“Okay, so let me word it this way. If the rav feels he can’t come, can I offer the rav and rebbetzin tickets to Florida, really to anywhere, just so it doesn’t look bad? Maybe we can say your shvigger in Chicago isn’t feeling well? Whatever, just to take the edge off it.”

"W

hat,” Elisheva’s eyes were blazing now, “exactly what did Tatty have that you don’t?”
Her loyalty to her husband was bordering on disrespect for his deceased father, so she backtracked. “I mean, I know it was another dor, of course, but Tatty was a talmid chacham and so are you, he cared about people and so do you. You’re an even better speaker, everyone agrees.”
Her eyes rested on the picture that dominated the dining room wall: Tatty with his charming smile and the flowing beard — that was something Hillel would never have, she had to admit. His beard was scruffy and sparse.
“Shev, it’s not that they don’t think I’m qualified, it’s just that they want him and that’s not something I can give them. I’m me. What a clich?, I know.”
“No, that’s not the clich?, the real clich? is me looking down from the ezras nashim during hakafos tonight. The best shul in Flatbush. Packed. Leibedig. You looked great down there. I’m sure everyone went home saying, ‘Wow, the new rav is really something. He’s got a malchus and all that.’ No one sees the steady attacks, how all the smiley faces down there are really poking you in the ribs. Hakafos was just a big skit they wanted you to act in.”
“Shev!” Hillel’s eyes opened wide. “Come let’s eat, everyone’s waiting, the kids are hyper.” He swung the study door open and headed to the dining room.

B

arry Kosovitz wiped his mouth. “Goldie, these spareribs are something else, real oneg Yom Tov.”
“You worked hard tonight.” She grinned, “Actually, your children and eineklach worked hard. You sat back and enjoyed the hakafos like you’d paid for tickets.”
“Not exactly.” He grimaced slightly. “It wasn’t so enjoyable.”
He looked around, as if to make sure the children weren’t listening. They were, but he’d done his duty.
“Reb Hillel was… what can I say, it was like everything else. Embarrassing.”
He stopped to concentrate, spearing a piece of meat and adding a generous heap of mashed potatoes to his fork.
“For the sixth hakafah, like every other year, someone went to get all the children. It’s a tradition, you know, it’s a mesorah. Our own kids,” he looked around the table, “all grew up that way, whatever was going on, you came in for the sixth hakafah.”
He put down his fork. “Mesorah is everything,” he said, and then because he felt dramatic and oratorical, he said, “it’s what kept us all these years,” which was a very non-Barry thing to say.
The memories of the old rav filled the spacious dining room. Even the married sons remembered the exalted moment on Simchas Torah night when the rav would gather every single boy in the shul, and form a huge circle. The boys clasped hands and sang with enthusiasm, the tallis-draped rav dancing alone in the middle. Then, as they danced, the rav walked the perimeter of the circle, stroking the cheek of each boy, giving out brachos and candies. Mothers — and even some of the fathers — looked on with moist eyes.
But the rav was gone, two years now.
And tonight, when the gabbai hurried to gather the boys for the sixth hakafah, he had to remind the rav as well. The rav! Then, when the children were in place, the rav barely smiled at them. He took the hands of the two boys closest to him and held them limply for a few minutes, dancing in a tired circle, no passion, no brachos, no candies.
“Like he didn’t even care,” Barry said dolefully, and turned back to the spareribs.

T

o the rest of Brooklyn, Shaagas Aryeh had enjoyed the most seamless transition possible; a distinguished rav died and his distinguished son took over, no machlokes, no confusion about who would assume the post. The rav had several sons, but Hillel was the oldest and most qualified, and all the children supported the move. On the rav’s first yahrtzeit, the shul was fuller than it had ever been as Hillel — previously a respected posek in Lakewood — was appointed rav of Shaagas Aryeh.
The shul was still full every Shabbos, but it wasn’t the real deal. “It’s like a fruit bowl filled with fake fruit,” Heshy Nadler had said one day. “It looks great but there’s nothing there.”
It wasn’t that these men didn’t give Hillel a chance. They certainly encouraged him. They liked his halachah shiurim. They were happy when he spoke around the neighborhood. They even filled him in on some of his father’s minhagim. It seemed that once a week, Abie Nussen had to tell the new rav (whom he persisted in calling Reb Hilly, unable to get used to Hillel) what the old rav (he had to correct himself from saying “the real rav” every time) used to do.
“He’s been in Lakewood for so many years, how should he know what his father did?” Abie would tell his friends as they ate cheese delkelach and shared l’chayims after Shacharis.

T

he printer spat out a fresh sheet of paper; Hillel lifted it gingerly.
NEW SCHEDULE OF WINTER SHIURIM. He knew which ones would draw an audience and which would mean him sitting alone with old Mr. Hedman, who came to all of them.
The Maharal shiur would be full, he knew. He would speak and people would come over after and compliment him. “Amazing shiur,” Joe Neulander would say, and Rabbi Young would be taking notes. Still, as Hillel taped the sign to the door of the empty shul, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that it was all fake. He made a difference to absolutely no one in the shul. It wasn’t that they disliked him; they liked him okay. They tolerated his shiurim and speeches. They found him adequate. They had no complaints.
“That would be fine if I was their barber or plumber, but I’m their rav; they should care,” he told Elisheva. “When I told Shragi Marcus that we’re going out of town and I would have to miss his siyum haShas, he shrugged and told me he understood.”

A

t the monthly Vaad Hakashrus meeting, Mordechai Bernstein teased him, “How’s the crown prince of Flatbush?”
Mordechai was a successful rav too, but as he liked to say, he’d worked to get there. He’d been a rav in Buffalo and then in Rochester before getting a position in Brooklyn. The insinuation was that Hillel’s father had left him a bed of roses — great shul, well-mannered members, no politics.
They sat there drinking coffee and Mordechai confided in him about a rough situation he was having. He’d spoken from the pulpit against eating at a certain establishment, and many of the members were upset with him; they felt he should have done more research, spoken with the owner for longer, that he was being small-minded and making Yiddishkeit about bugs in lettuce instead of “real” issues.
Hillel nodded in sympathy, but he felt a strange sense of jealousy as well. Mordechai had the power to anger his congregants with his positions. If Hillel would speak against eating somewhere, they would come over and say “nice speech, shkoyach,” and file out of shul happily. If he would get up and say that no one should use microwave ovens or eat fleishigs or drive a car, they would nod politely and move on. No one would get angry.

"Y

ou’re overdoing it.” Shuey was in from Chicago, leaning on the counter in Hillel’s kitchen, eating pickles straight from a jar. “The shul looks great and they love you.”
Shuey, who sold dental supplies and was blissfully free of upholding their father’s legacy, grinned. “I mean old man Grunbaum told me he has nachas, and Gershy Heller told me that when you speak, it sounds like Tatty. Levi Blumenthal couldn’t say enough about how good you are with the bochurim, how they respect you cause you’re a lamdan and all that—”
“Yeah, Levi’s a prince, he’s special. I don’t know what I would do without him. He’s one of my guys.”
“Well, isn’t he the president? Doesn’t that help?”
“But you don’t get it, it’s not like I have enemies that I need someone to defend me, it’s more like if I would disappear tomorrow they would sigh and look for a new rav. And then Blumenthal would worry about who’s going to clean out my shtender.”
Shuey jumped off the counter. “I got it. I got it.” He deepened his voice. “What you need is the edge,” he said, pumping his fist and spraying pickle juice. “Hil, you know how I go to all these marketing events, the sales lectures, and how I read the books? So the main thing is that you need to create an edge by defining yourself. Pick a position and make it yours. Imagine you’re selling a car, and you’re like, ‘Yeah, it’s okay with fuel economy, no major problems for the environment, decent speed.’ No one will get excited about the car. But if you say, ‘We are the KING when it comes to fuel economy, you can drive to Texas on one tank, you’ll save money every week,’ that kind of stuff sticks in people’s minds.”
“I said a shiur this week that it’s really important to wash for Shalosh Seudos. That’s a position, there are poskim who say it’s okay not to.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Listen to me,” Shuey paused for a moment, focused on getting the last pickle out of the jar, “think of something that you wish you had the guts to say but don’t want to rock the boat, then say it. You won’t lose. You might anger some people but you’ll win over the others.”

H

illel walked back to the car with Elisheva.
“That was really nice,” she said. “What a party.”
“It’s terrible, actually,” he said. “I don’t understand it. It’s sickening.”
He climbed into the car, and instead of turning the key, turned to face her.
“Sholom is a wonderful guy, and the bar mitzvah bochur, Yitzy, is delicious. His pshetel was beautiful, but what’s the heter to blow that kind of money on a simchah? You know that program, Somech, where they pay tuition for unemployed people? Last year, I had to sign the forms that Sholom was out of a job. I’m happy that he’s working now, but let’s be real, he’s managing a nursing home, do you really think he has an extra twenty grand to blow on an event like this? Was it necessary?”
“Hillel,” she said quietly, “it’s not just him, it’s your whole crowd. Everyone knows it. Wasserman did a bar mitzvah here, then Marcus did it, so now Gordon has to, that’s how it goes. The pressure is tremendous.”
“Well someone has to put an end to it and…” his voice trailed off.
Elisheva raised her eyebrows. “Someone?”
The car suddenly smelled like pickles and he heard his brother’s voice. Something you wish you had the guts to say…..

Leventhal, who sent the shul e-mails, seemed surprised. “Everyone? Men and women?”
“Yep,” Hillel nodded emphatically. If he would stop to think this through, he would waver. “Everyone. On Thursday night.”
“ ’K, so I don’t think you should do it on Thursday, the women are already busy with Shabbos and all that, maybe Wednesday is better?”
Hillel surprised himself. “They’ll be fine, it won’t take long. Thursday night please.”

A

t 7:38 p.m., Hillel stood up and looked out the window of the shul office. It was raining, and they were doing construction on the sidewalk in front, which meant everyone would have to go in from the side. Great, he thought, even the ones who do show up will get confused and go back home.
At 8:02, Hillel looked in the brass plaque he used as a mirror and straightened his tie. He whispered a tefillah and stepped out into the hallway, walking toward the door that opened on to the front wall, just near the aron kodesh.
He heard the hum of conversation from inside as he swung the door open and stepped into the shul.
The first thing he noticed was the light. Someone had turned the big chandelier on as if it were Shabbos, and the shul was brighter than usual. There was a certain current of anticipation in the shul; Lou Nordman, a habitual napper, was sitting in the front row, looking extra alert.
Hillel kissed the paroches and then turned to face the room. He looked around pointedly.
“Thank you for coming out. I know it’s Erev Shabbos and it’s not the most convenient time. It won’t take long.”
People were still coming in.
“Sometimes, a rav has to be a good friend, has to be honest and concerned enough to tell you the truth.”
He paused for effect. “Rabbosai, I’m not even going to say a devar Torah, because this is pikuach nefesh. People are bleeding and we’ve got to stop it.
“Would anyone in this room go visit a handicapped facility, a place where people can’t walk, and start doing jumping jacks in the middle of the room? Would anyone go and describe the steak they’ve eaten to a patient who’s being fed intravenously? Of course not. Because we are sensitive people and we realize that it’s what Chazal call ‘loieig larosh,’ mocking a poor person. You can do jumping jacks in the privacy of your basement, but to do it in front of someone who wishes they weren’t trapped in a wheelchair is cruel.”
Hillel was too focused on his message to appreciate just how quiet the room had grown.
“Now, imagine if someone persists in dancing and jumping in a hospital, and he causes a patient to try to emulate him; but the patient isn’t able, so he falls out of his bed and ends up on the floor.”
He pounded the bimah, not for effect; it was natural. He felt that way.
“This happens every few days around here. It’s no secret that many of our friends and neighbors are struggling for parnassah. People who had good jobs and good businesses, with big houses and nice cars, are having trouble making ends meet. And for everyone who’s suffering, there’s another one who’s doing great, who’s making piles of money. Every time someone makes a fancy simchah, they create a pressure on everyone else to emulate them and they force handicapped people to try to dance along. They are spilling blood.
“And no one here really knows what’s going on by anyone else.” He imagined it was true. He certainly didn’t. His people didn’t really confide in him; when Heller sold a building in Manhattan and been written up all over, he heard about it along with everyone else. Hirsh filed for bankruptcy and he only knew about it because he’d overheard people talking about it in the halls. He’d actually stood close to the other side of his office door to listen. It was enough. He was the rav!
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Hillel made a brachah and took a sip of water. “I’m not the gadol hador. I have no power to forbid anyone from making nice chasunahs or bar mitzvahs. I can’t say that the food is treif. But I am the rav of this shul and I can ask you to be sensitive and respectful. Enjoy your money, but not in a way that causes pain to others. I’m appealing to half of you on behalf of the other half. We are a tzibbur, and this is part of it.
“Within a week, each one of you will receive an e-mail containing a clear list of guidelines for simchahs. I realize that many of you have already planned your events, booked caterers or halls, so these guidelines will take effect after Shavuos, on May 28. That’s three months from now. If that causes anyone a hefsed, I apologize, but I assure you it’s a good loss to take. Enough is enough.
“I have no intention of threatening or banning, it wasn’t my father’s way and it isn’t my way. But I will say this: If anyone violates our guidelines, I won’t attend the simchah.”
He looked around. “Thank you for your time.”

O

n the street corner, reaction was mixed.
“He shlepped us out for this?” Edith Horowitz was annoyed.
Her husband, Daniel, was impressed. “Look, he’s taking a public stand, good for him.”
“His father wouldn’t have made such a ceremony,” Yossi Landau grumbled. “This was overdone, like some kind of one-term congressman from down south announcing his candidacy for the Republican nomimation and his whole family comes out in new clothes to clap, even though no one else cares. He could have sent an e-mail with the same derashah.”
“Yossi,” Chaya Esther Landau protested, “you can’t kvetch that he’s too soft and then kvetch when he tries to get involved.”
The Wassermans stopped to join the conversation. Ephraim Wasserman had still been paying off Aliza’s chasunah when his next daughter, Penina, got engaged. Of course, Michal had insisted that the second chasunah had to be in Marina as well, but Penina’s in-laws weren’t like Aliza’s, and he got stiffed. He wished the rav would have spoken six months earlier, and he said as much. “It’s just great. He’s right. I hope it works.”

T

he day after Shavuos, Shloimy Tressman had his bar mitzvah. His parents had downgraded the event in line with the new takanos. The ladies all agreed that the affair was tasteful and elegant, and that the rav’s speech had more verve than usual.
The next morning, after Shacharis, several mispallelim came over to thank the rav for relieving the pressure. “My wife said that she would be okay to do a bar mitzvah just like that for our Yerachmiel,” Benny Lamm confided.
Over cheese delkelach, Heshy Nadler conceded that it was a good start and Abie Nussen nodded his approval, crumbs falling down his chin and on to his shirt.
Two nights later, the Bambergers made a chasunah at Ateres Baila. Although they likely would have done the same thing even without the new rules, it was considered a victory for the rav.
Things were looking up.

T

he invitation for the Blumenthal chasunah was luxuriously thick.
“It feels like velvet,” Elisheva said, gently opening the gray envelope.
She looked down at the printed words, and then at her husband, and she felt like jamming the attractive invitation right back into the envelope.
“What?” he sidled across the kitchen.
He looked over her shoulder. Mr. and Mrs. Levi Blumenthal… Mr. and Mrs. Eliezer Hammer request… Binyomin and Shiffy… Harbor Club…
He shook his head.
“Am I missing something?” he finally said, the only words he could muster.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Elisheva was flustered. “Some detail that isn’t clear.”
Hillel felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He should never have listened to his brother; he should have stuck to halachah and left changing the world to other people.
“There’s no way that someone like Levi Blumenthal would…”
His phone rang. Levi B, flashed on the screen.
He looked at Elisheva for a long moment, then picked up.
“Reb Hillel voss macht ihr, can we speak for a moment? I’d like to come over if possible….”

E

lisheva sent the children downstairs to play and tried her best to listen in to the conversation in the study.
“Reb Levi, explain this to me. You’re the president of the shul, you’ve been giving your heart and soul for so many years. You’ve stood by me from the day I came, even when others didn’t, and now, when things are finally coming together, you’re going to war? You’re trying to undermine me?”
Hillel was madder than she’d ever heard him.
Bulmenthal sounded defensive. “Reb Hillel, I can explain, please… You have to understand, everyone has their stresses. This is our last child. For my wife, for Breindy, it was very important that it be balabatish, but that’s not the whole story. The fact is that my mechutan, Eli Hammer, is a shutaf in some other properties with the group that owns Harbor Club, so after all the discounts and write-offs, it’s the same as a standard chasunah. Be dan me l’kaf zechus please. That’s all it is, see the whole picture and you realize we’re actually keeping all the takanos.”
Hillel was incredulous. “Levi, everyone has good excuses, but that’s exactly the point of a takanah! It’s for everyone, we don’t make exceptions.”
“With all due respect, the rav has to see it from our perspective,” Blumenthal maintained. (Hillel had noticed that when they switched to third person — “the rav” rather than “you” — it meant there was a bullet on the way.)
“Don’t ‘all due respect me’,” Levi,” Hillel exploded. “We know each other a long time. You have sechel, you understand that this is wrong.”

T

he bakery had sent chocolate rugelach instead of cheese delkelach, so Abie Nussen was extra irritated on Tuesday morning. He and Nadler agreed that there was no way the rav would miss Levi Blumenthal’s chasunah, “so you can kiss the fancy new takanah goodbye.”
Some of the older members had approached Blumenthal directly and asked him how he could ignore the rav, but he didn’t seem to have an answer.
“I don’t get it,” Nussen frowned, “it’s weird. I guess Breindy has more power than we ever realized,” he chuckled. “Watch out for Breindy,” he said again.
“The truth is,” Nadler reflected, “Hammer is also a person and he doesn’t daven here, he has his own rav, so what right does Levi have to force him? That must be it.”
The others nodded. If you thought about it, what right did the rav have?

I

t was two weeks before the chasunah. At the back table on the right, where the younger crowd sat, the consensus was that the rav would find a loophole and attend the wedding. Levi Blumenthal was the president, after all, the rav’s right-hand man for years.
“Nah,” said Dovi Kuperman, who’d never lacked self-confidence. “He ain’t going, but he also won’t boycott it. Guaranteed, they’re gonna cook up some story that he’s got allergies and can’t leave the house, or a family simchah he can’t miss, whatever. No sh’eilah.”
Kuperman wasn’t off the mark; Levi Blumenthal had the same idea.
On the Monday before the wedding, he came to see Hillel. “I really hope the rav will be there, I can’t imagine making a simchah without you.”
“Levi, you know I’m not going to come.”
“Reb Hillel, this is different.”
“You’re right, it is different. It’s different because you were devoted to my father and two years ago, when I came here, you were the first one to offer me friendship. Real friendship, not just nice smiles. So when you do something like this, it’s takke different. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I don’t get it.”
“Okay, so let me word it this way. If the rav feels he can’t come, can I offer the rav and rebbetzin tickets to Florida, really to anywhere, just so it doesn’t look bad? Maybe we can say your shvigger in Chicago isn’t feeling well? Whatever, just to take the edge off it.”
“Levi, tayere Levi, listen to me. Even if I had planned to be in Florida, I would stay back, just to make it clear that I stand by my principles.”
Dignified in defeat, Blumenthal nodded. He understood.

T

he night before the chasunah, Shammai Weiss stopped Hillel after Maariv, clearly uncomfortable.
“If the rav isn’t going… I mean, if it’s wrong, so why are we going? Shouldn’t we be staying home?”
“Let me think about it,” Hillel said, caught off guard, and touched by the question. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Actually, I think it’s simple. I made a takanah and I will keep it. I said I wouldn’t come and I intend to honor that. I hope it sends a message. That said, Levi isn’t serving non-kosher meat or violating any halachos, he’s not in cheirem. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, I don’t really get it,” Hillel admitted, “but he’s a fine person.”

M

ordechai Bernstein was waiting on his front porch.
“What a nice surprise! I can use a friendly face,” Hillel said. “Come in.”
Rabbi Bernstein was uneasy. He accepted a cup of soda and sat down on the couch. He spoke loudly, as if he wanted Elisheva to hear.
“Listen, Reb Hillel, I’m doing this for longer than you, so take this in the spirit it’s said. I have my ear to the ground, I’m hearing about the showdown in your shul, and I have to say that I think you’re making a mistake. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose. If you go, you look weak, if you don’t go, you look spiteful.”
He offered a been-there-done-that sigh. “Look, I think you need a rope to get down from the tree. Either one of the askanim to get involved and make a psharah, perhaps, maybe just go for the chuppah not be mevazeh him… or maybe the old Mrs. Blumenthal will call and you won’t be able to say no, something… trust me.”
Elisheva had come in from the kitchen. She was biting her lower lip, unsure which side to take.
“Shkoyach,” Hillel extended his hand awkwardly. “I know you care.”

T

here were toasted brioche and salmon cakes on the shores of Long Island Sound, tuxedoed violinists circulating; but the conversation was all about the rav and his decision.
“That’s class. That he stayed home is impressive, and that he told us to come is even more impressive,” said Abie Nussen, who’d never even asked what to do. He was in good spirits because the caterer got it; there was gefilte fish and chrein on a side table, “not just sushi, sushi, sushi. Some of us still eat normal foods.”
The chasunah was beautiful. Levi Blumenthal was his gracious self, greeting his guests warmly, but the general feeling was that Levi was missing the rav. You could see it in his eyes, they said.
Hillel’s cell phone rang twice that evening. It was Mordechai Bernstein both times. He ignored both calls.

O

n Shabbos, just before Mussaf, the rav stood up to speak. He began by wishing mazel tov to the baalei simchah, the Blumenthal and Hammer families, and offered words of praise about the mechutanim. Then he shared the customary devar Torah. Before he sat down, he looked around the room and said, “Rabbosai, I just want to take a moment to remind the oilam of the rules we accepted together, as a tzibbur, about how we conduct our simchahs, with tzniyus and concern for others.”
With that, he turned back to the baalei simchah and offered a warm brachah.
“Wow,” Dovi Kuperman was impressed. “That was really something. He didn’t attack, he didn’t insult them, he was cool; but he made it clear that he doesn’t regret his position.”

O

n Erev Yom Kippur, Levi Blumenthal came to the rav’s house to ask mechilah. He stammered out a weak explanation about having gone through a rough period in business, how it had been important for him to make a statement that he was doing okay, and how he realized too late what a mistake it was. He begged mechilah.
The rav embraced him and accepted his mechilah.
By the first day of Succos, everyone in shul knew that Blumenthal had apologized and the rav had generously forgiven him.
By Chanukah, things were back to normal. The shul president was back in the swing of things, humbled, perhaps, but more dedicated than ever. When Haberman’s wife wanted to make a normal chasunah, even if it meant switching shuls, it was Levi Blumenthal who quietly advised him against it. “It didn’t feel good; I don’t recommend it.”
Kuperman and the young guys agreed. “Don’t mess with the rav,” they said.

F

our years later, Levi Blumenthal was honored by one of the yeshivos. The journal was filled with glowing ads, tributes to his generosity, devotion, and responsibility.
Feldinger, the caterer, was sitting in the empty hall after the dinner with a few of his staff, chatting as they cleaned up.
“This guy, Blumenthal, he seems like a prince,” said a young fellow with a curly beard as he stacked chairs.
“He’s more than that,” the caterer replied, too quickly.
Feldinger was a man of few words, certainly not prone to over-enthusiasm. The men gathered around him.
The caterer poured himself a cup of ginger ale and allowed his mind to wander. He vividly remembered sitting in the Blumenthals’ living room, listening as Levi pushed for an upscale chasunah. It was a bit surprising, considering that Blumenthal had never been that type. Sure, they made nice chasunahs, but this was strange.
The memories followed one another, like pictures in a slideshow. He recalled being uncomfortable as Breindy Blumenthal resisted, “Why now, Levi?” and he stepped out for a smoke. Through the open window, he heard Levi’s answer and would never forget it. The caterer had inhaled and stood there frozen, unable to exhale as Blumenthal spoke about how everything would be different once the rav stood up to him. “I know he’ll do the right thing, and this chasunah is my offering,” Levi had said. “It will be the game changer.”
The caterer shook his head, not speaking; this wasn’t a story to repeat to his men, not now, and not ever. “This ginger ale is flat,” he finally said. “Make a note to Leo not to open the bottles so early in the day, will ya? And let’s get back to work.”

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Succos 5776)