Open House, Shut Eyes

Rabbi Yosef Sorotzkin

Every time I leave for Shacharis I think of my cousin’s in-laws, the Chionses

 Fifty-five years ago, my cousin Benyomin became the first from our post-war generation to get married, so naturally, we sort of joined his new family. His in-laws, Rabbi Yitzchok and Rose Chions of Crown Heights, became our family, too.

At the time, I was learning in Telshe in Cleveland, but I dated a lot in New York. It was obvious I needed a place to stay when I flew in, and the Chionses graciously offered me their home. Little did I know, when I accepted their invitation, that I was entering a very special place.

I grew up in Cleveland, and back then there was the yeshivah community and there was the rest of the Jewish community, mostly Modern Orthodox. I was not exposed to a working ben torah until I met Reb Yitzchok, who was a businessman. And a ben Torah he was, through and through! Although he had left the Mir in Europe 25 years earlier, he never really left.

Reb Yitzchok had a chavrusa for two hours every evening. He had a disorder that made him fall asleep almost as soon as he sat down, especially if he was tired, so he used a tall chair that made him half-stand, and he practically overdosed on strong black coffee. In him, I witnessed a fierce determination to learn, a determination that overcame all obstacles. I remember how he enthusiastically shared with me his dream of retiring and moving to Eretz Yisrael and going back to learn in the Mir, which he eventually did.

I once heard my cousin, his son-in-law, encouraging him to raise his standard of living, asking “Why don’t you buy a Cadillac?”

“You’re my Cadillac,” Reb Yitzchok replied, saying, in essence, that his preferred luxury was supporting a son-in-law’s learning.

T

he essence of the Chionses’s hachnassas orchim was to share their home with me like I was one of theirs. They gave me their key — to keep. I did not need to inform them when I came or left; I had my room with my closet where I kept a full dating wardrobe; when I traveled between Cleveland and New York, I brought only my tefillin. The Chionses were hardworking people, and they weren’t always home in time to make dinner, but no matter, I was given their expense accounts at Meal Mart and the grocer and told to utilize them freely.

On most date nights, I would leave before they came home and return after they went to sleep. In the morning, I would get up after they left for the day, so I saw the Chionses only on off-nights. We would have dinner together, and they’d share their experience and wisdom with me, helping me navigate the dating process. I could not imagine a more convenient and pleasant arrangement — until one day the ideal was broken.

“It bothers me to no end to see you sleep through minyan,” Reb Yitzchok said emphatically. “If you are not ready to commit to going to minyan every morning, please find a different home.”

I was dumbfounded: The greatest machnis oreiach I had ever known was throwing me out!

Then one of my mother’s life lessons kicked in: “Farshtei yenem,” she always used to say, which translates to, “get in his shoes and try to see things from his side.”

I did that, and now I could hear him saying, “I open my home to you and treat you as my own. I ask for nothing in return except don’t aggravate me. Is that too much to ask?”

With that, my dismay dissolved, morphing into admiration and appreciation.

Look how much minyan means to him, I thought. For him, not getting up is never an option — and deep down, I knew he was right; when you go to sleep should have no bearing on getting up for minyan the following morning.

Then I thought some more.

Look how much he cares about you — if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be aggravated.

I was incredibly moved, and never again did I miss minyan in his home.

A few months later, I got engaged. I left the Chions home a better man, having learned new standards in hachnassas orchim, in ahavas Torah, and most of all, in dedication to minyan.

Rabbi Yosef Sorotzkin is the rosh yeshivah of Yeshivas Me’or Eliyohu in Kiryas Telz Stone, Eretz Yisrael. He is the author of Meged Yosef al HaTorah.

All Who Are Hungry

Rechy Nussenzweig

Every time I sit down to our Seder I think of the Ausbands

I was very saddened to hear about Rabbi Avrohom Ausband’s sudden passing last month, because of what he did for me and my husband 30 years ago. My ailing grandfather was hospitalized in Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and with a three-day Yom Tov approaching, my husband and I, a young Williamsburg couple with no children yet, decided to spend the first days of Pesach in Riverdale, New York, near the hospital.

I contacted Bikur Cholim of Riverdale, and they promptly found us an apartment on the fifth floor of an apartment building nearby. The young couple whose apartment we took graciously provided us with a Pesachdig hot tray and urn, and we packed about five boxes of food — think zeroah, beitzah, and so on. (Okay, I also included eight bars of chocolate. It was a three-day Yom Tov!)

The first night, a while after my husband went to shul, I heard his footsteps in the hallway and went to open the door for him. Standing there was my husband, with another man — a guest he brought back from shul, I surmised.

Wow, kol dichfin even in Riverdale?

“This is Rabbi Ausband, the rosh yeshivah from Telz yeshivah here in Riverdale,” my husband explained. “He invited me for the Seder, but I said my wife won’t agree, so he said, ‘No problem, let’s go call on your wife.’ ”

I was blown away — Rabbi Ausband trekked all the way to our building and up five flights of steps just so I would agree to join them for the Seder?!

“I know chassidim don’t mish,” Rabbi Ausband said. “If you are more comfortable bringing along your food please do so.”

I felt bad saying no, so I went along with it — and it was the most beautiful experience I ever had.

T

he Ausbands’s apartment was extremely simple, but the atmosphere was one of contentment — and the family made us feel that having guests at their Seder was a dream come true. The kids were enchanted by my husband’s shtreimel (had they ever even seen one before?). They asked permission to touch it, and before we knew it, one boy’s nimble hands were moving quickly round and round the fur.

It was three decades ago, so I can’t recall all the details of that night, but I still clearly remember how Rabbi Ausband described what it means to be a true “galus Yid” to his children.

“Buying a house is questionable,” he said. “Why would we want to make ourselves comfortable in galus?” And then he exclaimed, “Kinderlach, you aren’t going to believe this, but I heard that people started buying summer homes!” (The concept back then was almost unheard of.) “Why would someone invest money in a house for two months? What makes someone think that the following summer Mashiach won’t be here?!”

I remember thinking that the pashtus in that apartment showed that Rabbi Ausband practiced what he preached — and to this day, I still remember the lesson I learned from Rabbi Ausband: Go the extra step when inviting company, because sometimes a phone call is not enough. (Had Rabbi Ausband sent a message with my husband that we should come for the Seder, you can be sure this young chassidish vibel would have never have gone!)

My husband and I enjoyed the first Seder so much we returned for the second one the following night.

Every Pesach since, when I sit down to my own Seder, the warm memories of a Pesach in Riverdale made special by Rabbi Ausband, his rebbetzin, and his wonderful family come rushing back.

Rechy Nussenzweig lives with her family in Williamsburg, New York.

Gold Standard

Chaia Frishman

Every time I doubt myself, I think of Richard Altabe

“IF I have to fire you at the end of the year, don’t worry, I’ll help you get another job somewhere else.” Not exactly what I expected to hear from my mentor and boss — and certainly not from someone whose house became my second home.

I met Mr. Richard Altabe when he worked as the head counselor of the Hartman Y, then in Rockaway Park, New York, before it moved and became Simcha Day Camp in Far Rockaway. He reminds me that he met my parents, Efraim and Rochelle Goren, who knew little about Yiddishkeit but sent their two youngest to a Jewish day school and camps simply because they were safer than the public school and free neighborhood options.

I was a loud child, the “rah-rah-rah-sis-boom-bah” camper. Richie — as he introduced himself to us ten-year-olds — first noticed the light inside of me during Friday Shabbos performances and Purim in July activities. Spunk was my middle name: I was first on line for the trampoline when we had gymnastics and the loudest cheering squad member for Newcomb, and I rocked the bentshing contest like nobody’s business.

I hated swimming, maybe because I had almost drowned as a kid, and found every excuse to not go in the water. But Richie felt it was the camp’s duty that I learn, and he had the lifeguards stay late to teach me privately. (It didn’t work. I still won’t go in the pool.)

Danny wasn’t as committed to the programming, but he and I happily rode the minibus every day for almost an hour from Forest Hills in Queens (even then rush hour on the Van Wyck was crazy!) to attend what we considered the highlight of our year.

A bout with mono and a three-year camp hiatus had me itching to return as a junior counselor for the girls’ division. Maybe it was the lyrics I wrote for the weekly Shabbos song or the frum girls I befriended in camp, but the Altabes noticed my love of their lifestyle and made sure to reach out. They invited me to their house for Shabbos, answered every question I had, and advised on the sticky parts of living frum in a household that didn’t have those same standards. Lisa taught me her secret to great cholent (a squeeze of Heinz ketchup in a figure eight movement), and I learned that Sephardim, as Richie was, no matter how integrated he seemed as a quasi-Ashki, say l’chayim before they make the brachah at the end of Kiddush.

Soon, my role as guest blossomed into that of big sister to their three daughters (later to be joined by their son, who would be my student in fourth grade), and by the time I was 15, I started going to the Altabes a few times a month. The weeks I didn’t stay in their house, I made sure to be somewhere in Far Rockaway for Shabbos so I could visit.

My choice to go to seminary and convincing my parents to send me had a lot to do with some late-night pros and cons discussions with the Altabes, who also heard it all when it came to dating. They helped me notice red flags (did that term even exist then?) and assured me that my upbringing would not preclude me from getting married. After all, Richie grew up in a similar religious environment. He had learned from the best — Mr. Perry Fish, a kiruv icon in Long Beach who hosted hundreds annually — and he helped others the way he’d been helped. He knew struggles like how to eat things that weren’t the most mehadrin in my parents’ house while respecting them. Richie advocated for me when I needed it — and, when objectivity was called for, advised me to see things from my parents’ perspective. He pointed out how lucky I was that my parents bought me my own pots and pans and dishes — because they cared.

One day, Lisa suggested that a young local man, Eliahu Frishman, might be a good match for me. I laughed, because others had suggested it, and even though we met through different circumstances and I didn’t think he was for me, I soon saw she was right (she still takes credit for calling it). Of course, the Altabes hosted sheva brachos for us. We settled around the block from them and babysat their kids (who would in turn babysat ours, who would eventually watch the Altabes’ grandchildren). How nice it has been to repay them, even a little, over the years, by hosting them for meals and even their oldest daughter’s sheva brachos 16 years ago!

(Pretend) family is family, but Richie has standards. So when I applied for the position of Yeshiva Darchei Torah’s fourth grade secular studies teacher in 1997, it wasn’t a given that the job was mine, even though he had seen me teach as a counselor and later as the teacher for a Russian kiruv program situated in his outside office. He was, though, the principal. The memory of my messy science model lesson — it involved red cabbage-tinted water and lemon juice — in a tiny classroom packed with 30 (!) boys still boggles my mind, but there was no question I impressed him.

But as a man of integrity who was concerned that I experienced beginner’s luck, Richie shared one caveat before he hired me: “I’ll fire you if I have to.”

The warning scared me, but it also relit the fire he had seen in my early camp years. I don’t know who wanted my success more, me or him.

Richie didn’t leave me to falter on my own. I taught under him for 15 years for class 4K. He taught me to connect with my students and stand up to their parents (hey, I was only 22!), his pedagogy surpassed only by his compassion. He also called me out when I needed to hear it (it didn’t always help though — I still speak too quickly and have subpar whiteboard skills), but baruch Hashem, 30 years later, I’m still in education in Darchei.

These days, Richie, a world-renowned education expert, is the principal of the Hebrew Academy of Long Beach’s lower school and a member of the New York State Education Departments’ Blue Ribbon Commission on Graduation Standards; thousands of children have benefited from his erudition and expertise.

In addition to teaching, I also work as a middle school administrator in Darchei.

But whether the Altabes are hosting us or we’re hosting them, I still find myself gleaning gems on parenting the marrieds, navigating my children’s shidduchim, dealing with students who struggle with mental illness, and just being the official adult in the room (how that happened is beyond me).

During my first year of teaching, I instituted a new writing program on my own. With zero experience, I had 30 boys writing fictional stories, typing and illustrating them, and even sewing the binding on their books. After the event we held celebrating the class’s work, I received a letter from Richie where he told me he had honestly worried about hiring me because he dreaded a possibility where he would have to fire me. It ended with him thanking me for raising the standards in his division.

And I? All I could think of was how he helped me raise my own standards — in myself.

Chaia Frishman is an educator, writer, and business owner in Far Rockaway, New York.

Snow at Sunset

Dr. Meir Wikler

Every time I drive in a snowstorm, I think of the Bostoner Rebbe

IN 1972, my older brother, Rabbi Yosef Wikler, and I were sitting shivah in our New York home for our mother a”h, only 13 months after our father z”l was niftar. As we were both bochurim at the time, we were yesomim l’chol hadeios — orphans, young and alone. I sat in our crowded living room, my head bent in overwhelming grief.

“Is that the Bostoner Rebbe?” I overheard one of the many menachamim (visitors who come to bring comfort) whisper.

As I lifted my head in curiosity, I was shocked to see that it was indeed the Bostoner Rebbe, Harav Levi Yitzchok Horowitz ztz”l. Apparently, he had flown into New York from Boston for the day just to be menachem avel the two of us. Our connection with the Rebbe’s family went back two generations to our great-granduncle, Harav Zalman Yaakov Friederman ztz”l, the first Chief Rabbi of Boston, who was best friends with the first Bostoner Rebbe, the current Rebbe’s grandfather. The Rebbe knew how crushed we were, and he felt we needed much more chizuk than a nichum aveilim phone call could convey.

After speaking with us in the living room, the Rebbe asked if he could have a few words with us in private. Yosef and I picked up our cardboard boxes (the precursors to today’s shivah chairs) and moved into our dinette with the Rebbe.

“I see you have many people here who have come to be menachem you both,” the Rebbe said. “And I’m sure many of them will invite you for Shabbosim and Yamim Tovim. You should accept their invitations. There is only one thing I ask of you — that for the very first Shabbos after shivah, you come to Boston and stay with me.”

“What’s the significance of ‘the first Shabbos after shivah’?” Yosef asked.

“You have many friends and relatives here,” the Rebbe explained. “But I want you to know that you also have family in Boston.”

Yosef already had other plans, but I immediately accepted the Rebbe’s invitation.

We got up from shivah on Thursday. The next day, I took my car and headed to Boston. I was about an hour into the drive, approaching New Haven, Connecticut, when a sudden (and unpredicted) violent northeastern blizzard blanketed New England with mounds of snow. Two hours later, I had reached only Hartford.

I’m not going to make it to Boston, I realized.

This was before cellphones, so I had to find a gas station with a pay phone. I dialed the Rebbe, explained my predicament, and asked if he knew anyone in Hartford where I could spend Shabbos. The Rebbe couldn’t remember the name of one family he knew well, so he gave me another name to try.

When I called, no one answered, so I decided to head in the direction of their home. The roads were a mess so the drive was reduced to a crawl, and the clock was ticking. Minutes before shkiah, I happened to find the shul, and I parked quickly.

The person I had been trying to reach was away that Shabbos, I learned, so I was directed to the home of the legendary leader of Hartford Jewry, Rabbi Yitzchok Avigdor ztz”l , where, after a one-mile trek in the snow, I was warmly welcomed and spent a most delightful Shabbos. On Motzaei Shabbos, the roads were clear enough for me to continue on to Boston, where I arrived just in time for the Melaveh Malkah.

As if to compensate me for our lost Shabbos together, the Rebbe honored me by seating me next to him. Singing zemiros and sitting at the Rebbe’s Melaveh Malkah tish, I was able to capture at least the afterglow of the Shabbos I just missed.

One of the highlights of a traditional Melaveh Malkah is telling a chassidishe maaseh.

Before sharing one of his sippurei tzaddikim, the Rebbe asked me to recount to the assemblage my harrowing Erev Shabbos ordeal. When I mentioned the name of my host, the Rebbe gasped and declared, “That’s who I was thinking of when you called yesterday. That’s where I wanted you to spend Shabbos!”

I spent many uplifting Shabbosim and Yamim Tovim with the Rebbe in Boston both before and since that first Shabbos after shivah. And now, whenever I drive to Boston to spend a Shabbos or Yom Tov with the current Bostoner Rebbe, Harav Naftoli Horowitz shlita, I’m reminded of that one Shabbos I was going to spend with his father.

For a guest, the actual invitation — the caring it conveys, the sensitivity it projects — can be as meaningful as the hospitality itself. With his thoughtful invitation during shivah, the Rebbe showed he was concerned for my well-being. I wasn’t alone, and even though I ended up spending Shabbos in Connecticut, I knew I had family in Boston.

Dr. Meir Wikler is an author, psychotherapist, and family counselor in private practice with offices in Brooklyn, New York and Lakewood, New Jersey. He is also a public speaker whose lectures and shiurim are on TorahAnytime.com.

Room Service

Mindel Kassorla

Every time I make a guest’s bed, I think of Shoshana Strum

D

uring orientation week in seminary, Midreshet Tehillah gave us a crash course in all the things sem girls are expected to do when they spend the night in someone else’s home. Sure, it was logical to bring a small gift and to call before we get there and all that. But the “bring your own linen” piece caught most of us off guard.

“In Israel,” the teacher explained, “washing machines are smaller, and doing laundry is time-consuming and expensive. Plus, these people are hosting all the time, and it adds up. Don’t assume they will provide sheets, and make sure to ask if they want you to bring your own.”

Whatever. We nodded and smiled and filed it away.

When you get to seminary, you’re pretty much thrown right into the lion’s den of making your own Shabbos and Yom Tov plans. You’re hit immediately with the barrage of Yamim Noraim and Succos, plus of course, there’s every Shabbos, so you’ve got to advocate for yourself and ask for invitations. Which is why it was a huge relief to get the sweetest, warmest phone call from my second cousin Zev Strum’s wife, Shoshana. (Though they might as well have been strangers because until then, we had nothing to do with each other.)

“Mindel, you probably have all of your plans figured out already—”

Uhhhh… no.

“—but would you like to join us for the end of Succos? You can bring a friend or two with you.”

“That would be amaaaaazing,” came my swift reply.

“We live in Ezras Torah, which I know isn’t so close by. We’re happy to have you sleep here, and for all the meals.”

What?!

This was totally unheard of; most people could only offer sleeping or eating, especially in their small Jerusalem apartments.

“Oh, and we don’t do melachah on the second day of Yom Tov, so you’ll feel right at home.”

I was basically speechless.

“Great! We are so excited to have you,” Shoshana said. “And when you come, no need to bring linen.”

After several weeks of going away for Shabbos, I learned just what a chesed that last bit was; lugging suitcases from one place to the next was so much harder when we had to factor in sheets.

When we got there, Shoshana greeted us with a wide smile. I looked around their simple home and couldn’t imagine where she would put us.

Shoshana led us into a small room that just barely fit a bunk bed and a hi-riser. The space was cleared out, and I figured it must belong to her six children, because the only other bedroom I noticed was that of the parents.

Our beds had not been made yet, but there were two sets of sheets sitting right there.

I took one and started to stretch the sheet over the corner of the mattress, but Shoshana gently took it from me and said, “Mindel! Don’t take my mitzvah of hachnassas orchim!”

Now I live in a small Jerusalem apartment. We have the zechus of hosting on a pretty regular basis, and every so often, we squeeze and shuffle everyone around to accommodate a sleeping guest or two. And I try, as often as I can, to tell my guests, “Please don’t bring sheets. I’m happy to make the beds for you.”

I know how meaningful that offer is.

Mindel Kassorla is a teacher, writer, and shadchan who lives with her family in Jerusalem.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1033)