Yanky was silent. The world was spinning in circles. And what could he say? The Rebbe was right
"I’ve got a story for you,” said Marianne Bing, sitting down next to Marta, her hostess, with a tall glass of diced kiwi in her hand. “You know we were in Israel for Chanukah? So we’d signed up for one of those menorah tours in Jerusalem, where they take you around to see the old neighborhoods by the light of the Chanukah candles. We wanted the children to experience it.”
Marianne took a dainty bite of kiwi. “It was six in the evening,” she continued, “and we were running around all over Nachlaot, where we were supposed to meet up with our group, but we couldn’t find them. We were a bit late, I guess. So we called the organizer, but by the time we found out where they were and caught up with them, we’d already missed the lighting and the whole explanation. The kids were so disappointed… they’d wanted to see how they light those special oil lamps. And then, all of a sudden Ronnie said to me, ‘Look, there’s somebody who’s about to light his menorah. Let’s go ask him if we can watch.’ So we approached this person, and it was a lovely young man, tying a black sash around his suit jacket and preparing wicks for the oil lamps. And guess who it was!”
“Well, that’s easy,” said Marta, laughing. “There’s only one young man I know who lives in Nachlaot. It was Yonatan?”
“You guessed it! And it was such a beautiful scene, watching him chant the brachot and light the menorah in a glass box at his front gate, in that picturesque little alley, with the Jerusalem stone and the arched windows. Ronnie was so taken by it, he said if we ever make aliyah, he would buy a house in Nachlaot, too.”
“Really?” Marta was surprised. Ronnie Bing had his feet very much on the ground. He wasn’t the type to get all euphoric about picturesque little alleyways in Jerusalem.
“Really. He was that taken by it. You have no idea, Marta, how lovely it was, those old stone houses with the menorahs glowing in the windows, or by the front gates. And you know, your son could be a tour guide. You should have seen how nicely he explained everything to our children. He let them feel the wicks and smell the oil, and then we listened while he said the brachot and watched him light.”
“He’s planning to live in that neighborhood after his wedding, too,” Marta said. “We’ve already bought a house for him there. He’ll have it renovated, and they’ll move in. That’s what they wanted.”
“Oh, how nice! That was a good choice. There are modern, high-rise buildings going up everywhere in Jerusalem, but you won’t find an atmosphere like that outside Nachlaot,” Marianne gushed, and dipped her little spoon deep in the glass for the last bits of kiwi.
“Yaakov Roll thinks we made a brilliant move, buying that place for Yonatan,” Sandy said to his wife a few hours later, after all the guests at their charity evening had gone home. They’d invited 20 couples, served a stylish buffet supper, and secured 20 pledges to help support needy families. “He thinks it’s ideal, buying a place like that for half the price of an apartment in one of the new projects. I showed him the plans, and he said he’d encourage his daughter to think in that direction, too. You know he has a daughter in Israel, right?”
“Interesting,” said Marta, ignoring the question. “The Bings were waxing poetic about the neighborhood, too.”
“And so were other friends that I showed the pictures to,” said Sandy. “I’m starting to think it was a good decision, and not just b’dieved. True, the new, high-end projects were more my style, but Nachalot has a lot to offer. Who are you calling?”
Marta had picked up the cordless phone as he spoke and was energetically tapping at it. “Yonatan,” she said. “I want you to tell him what you just told me. It’ll make him happy.”
“No it won’t,” Sandy said bluntly.
Marta pressed the cancel button. “Why do you think it won’t make him happy? He knew we were a little disgruntled about his choice, and now we’ve come around to agreeing with him. Why would that not make him happy?”
“Marta, think about it. Now, after several of our friends said it was a great idea to buy in Nachlaot, we’re finally ready to agree with him. It’s like saying, ‘We thought you were being a fool, as usual, but now that our friends put their stamp of approval on your idea, we suddenly like it.’ That’s pretty insulting, isn’t it?”
***
“The Rebbe wants to see you,” said Gitik the gatekeeper.
“Now?”
“No, not during receiving hours. Come later, after Maariv.”
“What’s it about?”
“Go in to him, and you’ll find out,” was Gitik’s evasive reply.
Immediately after Maariv, Yanky called Shaye Langerman. He, too, was evasive. After a few moments of intensive pressure, Langerman gave in to the point of revealing that “if not for your father, you would have been called in a long time ago. Be thankful it was put off until now.”
“What do you mean? You’re saying my father put in a good word for me?”
“No. But out of respect for him, his position, and the work he does in chinuch, people were more forgiving toward you than they would have been otherwise.”
“Nu? And what happened to change that?”
“Go in to the Rebbe already, and then you’ll know,” said Langerman, unwilling to waste any more words.
Yanky put on his gartel, straightened his suitcoat, and was admitted to the Rebbe’s presence.
He had come to this room, filled with joyful awe, on many other occasions: just prior to his engagement, on the eve of his wedding, when he came to share the news of the birth of each of his children, and every year on his birthday to receive the Rebbe’s blessing and guidance.
“We haven’t seen you here in a long time,” said the Rebbe. Yanky lowered his eyes.
“Everyone has his derech,” the Rebbe went on, “and we have no complaints against anyone. But a person can’t hold a position in chinuch and convey a message to the talmidim that contradicts the institution’s hashkafah.”
“I… I was careful…” Yanky stammered.
“That may be. But your opinions were stronger than whatever care you took.” The Rebbe spoke calmly, without anger. “Bochurim have heard things from you that were not aligned with our approach in chinuch. In our mesorah, we hold that a person must fight with all his strength, approach his challenges like a soldier, never indulge his cravings, never compromise. There may be places with a different approach, and for some bochurim, a different approach might be more suitable, but as long as a bochur is in our yeshivah, his parents expect us to be mechanech him the same way we’ve been doing for generations.”
Yanky was silent. The world was spinning in circles. And what could he say? The Rebbe was right. During the past few weeks, bochurim had come to him now and then, worried about Gehinnom and worn down by the daily struggle with the yetzer. The guidance he’d given them was gleaned from the watchmaker’s derech. He’d calmed them down, and he’d certainly lowered their expectations of themselves — knowing full well that anyone else on the yeshivah’s teaching staff would have told them the opposite.
Maybe he really had gone too far… maybe he’d been overly permissive. In his own defense he could say that in all three cases, the bochurim had been on the verge of an obsessive-compulsive disorder that even an untrained eye could see. But which one of them had gone and tattled on him to the Rebbe?
“My Feivele loves you so much,” the Rebbe was saying. “A few months ago, I was talking with him about the future, when I won’t be here, and he said to me, ‘Don’t worry, Tatte. My brother-in-law Yanky will be at my side, like his father is at your side.’ That‘s what Feivele said.”
So Feivele saw me in the role of mashgiach ruchani. But it seems that’s not going to happen now… good to know what I’ve lost.
The Rebbe was still speaking. Yanky had missed a few words, and he forced himself to listen. Later it would be time to think.
“…Reb Groinem Leibnitz’s yeshivah. They’re looking for a ram for seder beis. We’ll give you all the recommendations and backing you need. Or you could stay with us, in a job where you’re not involved with the bochurim. We were thinking you could write up tests and chazarah sheets and check them. But Reb Groinem’s offer seems best for everyone.”
They’re kicking me out of here. They’re kicking me out, and they’re right. I deserve it. In a little while I’ll be going home and telling Raizele that I was fired, and they’re offering me a place in Groinem Leibnitz’s yeshivah.
“Groinem? What kind of name is that?” she’ll ask me, latching onto the trivial details, typical Raizele.
“It’s a very shtark chassidish yeshivah. This year they took 80 bochurim for shiur alef, out of 200 who applied,” I’ll tell her. And then I’ll mention that it’s in Ramot, and she’ll say, “Fine, you’ve got the number 36 bus right downstairs.”
And then I’ll ask her if she could please stop focusing on all the maddening details and realize what this really means…
“…not a punishment, and we’re not angry,” the Rebbe was saying. “Believe me, Yanky, we’re not being vengeful or acting out of some childish sense of kavod. I’d be happy to keep you here with us, but this simply can’t go on. We heard a lot of stories about you, not just one or two. And the last one, with the story about Yerachmiel Poiker, was too much. Let’s assume that the ramim were wrong to rely on an unfounded rumor and bring Yerachmiel as an example of someone who left and came back. Let’s even say they deliberately made up the story for some reason. Even so, I would expect of a member of our staff not to say anything about it to the bochurim. The bochurim shouldn’t be hearing from a meishiv that the ram was wrong, that Yerachmiel didn’t come back and wasn’t planning to. Your taineh was that the talmidim might find out the truth one day, and then they’d wonder why the ramim told them lies. But why did you think it was your job to bring that day closer?”
I don’t know what I thought or didn’t think. Everything’s spinning around me. I’m eight years old, on the little carousel in the playground with Meir, and Nochumku is spinning it so hard we’re screaming. It’s so delightful and so scary, and now we’re so dizzy we can’t breathe or see or feel anything.
“We’ll be happy to continue seeing you here,” the Rebbe said, after a moment of silence. “And — do you have anything to add? Any questions? Anything you’d like to say?”
“Th-thank you for everything,” said Yanky, clinging for dear life to the carousel’s handlebar. “I had some very good years here at the yeshivah, both as a talmid and a staff member.”
And then the Rebbe stood up and put two tender hands on Yanky’s head. The dizziness stopped instantly. “Yevarechecha Hashem v’yishmerecha,” the Rebbe blessed him. “Mein teyere Yankele…” For a moment he lost his voice, and then he recovered and continued, “Yisa Hashem panav eileicha vi’chuneka. Yaer Hashem panav eileicha…” Slowly, he lingered over each word.
