Not Just Emergencies

The Shabbos experience in the kiryah has grown in popularity, and by now it’s not only a resource for times of emergency. On weeks when Lakewood mesivtos have an off-Shabbos, as many as 150 bochurim can descend on the town, with handfuls coming all other weeks. It’s a mutually rewarding phenomenon; the chassidim love the opportunity to do hachnassas orchim, to share their table, tunes, and Torah with the litvishe bochurim, and in turn, say their Shabbosim are enhanced as well.

“We love having bochurim,” said Kornbluh. “We think it’s a beautiful thing that they come to see, to learn, and to experience the minhagim of another kehillah.”

“The bochurim really enhance our Shabbos,” says another resident. “They sing beautiful zemiros, share divrei Torah, and listen closely. They learn our niggunim and teach us some of theirs.”

Many bochurim enjoy playful interaction with families and bochurim, trying on shtreimlach and gartels, and reciprocating with their hats and ties.

My son Eliyahu, one of the many Lakewood mesivta bochurim who’ve chosen to spend an off-Shabbos in Kiryas Joel, describes the scene:

It’s about 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. Snow is falling softly in Lakewood, and I’m shivering outside my friend’s house, wondering if this was a silly idea. Some chevreh are going to KJ for Shabbos. They’ve lined up sleeping arrangements, but I decide to join at the last minute, with no plans.

Twenty minutes after making my decision, I toss some basic gear into a bag, take my tefillin and suit, and arrive just in time to hop on the van.

We work hard in yeshivah, following a rigorous schedule I’m sure is unmatched for equivalent grade levels in any other community. Our days start before seven, and I personally don’t get home until after ten p.m., while many of my chaverim get home even later. There is literally no down time during the day, and we try to learn Friday afternoon and most of Shabbos as well.

Most yeshivos give an off-Shabbos about once in six weeks. We leave Thursday afternoon and return a bit later on Sunday. It’s a yeridah l’tzorech aliyah — an opportunity to refresh and recharge.

Like many bochurim, I want to maximize the mini-break by finding a change of scenery or routine. But where is an erlicher yeshivah bochur to go? What kind of experience would be new and refreshing, but not spiritually damaging? The answer for many bochurim is KJ.

The van, an ancient Sienna, squeals a bit as it turns onto the block and groans to a stop in the snow in front of us. The driver, a heavyset Georgian — USSR flavor — has done this route many times before, though he hasn’t picked up much English.

We pile in. Not quite a ’67 Buick, but it definitely has seen better days. The reek of stale tobacco assails our noses. “Synagoga, big one, I drop you, yes?” the Georgian barks. He lights a cigarette and we’re off.

Well, sort of. The driver is apparently terrified of police. This will cause us to stop many times. When he sees his first cruiser up ahead, he tells us all to pull down the window shades. “Police, no good!” he says. A bit later, we spot red and blue lights, and he pulls over to the side of the road and turns off his lights until the patrol passes. “Police, no good!” The chevreh exchange a glance.

We finally get out on the highway, and the ride really gets yeshivish. The driver is taking a loose definition of sticking to his lane, even though it is still snowing. He doesn’t seem to be able to afford windshield wiper fluid, and the salty grime from the road splashes on the windscreen, gets smeared by the wipers, and blocks his vision.

Not to worry, he’s prepared with a bottle of water. He rolls down his window and leans out, splashing water on the windshield while trying — somewhat successfully — to keep the wheel steady. Then he hands me the bottle to do the other side. We stop at every rest stop so he can smoke a cigarette and see if RainX is on sale.

We try to have some fun hocking him up, but his English is too poor. All we can get from him is that Putin, along with the police, are on his bad side. “Putin, him no good. No good!”

He asks us for music, and one of the oilam puts on a chassidishe niggun set to an electronic beat. The Georgian loves it, and bounces in his seat in time to the rhythm.

It’s close to 11 p.m. when we pull up to the main beis medrash in Kiryas Joel. All of a sudden, our driver is in a rush, pushing us and our stuff out the door into the snow before tearing away. He has another job.

We’re standing in the square in front of the imposing building the locals call simply the Bais Medrash Hagadol. My friends disperse to their hosts, but I’m hardly alone. All around me, vans are pulling up and bochurim clutching hats and suit bags are spilling out.

It’s time to find a crash pad for the night — and Shabbos.

I climb the massive steps and enter the huge gleaming lobby. It’s bustling with Yidden, learning, davening, or schmoozing in knots of people.

I stash my stuff in a coat room and start asking around for a willing host. I approach some locals, who reluctantly say no. Another Yid just shakes his head at me. Someone gives me a number, another a smile and an encouraging word.

Yet another Yid gives me a stern look. “It’s not really responsible of you to come here without a place. It’s hard for people to squeeze [bochurim] in, there are big families,” he says quietly.

“I only decided to come at the last minute…” I start explaining, but trail off, realizing how lame it sounds. Something I’m doing is clearly upsetting him, but I’m not sure what it is.

IFyou press the gracious KJ hosts, some will admit that the trend is becoming a bit of a burden on some families, and ruffling a few feathers within the kehillah. There are increasing calls to set limits on the visits, or find a better way to manage them.

“It can be very difficult for families to host the bochurim,” Reb Shea Kornbluh explains. “There are, kein ayin hara, very large families, and there isn’t space for groups of bochurim. Some people have basements, but what happens when there is a simchah? All the basement rooms in the entire neighborhood are filled. Where will we put the bochurim then?”

Reb Shea once encountered a group of 25 bochurim, an hour before Shabbos, just arrived with no plans for the seudos. He was making a Shabbos sheva brachos that week, and was not available to host. He made some calls for the group, asked around a bit, but no one seemed to be able to have them.

Thinking it over, Reb Shea called the caterer he had booked for the sheva brachos. “What would it cost to add 25 places for the entire Shabbos?” he asked. The man named a number, Reb Shea agreed, and without mentioning the arrangement to any of his family or guests, he invited the bochurim.

“We were just about ready to make Kiddush when the door opened and in walked 25 bochurim,” Reb Shea remembers. “They really added to the simchah, with singing and divrei Torah… It was wonderful — as if we had brought a professional group to make it leibedig.”

While Kornbluh gives an incredibly gracious spin to hosting this large contingent of uninvited guests at his simchah, it’s not hard to imagine that this arrangement wouldn’t work for everyone.

Finally, someone doesn’t say no — but not quite yes, either. A yungerman with a kindly face, gives me his number. “Call me back on this number in exactly twenty minutes,” he says.

I daven Maariv and collect a few more negative replies before I call Reb Weiss from a borrowed cellphone. He answers on the first ring,  and without even saying hello, invites me with such humility, you would think I was doing him a favor. “So, I can have the zechiyah of hosting a bochur for Shabbos?” he says. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Ask the bochurim what they’re thinking when they crash the town without Shabbos arrangements, and they’ll answer that they have a backup plan: Worst comes to worse, they’ll just sleep in shul.

You have to be comfortable with the risk. Worst-case scenario, I’m okay sleeping on a bench in the ezras nashim. A friend or two would be there with me, and we would be fine.

But the locals aren’t comfortable with Plan B at all. Do bochurim ever end up without a place, sleeping in a shul? “No,” says Rabbi Kornbluh, emphatically. “Everyone gets a place in the end. It may be trying for families, but we aren’t actually going to leave anyone without a bed to sleep in.”

Once he is my host, the yungerman will stop at nothing to make his hachnassas orchim mehadrin min hamehadrin. I have trouble figuring out the directions to his home, so he comes to pick me up and insists on carrying my luggage for me. He lives in a cozy apartment in a complex across the street and shows me to a comfortable spare bedroom. I decide to push my luck a little bit. “Can another bochur come too?” I ask. “A friend was planning on crashing on the floor somewhere else.”

“It will by my kuved,” he says.

“Does the oilam here mind when so many bochurim come for Shabbos?” I ask.

“No, it’s a beautiful thing!” he says.

After settling down, my friend and I head out to explore and find some food. We tell Reb Weiss we may be back late, so he gives us — complete strangers — the combination to the lock on his front door.

I have to admit, there’s something thrilling about not knowing where to be, go, or turn; and working it out in the end.

*name changed

Institutionalizing Visits

With a community that refuses to say no, and hundreds of bochurim that would like to visit, can something be done to ease the burden?

The gabbaim of the kehillah met recently to discuss the problem. While they very much enjoy the bochurim, and are certainly not looking to discourage them from coming, they want to work it out in a way that doesn’t place strain on families either. One suggestion, raised by Reb Shea Kornbluh, is for the kehillah to proactively arrange accommodations for the many bochurim who want to visit. He envisions a building with rooms for the many visitors to sleep, and possibly meals for those who want that option, while charging the visitors a nominal fee to cover costs.

The idea, still under discussion, is a long-term fix. What can be done now?

“We would like the yeshivos to take a greater role in organizing these trips,” a kehillah leader says. “We would love for the bochurim to keep coming — but let it be arranged by the menahel or administration of the yeshivah. We can provide sleeping space in our yeshivah building or Keren Vyoel Moshe — the local hall —  for a basic expense. This will prevent the visits from becoming a burden on the tzibbur.”

Kornbluh believes the yeshivos will be glad to take an active role in the trips. In general, the roshei yeshivah are appreciative of the growth these Shabossim give their bochurim, and the reinvigoration it gives their learning. They also understand that were KJ not the destination, the alternatives would likely be destructive.

My friend and I are looking for some essen, so we head for the shopping plaza — not to buy anything. This is KJ, and chesed is a way of life here. We find our way to Reb Shayele’s Kuch, a public kitchen, fully stocked like a restaurant, with tables, chairs, and a wide selection of delicious food, all free.

 Unfortunately, it’s closed. We go to the beis medrash for a learning seder, then tumble into bed.

Friday morning, after accidentally startling a cute little Weiss child who was sleeping when we came in last night, we hastily go to Shacharis. The main beis medrash, open as one big room on Shabbos, is divided by many collapsible walls into separate shtiblach. There are minyanim all over — this is the nerve center for tens of thousands of Yidden all serving one Eibeshter.

It’s Friday, and we bochurim have no real responsibilities, so we’re relatively slow moving. After davening, we hit up Reb Shayele’s again. Quite a few chevreh are settled around the restaurant-style tables, and steaming food is laid out for the oilem. Ah, they have the most geshmake scrambled eggs here.

The rest of Friday is a chilled matzav. We learn a thorough morning seder, then meet up with chaverim from yeshivah. We do some shopping for Shabbos snacks and basics, and I reconnect with some chevreh from camp and my eighth-grade class, who happen to be here for Shabbos as well. There are over a hundred bochurim here for Shabbos; most Lakewood mesivtos have off-Shabbos the same week.

KJ doesn’t have any minyan for Minchah before shkiah, so us Lithuanian young men get together and make a minyan, in one of the smaller rooms off the main shul.

While the Kiryas Joel families definitely enjoy their visitors and the peek into a different community, the differing cultures lead to some uncomfortable misunderstandings, and the aforementioned pre-shkiah minyan is a perfect case in point. In Satmar, the zemanim of Rabbeinu Tam are the definitive halachah, and Rav Yoelish actively opposed any efforts to set Minchah minyanim before shkiah. So while for the litvish bochurim, setting up their own earlier Minchah minyan seems like a simple workaround, the locals find the scene of the bochurim davening before shkiah a desecration.

“Can you imagine such a thing?” Reb Shea says, explaining how these minyanim come across to the locals.  “A minyan for Minchah before shkiah, in the Rebbe’s beis medrash!

“In Satmar, we are very much focused inward. We are not looking to attract others, to do kiruv, or to recruit,” he continues. “We want to live with our strict standards and principles, and we don’t want to sacrifice them. Our hashkafah is not that of Chabad, where they’re willing to accept people on all levels of Yiddishkeit for the sake of kiruv. Even New Square, which is not far, is much more committed to those concepts. But the Satmar approach is to treasure our insulated lifestyle.”

This insularity is a foundational principle of life in Kiryas Joel. There is an array of community rules and regulations visitors may not be aware of, but locals are highly sensitive to any infractions.

Several years ago, a Vizhnitz kehillah was built very close to the Satmar community in Kiryas Joel. The Satmar Rebbe welcomed the new arrivals, and the two communities enjoyed a close relationship. But the Rebbe did insist that the Vizhnitz kehillah keep to the Satmar minhag and desist from driving on the streets until 72 minutes after shkiah on Motzaei Shabbos. “Rav Yoel held very strongly of the Rabbeinu Tam zeman [of seventy-two]. It was very disturbing for us to have cars on the road before that time. We understand that Vizhnitz has their own minhagim, but we want to preserve the uniformity of our environment.”

I go for the full local vibe by freshening up, spiritually and physically, with an Erev Shabbos dip in the mikveh. The mikveh in KJ is an immersive experience  — there’s a nail-cutting station and a barber shop inside the building, right outside the mikveh. There are vending machines fully stocked with everything from gartelech to yarmulkes.

You can come in looking like sheishes yamim ta’avod and leave shining like yom hashvi’i.

I bring along some guys to meet my host, and he invites us all for some Erev Shabbos toiameihu and the Shabbos day seudah. I insist on going to the Friday night seudah with the Satmar yeshivah and the Rebbe… What’s a Shabbos in shtut un a Rebbe? Three others go to him for leil Shabbos.

Toimeihu is a great opportunity to get to know Reb Weiss and his family. He is from another chassidus and just moved to Kiryas Joel to join a kollel.

I know yichus is important for chassidim. “I’m an einekel of the Noda bYehudah,” I mention, casually. “I even have the same last name.”

Rav Weiss is thrilled. “Ah, a moiredige zechiyah!” he exclaims. “I get to host the Noda bYehudah’s einekel!”

He asks us all about our yeshivah, the rosh yeshivah, the derech halimud, wearing ties, what life is like in Lakewood Ir HaTorah. We are only too happy to talk about it. Then it’s our turn — we talk rebbes, chassidus, shtreimlach, and KJ Ir Hachassidus. We trade gedolim stories and divrei Torah while the clock ticks toward the zeman.

I mention that I want to buy a gartel. “I have a spare one!” Reb Weiss excitedly exclaims, like I’ve offered him a million dollars. He hurries to give it to me, and shows me how to put it on and tie it; the knot is more complicated than it looks.

Kiryas Joel davens Minchah well after shkiah, and the huge beis medrash is deserted when we get there, but shining with the radiance of Shabbos. We approach the front of the beis medrash and admire the Rebbe’s chair and shtender. They are beautiful, ornate, and richly upholstered in many colors. “Now this,” a bochur says with conviction, “this is true kavod haTorah. Gives you a cheshek to learn.”

He’s a choshuve bochur. It gives me a cheshek to sit in it, but I know that would be poor hakaras hatov to the kehillah that has welcomed us so warmly. There is another nice chair behind the Rebbe’s, and I ask someone whose that is. “That’s the Rebbe’s gabbai’s chair.” (So I can’t try it out, either.)

“What would happen if I sat in the Rebbe’s chair?” I ask someone.

“Don’t do that. People would be very upset.”

An einekel of the Rebbe arrives, and we talk with him. I consider myself a baal yichus, so I expound on my shitah. “Yichus is nothing,” I say. “It’s all about what you make of yourself.” The einekel is not impressed with my wisdom. Perhaps that was a poor choice of conversation.

Sometimes, the lack of familiarity between the kehillos can cause misunderstandings like these. This is another reason Reb Shea would like to see yeshivah hanhalah members or rebbeim accompanying their talmidim on off-Shabbosim. The rebbi would likely know the local culture, or at least provide a responsible touch point to clear up misunderstandings.

One warm Motzaei Shabbos, a knot of bochurim settled in the street in front of the main shul and started a kumzitz. “They felt like a million dollars,” Reb Shea remembers, “but the gabbaim wanted to kick them out of town. Our bochurim would never do that. Singing in the street? This isn’t a Carlebach show! People were upset.”

Close-Up with Greatness

The highlight of the KJ Shabbos, for those who are lucky — or persistent enough — can be an interaction with the Rebbe, Rav Aharon Teitelbaum of Satmar. Bochurim have multiple opportunities to hear, see, and perhaps speak with the Rebbe: tefillos in the main shul, Shabbos seudos, tish, and kabbalas kahal after Shabbos.

Some chassidim are beginning to come in for Minchah, mostly elderly men with regal white beards flowing down the front of resplendent beketshes, crowned with a royal shtreimel. Many come over to us, offer a handshake and a welcoming “Gut Shabbos.”

I’ve already davened, so I get a Gemara from the downstairs beis medrash and only look up when I note a small commotion near the front — it’s the arrival of the Satmar Dayan, surrounded by a huddle of people. He strides to his place near the Rebbe.

After Maariv, we have the opportunity to file past the Rebbe and receive a “Gut Shabbos.” The tzaddik makes eye contact with each person, gives a barely perceptible nod, and wishes him Gut Shabbos. When it’s my turn, I seem to have slipped beneath his gaze and miss the nod. I’m not sure whether there is a silent rebuke in that. Does the Rebbe know I wanted to sit in his chair? I’ll have to come back to KJ for another chance.

We exit the beis medrash along with crowds of chassidim. Most head home, but we are going next door to the yeshivah, where we will eat with the bochurim. The Rebbe also serves as the rosh yeshivah, and he will lead the seudah. It’s like tish, but the adults join later, after their own seudos at home.

For bochurim who don’t join local families for the seudah, the tish is another option for the authentic Kiryas Joel experience. The Rebbe leads the seudah, and the bochurim are invited to participate.

“The Rebbe has a lot of hana’ah from the bochurim,” Reb Shea says. “After Shabbos, many bochurim come to the Rebbe’s home, to try to get an opportunity to greet him. He talks to them, often asking where they are from and whom their ancestors were… he usually very quickly finds a connection to Satmar in their yichus.”

The dining hall is laid out with three long tables, raised like bleachers for a better view of the Rebbe. The last one is set up for the visiting litvishe bochurim. The room fills with chatter as we wait for the Rebbe. His seat is arranged at a high table laden with shining silver keilim and two very large seudah challos.

Like in a good chassidishe maaseh, it takes a very long time for the Rebbe to arrive. When he does, all talk ceases instantly. The bochurim begin to sing a warm “Shalom Aleichem” and “Eishes Chayil.” Someone fills the Rebbe’s becher, and he slowly rises, closes his eyes, and begins Kiddush. Bottles of grape juice are passed around, and we go wash.

Standing on line to wash, I ask a local bochur, “Does it bother you or the oilam that so many litvishe bochurim come to the seudos here?” He laughs. “Of course not. Welcome and enjoy!”

There’s challah, fish drowned in a thick layer of heimeshe galeh, huge buckets of chicken soup with kneidlach and lokshen, and of course, shirayim from the Rebbe. I’m eager to get some shirayim, but my friends look at me strangely.

“Take some,” I urge. “It’s a big inyan to be nehneh from the seudah of a tzaddik.” They shake their heads.

“This isn’t for me,” they say. “Not unzer mehalach.” Oh, well. My mother always said I have a chassidishe hartz.

Zemiros are something else… the Rebbe leads, eyes closed, guiding the bochurim with his hands.

The room is filling up with people who have finished their seudos and have arrived in time to hear the Rebbe speak. The gabbaim bring in a large pile of seforim, and he begins to say Torah, but unfortunately, my Yiddish is not good enough to follow. Zemiros continue afterward, followed by large pans loaded with all manner of delicacies for the entree. The hall has filled completely, and we couldn’t get up if we tried.

We bentsh and slip out before the payris tish and find some local bochurim to schmooze with, in a clumsy mixture of broken Yiddish and butchered English. We have a lively discussion about derech halimud.

“Why do the litvishe yeshivahs go so slow?” they ask. “You have to move to cover ground, to know!”

“But you have to know pshat!” we rejoin. “You can’t just go veiter until everything is klahr!” And so it goes.

I ask them a sh’eilah, and they agree that it’s a tough one. I want to get to the dayan to ask, but they say he isn’t available, and that I should try to ask the Rebbe himself. I’m intimidated, but agree to try.

We take up positions in the lobby and I find a place to wait as well, rehearsing my question in my mind. The room is packed with people waiting with anticipation, but when the Rebbe enters, the fragile order is broken. I find myself jostled into the path between the sides, precisely where the Rebbe is supposed to walk! Fortunately or not, someone from his entourage moves me firmly out of the way, but I miss my chance to ask a question. He is quickly gone.

Shabbos morning, we daven Shacharis with an early minyan in the main shul, not the Rebbe’s minyan. Six of us join the seudah at the Weiss home. The conversation flows in all directions; We learn a lot about the chassidishe kehillos, and he asks a lot of questions about Lakewood and the olam hayeshivos. He asks us to sing our zemiros, which we do, and he teaches us some niggunim. It passes quickly, as does the short afternoon.

After Minchah and Shalosh Seudos, it is time for Raava d’Raavin — the special tish at the close of Shabbos. The big beis medrash is really packed this time; everyone is there. 

We head for the top of the bleachers, but a man stops us. “If you go up there, you will be stuck,” he warns, kindly. “The lights go out during tish, and you can’t see to get out.” Undeterred, we head up. At the top, we interact with the chassidim while we wait. I start chatting about shirayim again.

“I found a mekor for the inyan of shirayim,” I tell the chassidim. “Rashi says in parshas Yisro, from the gemara in Brachos, samach dalet, that anyone who has hana’ah from the seudah of a talmid chacham is like he is benefiting from the “shine” of the Shechinah itself!” The oilam was pumped to hear this.

The Rebbe arrives and the tish begins. The room is packed, and the zemiros reach the rafters. A gabbai walks back and forth, distributing shirayim and food.

After Shabbos, we hear there may be kabbalas kahal in the Rebbe’s home, and I try one more time to get in. By the time we get there, a crowd of bochurim is gathered outside the house and we will have to wait. We have forgotten our coats and are freezing, but I insist that we wait; this is shaping up to be a good chassidishe maaseh again.

At long last, someone opens the door, says, “One minute,” and closes it for another 20. Finally, I work up the courage to knock softly.

The door opens, and the man says, “I’m sorry, no more visitors tonight.”

My friend throws out a desperate, “But I’m an einekel of Rav Chaim Sanzer!” It doesn’t help.

“I’m sorry, the Rebbe is not seeing anyone else tonight,” he says firmly.

We turn back to take leave of our hosts, before our Georgian driver comes with the van to take us home. We haven’t spoken with the Rebbe, but we have seen and heard so much. We have a new, reinvigorated connection to Klal Yisrael. We have built bridges across divides between kehillos that crisscrossed the map of Europe of the alter heim.

We are ready to shteig through the rest of the zeman. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1063)