After Shabbos, Mrs. Wishky invited us to sign their guest book. Looking through the book that so many seminary girls had signed over the years, I found many names that I recognized. The “blind couple” was indeed a popular destination for the seminary set. But after my Shabbos experience with them, I realized they are far more than the “blind couple.” They are two extraordinary people living a Torah-true, meaningful life, even in the face of adversity.

Oops! Placing Gone Wrong

As told by Aviva Krasnau

In the afternoon of our very first Shabbos in Eretz Yisrael, the girls in our seminary were placed at gracious local families for Shalosh Seudos. In an effort to “mix” a tense group of 150 girls who’d never met before (and eyed each other warily), students were randomly grouped and directed to different homes across the neighborhood.

Pleased to have been paired with a girl I already knew, we soon received a paper that read “Family Kaplan, 12 Dovev Meisharim.” The madrichah mentioned that they were a wonderful family, and we set off to meet our hosts.

Like typical greenhorns, we got hopelessly lost. What should have been a five-minute walk turned into a half-hour maddeningly circular route; 12 Dovev Meisharim was proving to be elusive. In broken Hebrew, we repeatedly attempted to get our bearings from congenial-looking passersby, but the rapidly delivered, half-understood directions did little to get us to our destination.

Hungry and tired, we watched with frustration as the sun slowly set on the horizon. In desperation, we accosted a strolling resident and asked her to point the way. “Where does Kaplan live?” we demanded.

“There,” she replied, pointing to a building just a few feet away. Relieved, we hurried off and not-so-gently knocked on the door. It was almost shkiyah, after all. And why didn’t they have clear street signs in this area?

A kind, grandmotherly woman opened the door; her expression was somewhat bewildered.

“We’re the seminary girls,” we introduced ourselves, as if our dress and mannerisms hadn’t already conveyed that fact. “We were supposed to eat here for Shalosh Seudos.”

We marched in confidently, proud to have finally made it, and quickly washed our hands. Oddly, the table was surrounded by yeshivah bochurim; I had assumed our seminary coordinators would try to avoid that. But grateful for a bilkeleh and a glass of water, we happily took our places at the end of the table.

The man of the house seemed to be highly respected. The yeshivah bochurim listened intently, leaning forward to absorb his every word.

I suddenly felt a pinch in my thigh.

“We’re at the wrong Kaplan,” my fellow interloper hissed. “This is the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Tzvi Kaplan, and he’s in middle of giving a schmuess.”

Ouch.

Our faces turned beet-red. Unable to leave now and disturb the intense lesson, we sat through the schmuess, wishing we could crawl into the ground. Every so often a bochur would glance over at us with a bemused look and the deep red would turn a shade more purplish.

We had pompously barged into a venerated rosh yeshivah’s all-male meal, and the worst part was that they were so nice about it!

The Rosh Yeshivah and his entourage of students finally left for the yeshivah, and we once again breathed. We immediately began prattling off our apologies to our hostess. A mishmash of fragmented Hebrew compounded by our utter embarrassment, I doubt these effusive explanations were even nominally intelligible, but she nodded her head and smiled graciously. We schmoozed a bit and eventually figured out the identity of our real “Kaplan” hosts: a relative who lived on 12 Dover Shalom.

Do I still feel mortified when I recount the tale? Absolutely. But leaving a more indelible impression on me was the lesson in hachnassas orchim. No questions, no grilling — just a welcoming smile and place to eat.

Paragons of Giving

As told by Orit Mannes

Though it’s been over nine years, my Shabbos Succos experience at the Kantor* family of Ramat Shlomo remains vivid in my mind.

At the time, Rabbi Kantor was a meshamesh to Rav Scheinberg, shlita, as well as a practicing shochet; his wife was a full-time doctor. Though this unique couple had fourteen children of their own, they’d become famous for hosting approximately thirty seminary girls on a regular Shabbos.

When our group arrived, thirty mattresses were set up, with linen to boot! The guests were a hodgepodge of seminary girls from across the spectrum, along with a newly married kallah and her chassan. Looking back now as a mother and hostess, I can’t imagine how they washed so many sets of linen, but they didn’t want us to bring our own. Perhaps this was their way of making us feel comfortable.

Each door in their home featured a brightly colored smiley-face sign that read “Do Not Enter — if you’re not b’simchah!” The walls were also dotted with eye-catching posters that said “No lashon hara in this house!”

On Erev Shabbos, we eighteen-year-old seminary girls were treated to a gala Shabbos party, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since our toddler years. Nosh and sweet stuff abounded, and following in the hallowed path of countless sem girls before us, we indulged.

When Friday night came, our host took us all to the Kosel for Kabbalas Shabbos. It was a long walk, and the meal started quite late, but Rabbi Kantor felt it would really enhance our Shabbos.

The meal then lasted until one or two in the morning. Rabbi Kantor went around to each girl, asking her full name and hometown and making endless “I know your family!” connections. More than a master of Jewish geography, he strove to make us feel special and important — an astounding goal given the numbers of girls he encountered each week. Seminary girls often feel nameless and lost in an unfamiliar country, but we each arose from the Shabbos table with renewed self-worth.

Rabbi Kantor threw out various thought-provoking questions related to the parshah or Succos. He went around the table, asking each person for her thoughts on the question, and acknowledging her unique answer with a summing-up comment.

Toward the end of the seudah, Rabbi Kantor distributed song sheets with timeless Jewish songs like the Journeys classics. He and his sons then left for a while; he wanted us girls to be able to sing. And sing we did, until the wee hours of the morning.

Once Shabbos was over, our host took a picture of his guests posing with his children to add to his guest album. He left us with a message I still think about every Shalosh Seudos.

“Where are you rushing to?” he asked. “Shabbos is our time with our Creator. Our minds should not be running away from Shabbos to our plans for Motzaei Shabbos.”

We said goodbye with profound feelings of awe and admiration. Unlike many other Shabbosim where we felt like intruding guests, at the Kantors we sensed that the Shabbos had been tailor-made to suit our needs. And most amazingly of all, the children didn’t seem to resent it at all. Surrounded by sterling example to the greatness of hachnassas orchim, they thrived on our company, and relished the opportunity to give.

Of Stories and Skepticism

As told by Dina Housman

One week in seminary, my friends and I became hooked on the idea of spending Shabbos in the Old City. We didn’t know anyone who lived there, but as any sem girl will testify, that’s not a problem in Eretz Yisrael.

Galvanized into action, I proceeded to call every Old-City-family included on my seminary’s master placement list, asking them to host me and two friends. After calling about sixty families, I finally hit the jackpot. The Monderer* family agreed to host us, letting us know in advance that we’d sleep on lounge chairs in their courtyard’s shed. (That’s where they had room.)

The Monderers were American baalei teshuvah, and as soon as we stepped through their door, we immediately gathered that they were very spiritual people. An artist by profession, Mrs. Monderer’s walls featured her countless creations: silvery kabbalistic watercolors that depicted highly abstract scenes. The couple owned a unique collection of stones from all over the Holy Land; in fact, one stone was a rock that had fallen from the Kosel. In a phenomenon I had never seen before, every last muktzeh item in their home — from the wall phone to the light switches — was covered for Shabbos.

All but the youngest of the Monderer children were married; Tova,* the remaining single, was a twenty-five-year-old girl with Down syndrome. Mrs. Monderer described Tova as “the biggest brachah in my life.” It was clear that much effort and time had been invested to maximize Tova’s progress and development. At the day meal, she read aloud a beautiful dvar Torah from a prepared sheet.

Over Shabbos, Mrs. Monderer shared with us bits of her journey to Yiddishkeit and Eretz Yisrael. Many twists of this journey were unusually miraculous, and we cynical seminary girls had a hard time accepting them as fact.

In describing just one of these many incidents, Mrs. Monderer told us that she used to have frequent dreams of a “golden city” that emanated a heavenly light. This golden city was filled with beautiful people, wearing beautiful clothing, and singing beautiful songs, but every time Mrs. Monderer tried to cross the bridge and get there, she would fail.

On the night before her wedding day, she had a terrible nightmare: the golden city was aflame. When she awoke in a sweat, she informed her husband-to-be that they couldn’t get married that day; there was something wrong.

Devastated at the turn of events, the confused — and unaffiliated — couple stopped by an Orthodox rabbi for some guidance.

“Why can’t we get married today?” they asked desperately.

“Today is Tishah B’Av,” he responded. “Two thousand years ago on this day, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem was burned; since then, it has been a day of mourning and fasting for Jews, a day when calamitous events have been known to take place.”

Shaken to the core, the Monderers pushed off their carefully planned wedding to the eleventh of Av, at which point the Orthodox rabbi officiated at their marriage and kosher food was provided for all.

This was only one of the many outright miracles recounted to us over Shabbos, and we listened to them all with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The ratio of “disbelief” to “awe,” however, was decidedly lopsided; we waived the narrative off as a charming — but dubious — “Old City” tale.

Years later, I chanced upon the book Lights from Jerusalem by Sara Yoheved Rigler. While reading a random chapter, it suddenly struck me that the story was awfully familiar. Sure enough, Mrs. Rigler tells over the famous, mind-blowing story of her dear neighborhood friend — who is none other than Mrs. Monderer! Detail for detail, it was the exact same account we had heard as young sem guests.

I learned an important lesson in judging others favorably. While a healthy dose of skepticism is generally harmless, it may not always be called for. Sometimes, I realized, even jaded New York girls need to open their hearts and their minds to the hand of Hashem in a person’s life.

Shabbos with the Sheep

As told by Shira Kosman

One Erev Shabbos, a friend and I hopped on a bus and headed south — deep south. We were going to spend Shabbos with an American-born family friend who lived with her husband and family on a farm on the outskirts of Beer Sheva.

After about four hours on a rickety Egged bus, we reached our destination: the proverbial “middle of nowhere.” Though our host had graciously offered to pick us up from the bus stop, we soon realized we’d have to cross a six-lane highway to get to his car. This intimidating feat proved to be incredibly simple, however, since there were hardly any cars on the highway.

We bounded into the car and set off for their home, a cozy, one-story ranch house. As we bounced along the roads, our host and driver proudly informed us that these paths were recently paved; we city girls just looked at each other in disbelief. He also took the opportunity to point out their “next-door neighbor,” a family who lived about five miles (!) away.

Our hosts’ home was situated in the center of an expansive, verdant blanket of land; outside, flocks of livestock milled around in designated pens, guarded by shepherd dogs. We were welcomed warmly by the large, boisterous clan and shown to the girls’ room, which we would share with their daughters. When we saw that there weren’t enough beds for all, we quickly offered to sleep on the floor with sleeping bags — but the girls wouldn’t hear of it. They insisted that we take their beds, and though we felt awful displacing them, it was apparent that they were thrilled with the opportunity.

Our host went outside to feed his animals numerous times over Shabbos. I believe he did this just before each of the Shabbos meals, in fulfillment of the Torah’s commandment to provide for one’s animals first. Then, when the meals began and course after delicious course was served, the family was adamant that we partake first.

“We’re not going to eat unless you help yourselves first,” they said. “You’re our guests, and that’s the way it goes.”

Shabbos was an eye-opener. We got to know a family who lived a very different lifestyle from what we were accustomed to, but they were as normal and happy as ever. What made the biggest impression on us, though, was the royal way they treated their guests. Though they may not have had a red carpet to roll out, our hosts made us feel important and wanted, showering us with the genuine warmth and enthusiasm for which small-town residents are renowned.

(Originally Featured in Family First)