Rabbi Aaron Kotler bids goodbye to Lakewood’s quintessential askan Reb Yisroel Schenkolewski

Over half a century ago, when Lakewood’s Orthodox community was still in its infancy, Rabbi Schenkolewski was tapped by Lakewood Rosh Yeshivah Rav Shneur Kotler ztz”l to serve as his right hand in building the kehillah, including a vital role as the yeshivah’s “ambassador at large,” tasks he fulfilled prolifically — and unassumingly — over the ensuing decades.

He built valuable relationships on local, county, and state levels, founded Lakewood’s first girls’ high school, personally served as Hatzolah’s evening dispatcher for nearly 25 years, and created the conditions for Lakewood to become a thriving kehillah.

His levayah was held in the yeshivah itself, a testament to the esteem in which he was held by the Roshei Yeshivah and rabbanim, and condolence calls streamed in from elected officials, showcasing the respect he commanded in political circles as well. Lakewood’s long-serving Mayor Raymond Coles mourned the rabbi’s loss, calling him “my teacher, advisor, and confidant — my Rebbi,” and credited him with having an “immense impact on Lakewood.”

Rabbi Aaron Kotler, President Emeritus of Beth Medrash Govoha, shares his reflections on a lifelong friend.

T

he famed Oxford English Dictionary defines “byword” as “a person or thing who becomes proverbial, as a type of specified characteristics.”

I am unsure at what point the word “Schenky” morphed from a young bochur’s nickname to the byword for our exceptional Lakewood Torah community, but certainly at some point, it did.

That is because Rabbi Yisroel Schenkolewksi, or Schenky, as he was so affectionately known, perfectly captured the holy essence and beauty of our kehillah, particularly for those “outside” our tightly woven community, whose perception of us was via the window of his soul.

Fifty years ago, these “outsiders” typically had no clue who we strange folks were. Many were curious, a minority were pretty angry, and they were often accompanied by fellow travelers who were only too willing to get riled up at the massive growth of an Orthodox Jewish community in their backyard.

And we did not always make it easy for “them” to understand “us,” yet we needed friends. Badly.

Through knowing Schenky and experiencing his wisdom, thoughtfulness, patience, caring, devotion, dedication, and a thousand other superlatives, “they” thought they knew who “we” were.

How wrong they were. We strived and aspired to his greatness, and basked in his reflection, but in no way did we live up to the existential greatness that infused his entire being.

When I say we, I refer to the entire first and second generation of Lakewood askanim or shtadlanim or roshei mosdos — the people who worked day and night to build our community and its massive foundations and infrastructure.

Yes, his loss hurts.

MY earliest memories of Schenky involved my twisting his peyos from under his big yarmulke. At the time he was driving my father, the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Shneur Kotler, and my mother, Rebbetzin Rischel, down the Garden State Parkway. We were headed home. Cars did not have air conditioning in those days and he, Schenky, the young bochur, naturally, was driving his Rosh Yeshivah and Rebbetzin home. Along with a bunch of other kids in the car. We did not have seatbelts either, so there I was, five or six years old, “chepping” the young bochur from the back seat.

I began by grabbing his peyos and graduated quickly: at some point I tossed his yarmulke out the open window. Schenky never let me forget it. Even as I approached my sixties and he his eighties, he would conclude the most serious kehillah meetings by playfully turning to me and saying, “Don’t forget, you still owe me a yarmulke.” I don’t know why I never went out and bought him one. I think I feared that had I done so, I would lose his cherished chiding, a reminder of innocent, bygone years.

Schenky graduated rapidly, too. His father, Rabbi Meir Schenkolewksi, was instrumental in the rescue of Rav Aharon Kotler ztz”l, from the Holocaust. Reb Meir was among the first Agudah leaders in America, and his work throughout those years of war and destruction was legendary.

With such a family bond, and with such a noble legacy, Schenky held a special place in our home, which only grew stronger as he displayed constant readiness, without hesitation, to accept any mission and fulfill any task for the Rosh Yeshivah.

Lakewood was tiny in those days, and the challenges were abundant. The township could often be hostile to seeing a yeshivah grow in its midst. Some folks preferred to hang on to a fading hotel industry rather than embrace a very religious group that wished to live somewhat separately.

My father, Reb Shneur, often shared with me how the first time the yeshivah needed a bank loan, the manager cordially responded, “Rabbi, your type makes my type uncomfortable. We only lend to our type and not yours.” Back then, people talked directly that way, with no shame or embarrassment, telling you openly what today they conceal with layers of glibness.

Reb Shneur did not focus on building a “typical” community. The needs of the Jewish people were (and perhaps still are) too great for that. His focus was singular: to build a makom Torah filled with talmidei chachamim who would develop and shteig, and through their own gadlus would shape Klal Yisrael’s future. As Rosh Yeshivah, all he needed to do was to help them bring out their own innate greatness.

A visionary like Reb Shneur — who, in building Lakewood and the yeshivah, may just be one of the most successful gedolim in Jewish history —needed trusted lieutenants.

With his keen eye for human nature, Reb Shneur confidently chose Schenky, the young bochur, as his primary lieutenant, and entrusted him with the most sensitive and major tasks. That mission included anything to do with the “outside,” while Reb Shneur focused on the inside.

Reb Shneur didn’t just trust Schenky; rather, he empowered him to speak in the yeshivah’s name and to represent the yeshivah in places large and small.

Schenky set to the task. In no time, the small yeshivah became a brand name in New Jersey, with governors and senators vying for its attention.

Every candidate running for office, major and minor alike, dutifully made the trek to Reb Shneur’s home, with Rabbi Schenkolewksi, the humble maestro, setting the stage. He had Reb Shneur’s complete confidence in making the decisions as to whom to support and in what manner.

This rabbi was not what politicians expected. He was so friendly, approachable, and unassuming. He quickly built a cadre of friends for the yeshivah, legends whose early support for our community continue to this day. They include names of today and of yesteryear, from Governor Brendan Byrne and Governor Jim Florio to Governors Whitman, Christie, McGreevey, Corzine, Murphy and others. Lifelong friends include our beloved Senator Bob Singer, retired Mayor Michael Levin, my own dear friend Joe Buckelew, and many more.

Under the watchful eyes of these friends, and in the face of sometimes incessant shrieking headlines and snide asides, our world was built.

For you locals reading this: Know that without Reb Yisroel (the simple man who never objected even in old age to the use of the youthful moniker Schenky), you would be striving to live, learn, do mitzvos, raise your families, and build your mosdos in a gale of unremitting hostility.

You would not be living in your home — as the zoning rules from the 1970s precluded more housing — nor would you have your shul, your mosdos, your mikvaos — the town said no a thousand times to each of these, with faceoffs at the township and planning boards and mass crowds crying foul at every Orthodox application.

With Reb Yisroel, that master diplomat, consummate mensch, and wise mentor, the world became a welcoming place. He led the political battles when necessary, and he built strong relationships so that battles were not necessary.

In the 1980s, a first alumni shul was proposed on 14th Street in today’s heart  of “Old Lakewood.” The local community rose up in arms, mongering how a neighborhood shul would destroy the character of their little paradise. The same thing happened with the first mikveh. And for the next dozen, too. Tensions rose. A handful of haters created organizations with innocuous names that implied that they were going to “save” the town from an alien invasion. The battle was on. The press weighed in daily, opposed, without pretense, to the rights and needs of Orthodox Jewry.

Reb Yisroel was the leader who stepped into the fray. Because of his work — directly — our community emerged from a small yeshivah and grew into the major metropolis of Torah for the world.

He cajoled, compromised, cared, and spent day and night in the battles. Remarkably, over the years, the enemies became friends, the friends became advocates, and the advocates became passionate supporters of a Torah kehillah.

When else in Jewish history was there such a man, a prince of his people?

And if there was, were those princes one of us, or were they of torn identity?

Hark back perhaps to the early 1500s, to the time of Rabbi Josel of Rosheim, that legendary shtadlan of the German and Polish Jews during the reigns of the Emperor Maximilian I and Charles V. Or perhaps further, to Bustenai, reputed to be the last surviving prince of the Davidic Kingdom, who led the Jewish people  in the times of Sura, Pumbedisa and Nehardea. We have had a handful of such men in our 3,300 years; Reb Yisroel earned his leading place among them.

Princes often get to live like princes. What did Reb Yisroel gain from all this glory and influence?

Not money — he was forced to sell computers out of his home to cover his bills. He lived for over 50 years in the Yeshivah Apartments, a complex of small units for which he himself raised the money and built for the yeshivah.

Not honor — no one gave him shlishi or siddur kiddushin. And not power either, as he never ran for office, never built a business, never lived above a most modest life a few blocks from the yeshivah.

What he did get was a stream of those in need. He got a door that never closed, with those in distress trekking to him day and night. He got the not-so-coveted achrayus as Hatzolah late-night dispatcher, a position that he used to develop generations of Hatzolah members.

“Reb Yisroel, we need help with this, we need help with that. Our child is a choleh. We need a doctor. I am in jail, I need help. I am in debt, I am losing my home. My wife was in an accident, and we don’t have insurance. I messed up with this or that or the other. I don’t have a passport. We need a kevurah in the middle of the night. There was a terrible crash, and someone needs to inform the family of their devastating loss.”

Schenky, Schenky, Schenky. All day and all night.

To a point where he would sadly joke to me that his very appearance evoked loss and tragedy.

Oh, how that burden shapes a person! Yet instead of him becoming cynical — he didn’t have a cynical bone in his body, or weary — he didn’t have a weary muscle in him, or cold — his heart was warm and caring to his very last day; he remained princely and dignified.

In his calm manner, he could go from coordinating a massive levayah, to a car crash victim, to a simchah, and from there to see a governor, all with the same equanimity and poise.

How many organizations does it take today to make a community? Misaskim? Chaverim? Mekimi? Mesamchim? Tomchei Shabbos? Bikur Cholim? A Vaad? Chai Lifeline? An Igud Hamosdos? Those all sound like one short afternoon in Reb Yisroel’s life.

If only we all lived his way.

I find it fascinating how his tasked role, seemingly focused on the outside, was spent day and night on the inside, helping every single person. If only we all made a kiddush Hashem in our every action. If only we all did not allow our roles and influence to get to our heads. If only we could experience success and yet live most modestly and simply. If only we all had impeccable judgment that was so wise and respected by both the kehillah and those beyond. If only we were all trusted by gedolei hador for our keen advice and input — while remaining loyal to daas Torah as more than just a catchword, but as our reason for being.

When Reb Yisroel lost his precious young daughter Kaila, the blow to him and his beloved Rebbetzin Craindel was a mighty one. Many a man would stagger in response. His response was to step forth from his pain and build Lakewood’s first girls’ high school, Bais Kaila, in her memory. Through this, he reminded himself of his loss every day, not by remaining mired in tears but by building a world-class mosad of chinuch for our daughters.

When Reb Yisroel was unfairly targeted by an ambitious prosecutor seeking to put us all down and to score a win against the “rabbis,” he did not complain. Despite screaming media headlines, he did not despair.

Nor did he accept an easy way out — an offered deal with no real consequence to him. He noted that doing so would reflect poorly on us all. Instead, he suffered through years of a legal process that completely vindicated him, not once but twice.

This is the man I knew. How I yearn for one more hour in his presence.

For more than 50 years, he was zocheh to loyally serve as Lakewood’s primary address for those in distress. Through his life, our community was created. Through his persona — calm, focused, dignified, caring, warm, and devoted — we became known. Through his chesed, spending countless nights on his couch even in his older years while waiting to hear back from those post accidents, in hospitals, in jail, stuck overseas, without passports, without papers — we were all elevated.

We are overwhelmed by this loss.

We are bereft of his wisdom.

We are devastated to have lost our meilitz, our advocate, who was appointed by the original builders of our kehillah to watch over us.

May his zechus continue to protect us all.

Yehi zichro baruch.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1028)