked past the doctor into the office and were shocked by what they saw. A long, half-lit room, nearly empty of furniture. No secretary or medical equipment. It didn’t look like a doctor’s office at all – only the old man stood by the door with his dry, gnarled hands, beckoning them in.
Esther looked at her mother with dismay. Reluctant to enter the room, her eyes conveyed a silent message –maybe we should leave?
Dr. Falk noticed her concern.
“Ne aggódj. Gyere be,” he reassured Esther’s mother in Hungarian. “Don’t worry! Come in!”
Hearing the doctor speak in her mother tongue assuaged her mother’s concerns, though Esther was still uncertain.
“Mama,” she whispered to her mother. “The doctor looks strange. I’m scared. I don’t want him to touch me.”
“You don’t have any choice,” her mother whispered back. “The Rebbe has sent us to him!”
They told Dr. Falk of the diagnosis Esther had received, and Dr. Falk examined her lightly.
“I don’t know what that gynecologist is talking about,” he finally stated. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all. She’ll have healthy children.”
Esther and her mother left the doctor’s office relieved and overjoyed, filled with hope after Dr. Falk’s optimistic prognosis. On their way home, Esther reflected, “I think that we should give Dr. Falk the number of that other doctor, so that the two can discuss the case.”
When they arrived home, Esther called Dr. Falk’s office, at the number she had received from the Satmar Rebbetzin. To her great surprise, an unfamiliar voice answered the phone.
“Metropolitan Reality, can I help you?” said a young woman, pleasantly.
Esther was puzzled for a moment. “May I please speak with Dr. Falk.”
“I’m sorry,” said the young woman on the other end of the line. “There is no Dr. Falk here. This is a real estate agency.”
“I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number,” Esther said and hung up the phone. She checked the number on the paper and dialed again.
“Metropolitan Reality, can I help you?” the young woman said again.
“I’m sorry,” Esther said again. “Is this 212-971-7829?” asked.
“Yes,” said the young woman.
“And there is no Dr. Falk there?”
“No,” said the secretary. “This is a real estate agency.”
“But I called and spoke to him at this number yesterday.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” the secretary replied. “We have been using this number for the last five years. There’s no Dr. Falk here. I’m sorry if I can’t help you.”
Esther hung up the phone. She looked at the number on the paper – the same one she had used to call Dr. Falk the previous day. She didn’t understand. What was clear, though, was that with no way of getting in touch with Dr. Falk in order to put him in contact with her other doctor. She let the matter go and it remained a mystery.
A few months later, Esther brought the long-awaited besorah tovah to her parents and in-laws – she was expecting! Half a year later, she gave birth to a child – the first of many.
Today, Esther Malcha Stern lives in Brooklyn, a joyful mother and grandmother.
“Had the story not happened to me,” Esther is wont to say, “I would never have believed it.”
–––––––––
This story first appeared in the book Zecher Tzaddik l’Bracha, vol. 2, §575, in a letter to the editor written by Esther’s brother. Many thanks to Mazal Printing and R. Nossan Nota Moshe Glick for permission to retell it here. Special thanks, also, to R. Yoel Weisshaus for his hard work in tracking down the tale.
“Mrs. Stern,” said Dr. Lewis, one of Manhattan’s top gynecologists, “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but my findings show that you suffer from an incurable, chronic disorder which will never allow you to have children.”
The blade had fallen. Esther Malcha and her husband, Chaim, sat there in silent shock, their worst fears realized.
And yet, Chaim Stern didn’t fully despair; he still had one final hope. He took his wife to Williamsburg, to the home of the tzaddik, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, the great Satmar Rebbe. If the Rebbe would give them a bracha, things would certainly turn out for the best.
The Satmar Rebbe greeted them warmly and with honor. Esther Malcha was the daughter of a prominent rabbi from the CRC – the Central Rabbinical Congress of the U.S.A. and Canada – and could trace her family back to some of the great Rabbis of Eastern Europe. Chaim was a young Torah scholar. The Rebbe listened sympathetically to their story. Esther cried and pleaded with the Rebbe for a miracle.
“Ver veyst – can we be sure that that doctor was right?,” the Rebbe replied. “I want you to get a second opinion. Go to Dr. Henry Falk. He’s very good. Make an appointment and hear his diagnosis.”
“Antshuldigt mir, Rebbe,” interrupted one of the assistants, “No one’s been in touch with Dr. Falk for years. The heimishe velt hasn’t used him in a long time. He must be retired by now; who knows if he’s still among the living. I’m not sure we can even find his phone number.”
“The Rebbetzin certainly has his number” the Rebbe replied. “Go and ask her.”
When Chaim and Esther Malcha approached the Satmar Rebbetzin for help, however, she repeated the gabbai’s sentiment. “It’s been so many years since we’ve used him. I doubt that he’s still working as a doctor. Why do you need him specifically?”
“It wasn’t our idea,” the couple explained. “The Rebbe himself told us to see him and sent us to the Rebbetzin to help us find his phone number.”
The Rebbetzin turned to the Rebbe with her complaint – surely Dr. Falk was no longer available, could the Rebbe please suggest someone else? But the Rebbe was insistent.
“They must go to this doctor. Ich bet – I implore the Rebbetzin to help them find his number.”
The Rebbetzin, who had founded the Satmar Bikur Cholim some twenty years earlier, knew every physician in the New York area, but even with a careful search through her personal address book, Dr. Falk’s number didn’t turn up. Finally, in a dusty, old phone book tucked away in her office, she found it. She wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to the young couple.
That same day, Esther phoned. An old voice, crackly and hoarse, answered. Briefly, she explained the situation, and that the Satmar Rebbe had sent her. When she finished speaking, there was silence on the other end of the line.
“You can come to see me tomorrow,” Dr. Falk finally said.
“Thank you,” Esther replied. Dr. Falk gave her his address and the time of the appointment and hung up the phone.
The next day, at two in the afternoon, Esther and her mother knocked on the door of Dr. Falk’s office. An elderly man in his late eighties opened for them. He was short and bald, with thick glasses and a yellowing white shirt tucked loosely into his pants, which he wore high on his waist.
“Come in, please,” he said.
Esther and her mother looked past the doctor into the office and were shocked by what they saw. A long, half-lit room, nearly empty of furniture. No secretary or medical equipment. It didn’t look like a doctor’s office at all – only the old man stood by the door with his dry, gnarled hands, beckoning them in.
Esther looked at her mother with dismay. Reluctant to enter the room, her eyes conveyed a silent message –maybe we should leave?
Dr. Falk noticed her concern.
“Ne aggódj. Gyere be,” he reassured Esther’s mother in Hungarian. “Don’t worry! Come in!”
Hearing the doctor speak in her mother tongue assuaged her mother’s concerns, though Esther was still uncertain.
“Mama,” she whispered to her mother. “The doctor looks strange. I’m scared. I don’t want him to touch me.”
“You don’t have any choice,” her mother whispered back. “The Rebbe has sent us to him!”
They told Dr. Falk of the diagnosis Esther had received, and Dr. Falk examined her lightly.
“I don’t know what that gynecologist is talking about,” he finally stated. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all. She’ll have healthy children.”
Esther and her mother left the doctor’s office relieved and overjoyed, filled with hope after Dr. Falk’s optimistic prognosis. On their way home, Esther reflected, “I think that we should give Dr. Falk the number of that other doctor, so that the two can discuss the case.”
When they arrived home, Esther called Dr. Falk’s office, at the number she had received from the Satmar Rebbetzin. To her great surprise, an unfamiliar voice answered the phone.
“Metropolitan Reality, can I help you?” said a young woman, pleasantly.
Esther was puzzled for a moment. “May I please speak with Dr. Falk.”
“I’m sorry,” said the young woman on the other end of the line. “There is no Dr. Falk here. This is a real estate agency.”
“I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number,” Esther said and hung up the phone. She checked the number on the paper and dialed again.
“Metropolitan Reality, can I help you?” the young woman said again.
“I’m sorry,” Esther said again. “Is this 212-971-7829?” asked.
“Yes,” said the young woman.
“And there is no Dr. Falk there?”
“No,” said the secretary. “This is a real estate agency.”
“But I called and spoke to him at this number yesterday.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” the secretary replied. “We have been using this number for the last five years. There’s no Dr. Falk here. I’m sorry if I can’t help you.”
Esther hung up the phone. She looked at the number on the paper – the same one she had used to call Dr. Falk the previous day. She didn’t understand. What was clear, though, was that with no way of getting in touch with Dr. Falk in order to put him in contact with her other doctor. She let the matter go and it remained a mystery.
A few months later, Esther brought the long-awaited besorah tovah to her parents and in-laws – she was expecting! Half a year later, she gave birth to a child – the first of many.
Today, Esther Malcha Stern lives in Brooklyn, a joyful mother and grandmother.
“Had the story not happened to me,” Esther is wont to say, “I would never have believed it.”
–––––––––
This story first appeared in the book Zecher Tzaddik l’Bracha, vol. 2, §575, in a letter to the editor written by Esther’s brother. Many thanks to Mazal Printing and R. Nossan Nota Moshe Glick for permission to retell it here. Special thanks, also, to R. Yoel Weisshaus for his hard work in tracking down the tale.