Rabbi Avrumi Portowicz z”l – Avrohom Yitzchok ben Harav Yosef HaKohen

By Sholom Yehuda Katz

Grandson

Rabbi Avrumi Portowicz z”l

Niftar Shushan Purim 5786

He Wasn’t Just Living—He Was Life Itself

I can’t believe I’m writing this. I always thought Zaidy would one day be the one writing about me, just like he did every single year for his own parents, all the way until this past year.

As one of my cousins said when he heard about Zaidy’s petirah:

“It can’t be. Zaidy doesn’t die.”

And in a certain way, he was right.

Zaidy wasn’t just a person with a life — he was life itself.

He lived with energy, with simcha, and with a joy he constantly shared with everyone around him.

I remember arriving at his house in Flatbush for Sukkos, usually in the last rushed moments before yomtov. And there he was—hosting all his children and grandchildren—standing on a ladder in the sukkah, putting up the final decorations.

Because he had to be the one to do it. And it had to be done beautifully.

Zaidy never pushed things off. He simply acted. There was no “later,” no “maybe tomorrow.” If something needed to be done, he was already doing it. Nothing stopped him.

Zaidy made everything fun—every Chol Hamoed trip, every Chanukah party, every Purim seudah, every Pesach Seder, every birthday.

He never needed to say “it’s geshmak to be a Yid.”

He lived it—in a way that made it impossible to doubt.

As a child, I would come back to school after yom tov and tell everyone how rich my grandfather was, because of the incredible experiences we had.

Only years later did I understand the truth: he wasn’t rich. Far from it.

But he had priorities—and nothing stood in their way.

His priority was making Yiddishkeit the most joyful, alive, and meaningful experience imaginable.

I can still remember climbing onto Zaidy’s lap, getting a hug and a kiss, and saying together:

“Who loves you the most?”

“ZAIDY.”

And then he would whisper, “Of course, after Hashem.”

I wish I had just a little more time for those moments.

To Zaidy, family was everything. There were no excuses.

Every simcha meant everyone came. No exceptions.

As I got older, I came to realize how brilliant he was.

“There’s nothing I don’t know,” he would joke. “I’m always right—and when I’m wrong, it’s only because I think I’m wrong.”

And if someone argued, he would smile and say: “I would agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.”

Always the sharp line. Always the perfect sense of humor.

Zaidy’s reach went far beyond our family walls.

At 18 years old he became a teacher and then within a few years the principal of Stolin Cheder, alongside being in the business world in Commercial Mortgages, because sitting still and doing just one thing was never really his style. From there he moved on to full time chinuch becoming English Principal in Yeshivas Rabeinu Chaim Berlin, and 7th grade Rebbi at Yeshivas Derech Hatorah of Brooklyn. He then continued on as 7th grade Rebbi in HALB, the Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, where he served for close to two decades shaping generation after generation of talmidim. He also served as the General Studies principal of Yeshiva Gedola Bais Yisroel high school for eight years, before moving on to Ohavei Torah in Riverdale for eleven years. Followed by Menahel of Or Hatorah and eventually moving on to Yeshivas Ziv HaTorah in Flatbush.

And even after he moved to Lakewood, he refused to let that go. Every single morning he drove from Lakewood to Brooklyn to continue serving his talmidim as Menahel of Ziv HaTorah, and then back to Lakewood to serve as an afternoon teacher in Yagdil Torah—continuing both all the way until his petirah.

And then there were the camps—from Agudah, to head counselor of Rayim, to Director of Shivtei, to building his own kiruv Camp Kochavim, to Camp Govoha, to Manhig Ruchani of Camp Romimu teen division, to head counselor of Blev Echad in Lakewood.

Summers filled with the same energy, the same simcha, the same relentless drive to make every moment meaningful for every single child.

Retirement was simply not a word that existed in his vocabulary.

Wherever he went, he didn’t just show up—he built something. He left people different than he found them, impacting thousands of talmidim and campers for life.

Then when I was twelve years old, everything changed.

He got COVID and spent the next five months in the hospital, fighting for his life.

During those months, I became a bar mitzvah.

And Zaidy wasn’t there.

I thought about him constantly. I cried for him. I thought about what he would have wanted.

But I knew with complete clarity what he would say:

“Don’t let the simcha dim.”

Because to Zaidy, this wasn’t just a celebration. This was the moment I was becoming a Bar Chiyuva. It was everything he had spent his life building.

So I continued.

I danced. I leined. I became a bar mitzvah.

Not in spite of the hardship—but because of what he taught me.

That Yiddishkeit is joy. That simcha isn’t something you wait for—it’s something you choose.

Standing there, in one of the most important moments of my life, without him in the room, I understood it fully.

The pain was real. The absence was real.

But so was the truth he lived every day:

It is the most geshmake thing to be a Yid.

Against all odds, he survived.

But he wasn’t the same.

And just as we were beginning to come to terms with that reality, he refused to accept it.

“This will not be the new reality.”

He fought every single day to come back.

He would always say that not trying is guaranteed failure—but if you try, there is always a chance.

And so he tried. Every single day.

Whenever things felt overwhelming, he would say:

“Please Hashem, give me the koach.”

And then he would turn and say:

“Look how good Hashem is. I don’t deserve the chesed He’s doing for me.”

Through everything, he remained that same Zaidy.

Because there was no other option.

Because he wasn’t just living—he was life itself.

Zaidy, I can’t believe how lucky I was that you were mine.

We will continue your legacy—to live fully, to never stop, to never make excuses.

You showed us that even in your final years, connected to an oxygen machine, when someone asked how you were, you smiled and said:

“Everything is amazing—except I can’t breathe.”

Because even that couldn’t stop you.

We will move forward.

We will keep dancing.

We will keep living.

Just like you showed us how.

Please be a meilitz yosher for our whole family, who loves you and misses you so much.