“The thing is, the tough-love guys, the ones who preach hard-line chinuch, don’t get how sweet and vulnerable kids can be"

O

ver the summer, Faigy Korman would often point to that first meeting as the moment her husband had climbed up a tree, with no rope to get down. She used the allegory several times, wondering aloud why someone running a business, who virtually never came home for supper anymore because of board meetings, who had seven children that would have loved to spend time with him, would decide to open a new yeshivah.

She spoke as if she was exasperated, but her children knew she was proud.

On a late June evening, Sholom Wasser — whom she respected, there was no question he’d gotten through to her Dovi, she’d made sure his shalach manos was extra special — with his stringy beard and oversized hat and oh-so-sincere way of speaking, sat at her dining room table speaking with her husband. Her husband described the site — even though she knew he hadn’t yet seen anything more than a few grainy pictures — and Rabbi Wasser lunged in, sharing his vision for the imaginary yeshivah. In the kitchen, she shook her head and concluded that Be’er Mayim was fine, she didn’t need to bring out Perrier or Saratoga for this meeting.

Faigy had to admire her husband’s patience, the way he listened as Rabbi Wasser spoke. Avi wasn’t saying “hmmmm, zeier intressant,” like he did when her brothers had asked him to invest in their kosher restaurant review app — he was really taking this seriously.

“Reb Sholom, it’s your show,” she had heard him say that first time he’d brought Rabbi Wasser into the dining room. “My part is just to make the gashmiyus work, to start you off. We can use Tomech Torah for the paperwork and legal stuff for starters, I worked it out with them. They’ll transfer it to us once our 401c is up and running. My accountant is working on it. The building is up to code, and you have a big dining room that can be turned into a beis medrash.”

That was the first meeting, but not the last.

Over the long summer, Faigy Korman adapted, learning to schedule walks with her husband for the early evening. After Maariv, Rabbi Wasser would come over and share his dreams. Her husband, who would generally grow impatient listening to headline news on the radio, would sit there calmly, a rapt audience.

One night, the men were sitting on the front porch and she heard Rabbi Wasser saying, “The thing is, the tough-love guys, the ones who preach hard-line chinuch, don’t get how sweet and vulnerable kids can be. They don’t know what it means to love a bochur.” Then, after a short pause, he continued, “But the chinuch experts who tell us to love and love some more don’t realize how difficult the kids can be. They don’t know what it means to be exasperated beyond belief. They’re both right, and so they’re both wrong.”

She could heard from Avi’s contented sigh that he found this to be a profound thought.

Some nights, it was philosophy; at other times, it was all practicality, the challenges piling up one by one, Avi solving them as they came, crossing them from the list.

Rabbi Wasser and his family would move into the staff house adjoining the motel. The children would go to school in Monsey — they would figure out the driving arrangements for the first year or two, they agreed, because after the yeshivah would take off they would have a full carpool.

“Say better,” Rabbi Wasser, “one day we’ll have schools in Modena!” They both laughed.

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 785)