I remember myself as a child, a lonely, forlorn boy. I was afraid of the world. It seemed cold and alien. I felt as if everyone were mocking me. But I had one friend, and he was—please don't laugh at me—Maimonides, the Rambam. How did we become friends? We simply met!

The Rambam was a regular guest in our house. Those were the days when my father, my mentor, was still living in the home of my grandfather, the great and pious Rabbi Elijah Feinstein of Prushna. Father sat and studied Torah day and night. A rather small group of outstanding young Torah scholars gathered around him and imbibed his words thirstily.

Father's lectures were given in my grandfather's living room, where my bed was placed. I used to sit up in bed and listen to my father talk. My father always spoke about the Rambam. This is how he would proceed. He would open a volume of the Talmud and read a passage. Then he would say, ‘This is the interpretation of Rabbi Isaac and the [other] Tosafists; now let us see how the Rambam interpreted the passage.’ Father would always find that the Rambam had offered a different interpretation and had deviated from the simple way. My father would say, almost as a complaint against the Rambam, ‘We don't understand our Master's reasoning or the way he explains the passage.’ It was as if he were complaining to the Rambam directly, ‘Rabbenu Mosheh, why did you do this?’

My father would then say that, prima facie, the criticisms and objections of the Rabad are actually correct. The members of the group would jump up and each of them would suggest an idea. Father would listen and rebut their ideas, and then repeat, ‘Our Master's words are as hard to crack as iron.’ But he would not despair; he would rest his head on his fist and sink into deep thought. The group was quiet and did not disturb his reflections. After a long while he would lift his head very slowly and begin, ‘Rabbotai, let's see …’, and then he would start to talk.