“That singing is insane,” my daughter Leeba whispered, as we began the first course. Usually, our seudah was noisier; talk and banter and laughter and a song or two of our own, but the music wafting from above was like a spell no one wanted to break.

“They have a whole chassidish choir over there, like ten people,” my son said authoritatively. “I think they’re doing a minyan there every day, also. With a professional chazzan and all.”

My husband, Nosson, caught my eye. “Beautiful,” he said, with a note of finality in his voice. “Anyone want to share something they learned about Succos? Meir, Ruchy, Leeba?”

“You know that Batsheva’s cousin got a job as waitress for one of these families last year?” Ruchy said, blithely oblivious to Nosson’s obvious hint. “She had to wear this uniform and serve crazy long meals, and you would not believe the food. Six types of meat in one course. And a whole bunch of chicken, schnitzel, all that stuff, too. She said she didn’t sit down for, like, five hours straight each meal….”

“Why on earth would she take such a job?” Meir wondered.

“Batsheva said they pay a fortune. And she was saving up to go to camp in the States. I would do it. One Yom Tov and make, like, enough money for a trip to America?”

“You wouldn’t do it,” Leeba said, opening her eyes wide. “Be a waitress at Yom Tov meals? For real?”

“I mean in theory. Obviously I wouldn’t actually do it, like, right now. But I think it’s worth taking a one-week job and making a ton of money.”

“Kids, how about someone waitresses here and brings our fish plates inside for Mommy?” Nosson tried.

Leeba got up half-heartedly to clear, but the conversation was far from over.

“…you think they have waitresses next door?”

“Are you kidding? They have a whole staff. Chaim said that they brought in a professional catering service and a pastry chef!”

Nosson sighed, and tried to lead the kids in a rousing rendition of “V’samachta B’chagecha. ”

But his thin voice, in our cramped porch succah, was no match for the six-part harmony just one flight up and one building away.

I

was checking the food on the hot plate the next morning when Meir sauntered by, lulav and esrog in hand. It was late; Nosson had left to shul over an hour ago.

“Meir? You leaving?”

“Yeah. I’m going next door. They’re doing davening there, everyone’s going, and apparently, the chazzan’s really good.”

I blinked. “Everyone?”

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing, a bunch of the guys will be there. Slomowitz across the road knows someone in yeshivah here, his parents were neighbors with the visitors years ago, and he — the yeshivah guy — is going for a meal. And he told Slomowitz they’re doing this crazy kiddush after davening, and they have an open house, anyone who wants can join. Why not, right?”

“Why not,” I echoed. I could think of several very good reasons why not. Starting with the fact that Meir had never just hopped off to a random minyan of American tourists and a gaggle of wide-eyed neighborhood kids, instead of davening with his father.

But I couldn’t exactly stop him now.

“You told Tatty?”

“Yeah, he came to wake me, I told him I was going to a later minyan.”

Later minyan. I was willing to bet that Nosson had no idea what that later minyan actually was.

And also that this was not the end of the road.

The dream of making Yom Tov in our small home in Yerushalayim was being swallowed whole by the luxury next door. And our kids — the ones we’d tried so hard to raise differently — were watching every moment.

T

here should be some Nobel Prize for getting out of the house before midday on a Chol Hamoed morning — with everyone looking presentable and no one in tears, to boot.

We were standing at the bus stop, stroller and knapsacks and all, headed for Gan Ha’atzmaut. I watched idly as a taxi pulled over and a woman — clearly an American visitor, it was obvious even before she opened her mouth — got out, lifting several bulging shopping bags out after her.

There was a lot of stuff — bottles of wine, bags of chocolate and pitzuchim, and a huge array of specialty fruit — the pineapples alone probably cost more than I would spend on an entire Yom Tov seudah. For a moment, I wondered how she planned to carry it all into the building (no, she didn’t have one of those shopping carts that all Israeli families own for a reason). She must have been wondering the same thing, because she looked around, her eyes falling on a kid speeding past on his scooter.

“Yeled,” she called. “Atah yachol la’azor li, ken? Come help me with the bags, I’m just going upstairs.”

The boy shrugged. “Selichah, lo rotzeh.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “But — I’ll pay!” she spluttered in heavily accented Hebrew. “Here — see!” She reached into her bag, waved a fistful of coins. “Just help me bring the bags into the building and I’ll make it worth your while, ken?”

Wow. For real? She was trying to throw him some coins like… like a street urchin?

“Selichah, lo rotzeh,” the kid repeated, and then he scooted away without looking back.

I felt a momentary satisfaction — good, of course he shouldn’t let himself be bought off like that — but also, I felt bad for the woman. She looked so bewildered that money couldn’t buy her doorman service.

But what had she been thinking? That our kids were free for the buying? That waving a fistful of dollars could solve every minor inconvenience? Would she have offered her grandson a couple of dollars to schlep bags?

I sighed. Our bus wasn’t scheduled for another few minutes. We could help her out. Just as long as she didn’t try throw her loose change at us in return.

“Oh, you speak English?” the woman gave me a wide, lipsticked smile. “That’s amazing. I didn’t know anyone in the building spoke English. You live here?”

“In the building next door, actually.” I shifted the bags I was carrying from one hand to the other. “And yes, baruch Hashem, we’re very lucky to live here.”

“Absolutely. I love Yerushalayim. There’s nowhere like it.” The woman shook her head. “I wish we could come more often. We try to come a couple times a year, but Succos is nonnegotiable. It’s literally the highlight of our year.”

“I’m sure.” We entered the elevator, and the doors clattered shut.

“It’s really amazing.” The woman was shaking her head again. “I mean, the way you live… it’s just so real, so impressive. I must say — kol hakavod to you all.”

I blinked. Was that a compliment or something else? Was I imagining it, or was she was giving my girls, in their brand-new Hadas outfits, a pitying look?

The doors opened on the top floor, and we all trooped out. “Here we are. Thank you so much,” the woman told me.

“Oh, let’s bring everything inside,” Ruchy said, a little too eagerly.

“Yeah, we’re happy to help,” Leeba chimed in.

“What lovely daughters you have!” the woman said, and I pasted a smile on just in time. My lovely daughters who were now about to glimpse just what Succos in Yerushalayim could be turned into—

Oh. Wow.

The floor-to-ceiling paneled glass doors let us see straight into the succah. And it was… magnificent. Like, wedding-hall worthy. The sechach was lush and green, with stunning floral arrangements strung up as decorations beneath. Those crystal chandeliers were on display, with standing lamps and couches all around the perimeter of the succah. Some of the walls featured gorgeous painted murals; others were made of clear fiberglass allowing the guests to enjoy the panorama of the city. Even with the gargantuan table completely empty, it was spectacular.

“We haven’t started setting up yet for tonight,” the woman confided, a little apologetically. “So it’s a little empty right now. But we have Ashi Koenig singing tonight, with the Metukim children’s choir, and it’s being catered by some service a friend recommended, I don’t remember the name, so it’ll definitely look better than it does now.”

Tonight?

“Sounds — nice,” I managed. I didn’t have to look at my daughters to know that their jaws were dropping open. Ashi Koenig! Singing here? Tonight?

“Yes, I mean, we’ll do a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah every night, but tonight’s my son’s Ushpizin, so my husband wants it to be extra special, you know?”

Special. Sure.

Leeba broke into my daze. “Uh, Mommy, don’t we have to get the bus?”

Bless her. Something about this experience had made me lose any sense of time. “We do! Let’s run! Nice to meet you,” I threw over my shoulder, and we dashed down the six flights of stairs — no time to wait for the elevator — and made it just in time for the bus.

But none of us had forgotten. And once my daughters had gleefully informed their siblings about the Ashi Koenig part… I doubted that they would forget anytime soon, either.

IT

seemed we weren’t the only ones in the know.

From the moment the music started up that evening — loud, pulsing, nonstop — there was a stream of people coming in and out of the building next door — mostly in. Lots of Americans, lots and lots of bochurim, but also crowds of curious neighborhood kids, wanting to see the spectacle, get a glimpse of the famous singer, enjoy the fabulous music, and, let’s be real, partake of whatever delectable menu that unnamed caterer had rustled up.

Meir went. Of course he did. My husband took the younger boys to one of the typical Simchas Beis Hashoeivahs that we usually went to, a simple shul in Meah Shearim where the pulsing energy was born of dozens of men singing and dancing in unison, not a professional choir and celebrity with a too-loud microphone — but Meir wanted to go where his friends were going. And that meant to the Americans next door.

And that, apparently, was how it was going to be. Night after night of Chol Hamoed. Night after night of flashy singers and live music past 1 a.m., meat boards and sushi chefs and dessert stations and open bars(!!).

And the kids… our children, whom we raised in this city because we wanted something different, running from the wholesome Yom Tov we’d tried to give them, right into the lap of incredible, inaccessible luxury that we’d thought we’d left behind in America.

I tried to figure out what was bothering me. It wasn’t about jealousy, per se, though I can’t deny I felt a twinge at the money that seemed to pour so freely, as if another few thousand shekel on food for a single night didn’t make a dent for them. It was more that this kind of Yom Tov was so far out of our worldview, our culture, it wasn’t like now the kids were hoping to make such events in own succah. It was about… the bigger picture. Succos in Yerushalayim used to be about the Kosel, the kedushah, the authenticity of the simchah and the joy and the dancing in shul. And now it was becoming a materialistic, overwhelming version of empty celebration, taking over the holiest place in the world.

They’d come for the experience of Yom Tov in Yerushalayim. But instead of leaning in to the holiness, they’d simply brought chutz l’Aretz along with them.

If I could tell the visitors one thing it would be: You came for Succos in Yerushalayim… but your over-the-top parties are ruining that very experience for everyone.

Zalman

IT was the first night of Yom Tov, and the sixth-floor penthouse apartment we’d rented for Succos was literally buzzing. Besides family and staff — waitresses, catering staff, and whoever else Miriam’s event planner had contracted for the food side of things — there were the singer and choir members, and there were the guests.

Some were friends or relatives; others were American bochurim who found their way to our open-door succah because they knew someone who knew someone who knew me. We never bothered making a formal guest list — everyone was welcome until the succah was full, and then, somehow, we’d find a way to squeeze in another few seats for the last-minute arrivals, the guys from the Mir who hadn’t found a Yom Tov Sheini host, whatever.

My seminary daughter Ayala — who was probably the most excited for us to come this year — had brought a handful of friends and they were seated inconspicuously off to one side watching everything with wide eyes. Miriam sat with them, near the door to the kitchen, where she disappeared now and then to issue some instructions or have the waitresses add some more place settings. And I got to sit in my favorite spot, the one overlooking the beautiful panoramic view of the city, night lit up by the glow spilling out of thousands of succahs.

I love coming here for Succos. Always have. There’s nowhere like Yerushalayim at this time of year, the streets filled with the sights and scents and sounds of the chag. The city was alive and this was our opportunity to be part of it — especially in the area where we chose to rent an apartment, in the heart of a vibrant neighborhood with actual local residents, not just a bunch of guest rentals in their own private enclave. It was Succos in the best place in the world, and we wanted to truly be a part of it.

And if we could help dozens of bochurim who needed a meal and give parnassah to a whole array of service providers while we were at it… all the better. Spreading the joy; what more could we ask for?

A

fter the first day meal, Miriam and I finally had a few minutes to take a walk. It was late afternoon, sun already tilting westward; wow, the meal must have taken a while. The streets were full of families, children skipping ahead, mothers on their way to the park with their little ones, everyone soaking up the last stretch of afternoon before Minchah.

Yerushalayim on Yom Tov afternoon. Nothing like it.

Miriam was walking slowly, and I matched her pace. We hadn’t really had a minute to talk since we got here with everything that was going on; this was a chance to touch base.

“The seudos were beautiful, th anks to all your hard work,” I told her.

She smiled back at me. “And to your arrangements with the singers and everything. It was magnificent.”

I smiled; the music was my thing. “Just wait till you see the lineup for the Simchas Beis Hashoeivahs. Ashi Koenig the first night, the Moses brothers for the second. And Ezzy Fine the next. It was a mazel I managed to book him, he had a last-minute cancellation, and I know his agent personally, he called me right away to let me know. He’s the next Shwekey, everyone says so.”

“Wow.” Miriam gave a small, admiring laugh. “You have the magic touch, that’s for sure. It’s amazing that you know these agents, the music really makes the events.”

“Yup. It’s the atmosphere, and these guys, they know how to create a vibe.” I looked at her. “And what better time to do this, right? It’s Succos. The Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. What should we have, a kid on a keyboard? You gotta do these things properly.”

“Right.” Miriam said.

“And it’s not just entertainment,” I reminded her — Miriam had a thing for bringing meaning to every event we hosted. “I have Rav Parnes coming to speak the first night, and Rav Scheiner the second — he’s a big mashpia, the bochurim are very into him.”

“That’s going to be amazing,” she said passionately. “I mean, a friend of mine was asking about these parties, she was all like, ‘I don’t get it, how can people throw such ostentatious events’. But it’s totally not that. There’s so much ruchniyus along with the gashmiyus — and the gashmiyus is a mitzvah, too. Simchas Yom Tov. Hosting people. I told her how many people come to join, there’s nothing like it.” She shook her head. “I think you have to see it in real to understand.”

“One hundred percent. I mean, of course, I want it to be leibedig, what’s the point of a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah without singing and dancing, right? But we’re not just handing out show tickets here. We’re bringing in mashpiim. Rabbanim. You know how many guys are coming who would never be comfortable in a random shul?”

We turned onto our block. Miriam was quiet, breathing in the atmosphere, I guess.

“You know I invited Rav Gavriel and his yeshivah?” I said, my mind still on the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah thing. “They did so much for Shua, and his guys, they appreciate this kinda thing, good music, good vibes. And that whole chevreh from the kiruv program, the one that Dovid Ciment’s son runs, he’s bringing them to our place to get a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah experience, but in a crowd where they’re comfortable. A mashpia who speaks English, good alcohol, the kind of experience they’ll really enjoy and be uplifted from. And all Shua and Yoni’s friends look forward to our events, they say it makes their Succos.”

She nodded. “Right. It’s an opportunity to give back.”

“Yeah. You know what Rav Gavriel did for Shua. If they’re bringing their guys here for a night — to feel uplifted, special, to get the Succos experience in a way that will speak to them — then we’re doing something right.”

A family passed by, and I sensed Miriam stiffen.

“See that?” she murmured to me once they passed.

“What?”

“The way they looked at us.”

I was taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean. They looked at us?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like we’re some sort of… exhibit. Rich Americans gate-crashing their neighborhood.”

“Gate-crashing?” She was exaggerating. We were paying to rent an apartment here for Yom Tov, same like a hundred families I know personally, and hundreds more that I don’t.

“We’re here for Yom Tov,” I said. “Same as they are. We paid good money — a lot of it — for this apartment. We’re allowed to have Succos in Yerushalayim, too. And besides, half their kids end up in our succah, too — for the meals, for the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. They should be thanking us, not giving any kind of weird looks.”

I

looked around the first night of Chol Hamoed and just breathed in the atmosphere. The place was pumping.

Whoever Miriam had hired for setup had done an amazing job. The lighting, the small stage for the choir, little cocktail tables scattered around the perimeter… There were carving stations, a sushi bar, a full dessert display, the works.

By the time the music started, the whole succah was full. There was everyone I’d invited, as well as the usual stream of neighborhood kids and yeshivah guys drifting in, pulled by the sound and the lights and the smell of fresh lamb skewers.

Some of them came in shyly, hovering near the entrance. Others just walked in like they belonged, grabbing drinks and schmoozing near the speakers. Most of them weren’t American, not that I was checking passports, but you could tell. The accents. The clothing. The way they looked around, a little stunned.

I didn’t mind. This wasn’t about making an exclusive event; we were here for simchas Yom Tov. The more the merrier, right? And no one could deny the ruach of dozens of yeshivah bochurim dancing up a storm to the latest Ashi Koenig hit.

The evening worked out as well as I’d hoped. The singer was fantastic, the choir was sweet and so adorably, authentically Yerushalmi; the food won accolades even from the American crowd, and I had so many comments to the tune of can’t wait for tomorrow that I knew we’d hit the right spot.

And that’s what we’d come for. To celebrate, not just a quiet Succos of our own in Yerushalayim, but to spread the simchah, invite guests, and share our blessings with everyone around.

Wasn’t that what Succos was all about?

IF

the first Simchas Beis Hashoeivah had been uplifting, incredible, and fun, the second one was shaping up to be all that and more.

We had a new lineup tonight — the Moses brothers singing, Rav Scheiner opening with divrei chizuk. The kiruv group arrived early on and I sat and schmoozed with them a while. One of the madrichim brought his guitar, cute. We were having a professional guitarist already, but never mind, he could play along for the kumzitz, too.

The succah filled quickly and the mashpia spoke to an overflowing crowd — I guess word got around that he’d be here tonight. More people than I could’ve imagined fitting inside our succah squeezed in, and then some. And then the rav finished speaking, the music began, waiters started moving around with the food, drinks were poured, and the party was on.

I was standing near the bar, watching the dancing with satisfaction (the kiruv guys hand in hand with some Israeli bochurim, real nachas) when I saw a man appear at the entrance, looking out of place. He wasn’t here for the alcohol, that was for sure. I doubted it was for the sushi, either.

I made my way over.

“A Gut Moed, welcome,” I greeted him. “Please, come join us, make a brachah in the succah….”

He looked uncomfortable. “I’m… just here to get my son. He came up with some friends….”

“Sure, come inside, he’ll be here somewhere,” I said, waving vaguely toward the crowd. “But feel free to stay a while, sing, dance, we love it when people join the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

He shook his head too fast. “No, no. I’ll just take him home. It’s… it’s late. We’ve got other kids sleeping.”

That’s when I noticed another man standing just behind him, arms crossed. Not smiling.

Okay.

“It’s only just after eleven,” I said lightly. “Still early for Chol Hamoed, no?”

He didn’t answer. Just blinked rapidly, bypassed me, and headed inside to grab his son.

The second man, thick dark beard, eyes intense and definitely unhappy, was still lingering by the door. I approached him directly because come on, if there’s a problem, talk it out like a mensch.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

He shrugged, didn’t look at me. “It’s loud. People are trying to sleep. Last time was already a disturbance, can you maybe end this earlier tonight? There are loads of families in these buildings, we’re all trying to sleep.”

Sleep? At 11 p.m. on Chol Hamoed Succos? And what was this thing about calling a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah a disturbance?!

“Look,” I said, keeping it level. “This is Chol Hamoed in Yerushalayim. This is what people do — sing, dance, have Simchas Beis Hashoeivahs. We have singers here, people who’ve come to make simchah, and everyone is here to enjoy that.”

The man was still avoiding eye contact. “We’re asking for a bit of consideration. That’s all.”

The first guy reappeared, two clearly belligerent young teens dragging themselves after him. “Ta! Everyone’s here. It’s a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah, what’s the problem?” I heard one of them saying, before they noticed me and made a hasty, embarrassed exit.

“We’ll talk at home,” the first man said, and the thick-bearded one joined the trio, stalking off to the stairs.

As they went, I heard the second man’s final comment clearly, like he wanted me to hear.

“There’s singing and dancing in every shul in this city. There’s the Kosel. They came all the way to Yerushalayim to do a party like they do in America?”

I stood there a second.

Then I turned back to the succah.

Music, light, voices — my kids laughing with their friends, bochurim enjoying the wholesome, energy-filled atmosphere, waiters carrying trays of lamb chops, men dancing in a loose circle near the band. A whole chevreh of local boys — not ours — were crammed around the dessert bar.

All the expenses. All the logistics. The fact that I was hosting all their kids for free, without asking for anything — and what do I get in return?

Resentment. Antagonism. Snippy requests to shut the thing down, people are trying to sleep, like they’d do that in any shul in Meah Shearim where the singing went on just as late as ours.

A bitter feeling settled in my chest, incongruous against the joyful thumping of the drums.

We were bringing a whole new aspect to the joy of Succos, we were generously sharing it with anyone who wanted to join — and the neighbors just couldn’t bring themselves to fargin an event that inspired and uplifted so many people who needed it, including their own children.

If I could tell the neighbors one thing it would be: All I’m trying to do is create a beautiful Yom Tov for my family — and for everyone around us. Why the antagonistic response? 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1081)