If you had $50,000 — or $500,000 — to distribute to tzedakah, would you entrust it to an individual on nothing but his say-so that it would be used to maximum benefit? If you did, would you then do so again and again?
It wasn’t just that the late Chaim Goldberg of Jerusalem won the trust of benefactors. He convinced them that he was the vehicle for the best tzedakah deal they could get. That’s why millions of dollars went through the hands of this man who had one partner in his work, but beyond that, no organization, no stationary, no overhead, no board of directors, no overseer, no staff, no application process, not even a fixed agenda.
When we covered this not-to-be-believed tzedakah team in 1999, we call it a “two-man war on poverty.” If we had not seen it, we would not have believed it.
Somehow Goldberg got started decades ago with toothbrushes. A poor family asked this American student who had moved to Israel if he could help with toothbrushes. He figured that if they don’t even have toothbrushes, they must be lacking a lot more. He investigated, and found his fears confirmed. He wrote home — maybe his parents could supply some toothbrushes? They thought like their son and raised money for a lot more. Chaim Goldberg helped his first family.
In that incident was the kernel of his twofold operation, an entirely volunteer effort: Look for the people who are not asking for help, or at least not for help on the scale they really need; investigate every claim; and help with real items as least as much as with money.
Goldberg took those large sums that eventually came his way and bought refrigerators, heaters, food and other essentials for the hidden poor in the Land of Israel — the poor who weren’t working the system, who really needed the help, who didn’t complain, who suffered in silence. Chaim Goldberg dedicated a number of hours a day to his chosen task, knew the neighborhoods of Jerusalem like the back of his hand, but he traveled to other cities, too.
And he investigated. If a family said it was not receiving help from any other source, he checked all the other local tzedakah sources to see whether it was true. If a family said it had a certain medical condition for which the cost of treatment was required, he double- checked with the medical authorities. He was as honest as the day is long, and those are the kind of people he wanted to deal with. He was no one’s fool.
Over time, the trust was returned. Not only did he carefully allot items and funds according to need, he knew just who to give the funds to in order to make sure they were used for their intended purpose. He knew which families — and which friends and neighbors — could be trusted. He got to know people. Hundreds, thousands of people. Not only the needy, but the other purveyors of tzedakah in the Land of Israel. By the time of his death he had an entire network. And a phenomenal memory of names, addresses and directions.
All he offered to the needy was help. All he offered to benefactors was his word. All he offered to fellow tzedakah distributors was knowledge, who was truly needy, who was not.
Perhaps because he saw how small sums could make such a momentous difference in the lives of the truly impoverished, he lived extremely simply himself.
Somehow, the standard perspectives simply do not capture him — consummate professional? saint? lover of humanity? ultimate volunteer? selfless servant? kindness personified? Somehow, none of this quite fits. Chaim Goldberg was Chaim Goldberg. That’s it. He was unique. Never shall there be his like again.
Never can it be said that the legendary Jerusalemites of yore have ceased to spring from its soil.
Copyright © 2016 by the Intermountain Jewish News
