Once, just before they were about to leave the mikvah, the Ribnitzer Rebbe turned to his hoiz bochur, Moshe Hersh, and said, "The leitzim are on their way."

"If the Rebbe said something," Moshe Hersh recalls, "I knew I had to take it seriously. The Ribnitzer didn't waste any words."

Sure enough, no more than three minutes later, a group of young bochurim walked into the mikvah and began speaking to the Rebbe with chutzpah.

"When is the Rebbe going to daven?" one of them mocked, prompting loud laughter from the rest of the group.

"Baruch Hashem, I have a minyan without you," the Rebbe replied with a gentle smile.

The Rebbe's calm reaction was hardly a surprise. This was a man who was accustomed to facing severe adversity. He had fearlessly stood up to ruthless KGB agents. He had chopped through solid ice—ice so thick that heavy trucks could drive over it—just to toivel in freezing waters. He could handle whatever came his way, and certainly a few foolish jokes from a group of immature bochurim.

Had Moshe Hersh been a bit older, he surely would have spoken up and protested for the Rebbe's kavod. But being a young bochur himself, he knew his words wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway.

Once they had walked away and distanced themselves from the group, the Rebbe turned back to his hoiz bochur and said, "Nu, Moshe, didn't I tell you they were coming?"

As always, the Rebbe knew.