Like a Son

The entire kehillah felt the blow, but for one person outside Eli Mo’s immediate family, it was especially personal: Aryeh Deverett.

“He was like a son to me,” Aryeh says. “I felt like I lost my own child when he died. He was such a good kid, and I connected with him so deeply. Because I love to build, and he loved to build, he’d call me and say, ‘I got this new tool.’ And he’d come over like an excited kid, and we’d examine the tool together.”

Aryeh became a neighbor of the Zimbalist family 12 years ago, after moving to Beit Shemesh from Canada. At the time, 11-year-old Eli Mo was a restless boy with a burgeoning interest in construction. In the neighborhood, it was well known that Aryeh was a craftsman who had spent years teaching woodworking. Parents frequently asked him to give woodworking classes for kids, and Eli Mo signed up. The connection was instant.

“Within the first class, you could see he was a star. He was really, really good. Not only did he finish his projects on time, but he also helped all the other kids complete theirs, and it just grew from there. He got better and better,” Aryeh explains, acknowledging that his role as a father to only daughters created an almost paternal bond with Eli Mo.

When Eli Mo reached bar mitzvah age, Aryeh approached his neighbors and told them, “You need to buy your son power tools.” They listened, and soon, Eli Mo began honing his construction skills. Over the next few years, always under Aryeh’s mentorship, he mastered the secrets of woodworking, construction, electrical work, and plumbing. Aryeh had found his ideal apprentice, and soon enough, Eli Mo became the go-to handyman in Beit Shemesh.

“You know, it’s ironic,” Aryeh reflects. “I used to say to Eli Mo, ‘We’re going to open a handyman school together to teach people how to fix things on their own. It’s going to be your school — I’ll work for you because I don’t want to run a school. I want it to be yours, and I’ll work for you.’ When he went into the IDF, every three or four weeks when he was on leave, he’d call me and ask, ‘What are you building? Let’s build something.’”

After Eli Moshe’s death, the family decided to dedicate the shul’s new beis medrash in his memory, a fitting tribute to the young man who loved his shul. “The shul was like a second home to him,” says his mother, Sara Zimbalist. “He built some of the furniture, the bookcases, the shtenders. And he loved Torah. He was walking around Gaza with a Gemara, he was learning Daf Yomi, he would call his rabbanim from Gaza with questions. The Torah and mitzvos didn’t just stay behind in the yeshivah. It was part of him wherever he went.”

But there was something more as well. Eli Mo wasn’t only a builder of shtenders and bookshelves — he was also a builder of people. As Eli Mo helped so many people — those he knew and those he didn’t — with whatever they needed fixing, what better tribute than creating a place where people could learn to fix things themselves?

“A few weeks after his death,” says Aryeh, “I went to the family and said, ‘I’m going to open a school, and I’d like to call it the Eli Mo School of Woodworking and Handyman Skills. I want it to be in his honor because I think it would be a fitting tribute to him.’ And they said, ‘Yes. So do we.’ ”

The concept is simple, direct, and necessary: to teach people — even those totally clueless about repairs — how to navigate the world of fixing and building. Aryeh has an enviable patience and teaching style; he doesn’t mind explaining, for the umpteenth time, the difference between a drill and a power screwdriver, especially for those for whom the world of tools seems like a foreign universe they’d never understand.

In Israel, no handyman will set foot in your home for less than $70, so necessity has forced many to learn the basics. Aryeh is acutely aware of this dynamic. “It makes me feel good knowing that people are going to save a lot of money,” he says. He estimates that someone who completes the introductory handyman course will be able to fix about 90 percent of the things in their home — plumbing, electrical, cabinets, screens.

“When you finish the course,” says Aryeh, “you’ll probably never have to call a handyman, so I tell everyone that it’s an investment that will pay for itself over and over again.”

But the course offers more than just technical skills. In fact, Aryeh laughs when I suggest that the program could double as a shalom bayis course. He pretty much agrees.

“I don’t say this in the women’s class, but in the men’s class, I tell them this is the best thing you can do for your marriage. Your wife wants you to fix things around the house. Now you can say to her, ‘Hey, would you like me to hang some pictures or fix the faucet?’ Of course, that’s not why I do it, but it’s a really nice skill to have. Look, people live in their homes their whole lives. It’s the biggest asset they own. So why not maintain it? Why spend unnecessary money? Why leave your outlets hanging out, your lights dangling from the ceiling, your sinks dripping, or your cabinet doors misaligned? If you have the skills and the tools, it just makes sense. It’s empowering.”

Connected Circuits

In the course’s first session, Aryeh outlines the agenda for the next six weeks and begins by explaining the minimum tool kit every home should have. “If we could only have one tool,” he says, “I’d go with a power drill.” The men in the class furiously jot down notes as though Aryeh is explaining quantum physics.

Aryeh walks us through the different types of drill bits and the proper use of wall plugs, repeatedly emphasizing the importance of overcoming fear and simply trying things out. He explains the differences between drilling into concrete and drywall, providing basic tips on how to avoid damaging internal wiring — a common fear for anyone who’s ever tried to drill into a wall. These fundamentals, Aryeh assures us, will be covered in greater depth in an upcoming session dedicated to electrical work.

One question I had upon learning about the women-only courses was how participants engage with the world of tools. Esther, one of the women in the course, confessed that it was her first time holding a power drill. Why had she decided to join? “I didn’t want to always depend on my husband to fix things around the house,” she told me. She had also known Eli Mo, so there was that connection as well.

“Women are actually often better than men at handyman skills because they pay more attention and care to details,” Aryeh admits. “Women think about it, they ask questions. They’re afraid, though, because society has always told them that it’s the guy’s job to drill into the wall. When they first pick up a drill, they always say, ‘Wow, this drill is heavy!’ And I tell them, ‘It’s no heavier than your crockpot, right?’ So I hand them the drills. They drill the hole, they do it, and they say, ‘Wow, I can’t believe I can do that! It’s so easy!’ And I say, ‘Exactly! You were just afraid because you assumed this wasn’t for you. But now you’ve done it. You crossed that barrier. You’re not afraid anymore. So just do it!’”

Sara Zimbalist reflects on how the courses have become a meaningful way for her to connect with Eli Mo. “I’m already on the second level of the course, and our youngest daughter has been taking the woodworking skills classes. We actually have a WhatsApp group now where people are constantly posting questions, sharing their projects, and saying, ‘This is all thanks to Eli Mo,’ ” she says. “Eli Mo bought himself really good tools. We have a shed full of them. By attending these classes, my daughter and I are making sure they don’t just gather dust. We want to use them, to learn how to use them, and I’m sure that’s what Eli Mo would have wanted and that it’s making him happy. And Aryeh is giving us the opportunity to push Eli Mo’s chesed forward.”

According to Mrs. Zimbalist, one sure way of pushing his chesed forward is by emulating his sterling qualities. “Eli Moshe would look around, scan a room, and see before anyone else what was needed, both little things and big things. So one thing we can all do in his memory is to look around us and see how we can help. Every day, we can try to be a little bit more like Eli Mo,” she says. “Share a smile, help someone in need, appreciate people, and together we can try to make our lives and other people’s lives more meaningful.”

Finally, the moment everyone in the men’s class had been waiting for arrives: time to “drill, baby, drill” — albeit on drywall and concrete blocks (and not for underground oil reserves). Like kids in a toy store, here were seven grown men, happily drilling into walls and then patching them up with plaster, laughing and gaining confidence in the process. The toughest part was drilling through the concrete block, but the reassurance of not potentially ruining a home’s wiring or plumbing made it a liberating experience.

“The feedback has been amazing,” Aryeh says. “People come back and tell me, ‘I finally know how to change my water filter. I hung up my pictures. I replaced my screen door.’ Some tell me they were afraid at first, but my job is to give them the confidence. I want them to leave feeling empowered, knowing they can do it. That’s a big part of this course.”

Simi Zimbalist says he’s thrilled with Aryeh’s initiative. “Sometimes you hold an event or dedicate something in someone’s memory, and it’s meaningful. You put up a plaque, and it’s significant,” he relates. “But what I love about this is that it’s not static. It’s not just a one-time event. Here, you’re teaching people real skills, and that has a multiplier effect. You teach someone, and they use those skills, not just for themselves but to help others. It’s a unique way to honor Eli Mo’s memory because it keeps going. It keeps growing.”

As the class winds down, many of the men linger to ask Aryeh technical questions: Which brand of power drill is best? Is it worth buying a full set of drill bits? Eli Mo, for his part, would surely have been happy to help and direct. It’s clear that even after his death, Eliyahu Moshe continues to leave his mark on the community he grew up in. The notion of a legacy seems improbable for someone so young, yet the close people in his life have made sure his memory lives on in a truly hands-on way.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1050)