Yeshivas Sh’or Yoshuv: Past My Veneer

Mr. Benjie Brecher, Businessman and askan, Monsey, NY

IT was the summer of 1967, and I’d just finished high school. Or rather, been asked to leave high school. Rav Shlomo Freifeld had just made the decision to leave his post as mashgiach of Mesivta Rabbeinu Chaim Berlin. While the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Yitzchok Hutner, and the mesivta would be heading to Brooklyn, Rav Freifeld was going to remain behind in Far Rockaway, striking out on his own path and opening his own yeshivah, with the warmest brachah of his rebbe, Rav Hutner.

I had two paths before me: Either I joined the new yeshivah, which would be called Sh’or Yoshuv, or I enlisted in the Marines and shipped out to Vietnam. I was in turmoil, and I didn’t know what I wanted my future to look like.

Actually, many of the Chaim Berlin bochurim wanted to stay behind and be part of Rav Shlomo’s group, but he was selective — he turned down anyone who he felt was too advanced for his yeshivah. He had a clear vision of what Sh’or Yoshuv would be, and who would benefit from it.

Reb Shlomo was a large and charismatic man. When I met him for the first time for my interview and bechinah, his impressive presence filled the room. It turned out he wasn’t going to ask me to read a Gemara. His only question caught me by surprise: “Do you want to learn?”

Me? Did I want to learn? I was utterly disillusioned with yeshivahs, and with rebbeim in general.

“Yeah, right,” I snarled back sarcastically.

Reb Shlomo looked at me. He must have seen past my bitterness and cynicism. He didn’t respond to the sarcasm in my voice and the defiance on my face, but to what he could sense inside.

“Great, then you’re in,” he said brightly. And with those words, I became a lifelong talmid not only of Sh’or Yoshuv, but of Rav Shlomo himself.

With time I found my place in Sh’or Yoshuv, and I discovered  that I did want to learn. My new rebbi drew me close into his unique understanding of a rebbi-talmid relationship. Decades later, as I use what I learned from Rav Shlomo in my own work to help struggling, embittered teenagers at Lev Teen Center in Monsey, his very first lesson — look past the veneer of bitterness — guides me daily.

Bobover Yeshivah Bnei Zion: My Rebbe, My Friend

Rabbi Yitzchok Reuven Rubin, Rav of Adass Aish Kodesh, Manchester, UK

Ask anyone who knew me and my family from way back, and they would laugh at the thought that a Queens boy with a day school education would seek out a chassidish yeshivah. But that’s my story — the story of a boy who wanted something different, and a wise Rebbe who intuited that desire during a chance visit.

I attended a day school in Kew Gardens Hills, New York, in the 1950s. Thanks to the rav of a small chassidishe shtibel near our home, I fell in love with chassidus around the time of my bar mitzvah.

That Chol Hamoed Pesach, a teacher from our day school took us on a field trip to see an authentic Chassidic rebbe, Reb Shloime Halberstam of Bobov. This predates the Boro Park era; at this point the Rebbe was still living in Crown Heights.

There was a small crowd in the Rebbe’s dining room, and we American kids watched wide-eyed. In the middle of the Chol Hamoed seudah, the Rebbe pointed to me and told my teacher, “I want to speak to that boy.”

After the meal was over, I followed the Rebbe into a little room. The Rebbe sat me down on a chair, but before he started to talk, one of the other kids barged in, as only an American kid would, and asked if he could snap a picture on his box camera.

The Rebbe responded in the affirmative to the request. “Yes, you can, but give the picture to this boy, because I want him to remember what I want to tell him.”

The other boy took the picture and left, and then the Rebbe turned to me and said the following words: “I want you to be my friend, not my chassid.”

That was what he told me.

And from that point on, I saw myself as a chassidishe Yid.

I became very close to the Rebbe, who showed me incredible warmth. My father didn’t agree with my new ideas, though, and he did everything possible to ensure I didn’t attend a chassidishe yeshivah. Even had he agreed, this was 1958, and the Rebbe didn’t have a class for me, because the Bobover yeshivah was being built from the ground up, and I was too old, a year above the highest grade.

So I went to Yeshiva University High School, Torah Vodaath, and Ner Yisroel of Baltimore, among others — while the whole time I was a chassid inside. In Ner Yisroel, I told Rav Yaakov Weinberg, who was then the high school mashgiach, that I didn’t want to attend the secular studies classes, because I wanted to be chassidish, I wanted to sit and learn.

Rav Yaakov saw I really meant it, and his reply was, “Go ask the Bobover Rebbe. If the Rebbe says you don’t have to learn English, I’ll give you a pass, and you can spend those hours in the beis medrash.”

I went to the Rebbe, and told him about the secular studies I didn’t want to sit through. The Rebbe patted me gently on the shoulder. “You know English very good,” he said. “You don’t have to go.”

So I got my pass.

Finally, when I was 16, Bobov opened a yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael, in Bat Yam. A contingent of American boys went, and there was a class of boys my age. Finally, I was in the chassidishe yeshivah I belonged in.

I later became a Gerrer chassid, but Bobov was my first place in the chassidish world, and the moment I knew it was the place for me was the moment the Rebbe looked at me with his pure eyes and said, “I want you to be my friend.”

Yeshivas Bais Medrash Elyon: Even in the Darkness

Rabbi Nosson Scherman, General Editor, ArtScroll/Mesorah Publications

The first time I stepped into Bais Medrash Elyon in Monsey was before I became a talmid there. I was learning at Torah Vodaath, and the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Gedaliah Schorr ztz”l, had given a few of us permission to spend the summer zeman at Bais Medrash Elyon.

It was about 6:30 in the evening when I first walked into the beis medrash, and I was amazed at the rising crescendo, the intensity, and the freshness of the learning. Even though it was near the end of second seder, the bochurim and yungeleit were going strong, so that the kol Torah filled the room.

As a beis medrash talmid in Torah Vodaath, it had been my ambition to be accepted in Bais Medrash Elyon after spending a year in the shiur of Rav Elya Chazzan ztz”l, but that first impression of its beis medrash won me over even further. I became convinced that this would be my home — and so it became, for ten wonderful years of yeshivah and kollel learning.

During those ten years I found that the yeshivah was unique. There was no one “type” of Bais Medrash Elyon bochur. Among us were chassidim, misnagdim, and everything in between — but we were friends; we learned together and learned from one another.

Today, those boys are roshei yeshivah, admorim, rabbanim, roshei kollel, dayanim, menahalim, and mechanchim, as well as balabatim who stand out as exceptional talmidei chachamim.

The Rosh Yeshivah was Rav Reuven Grozovsky ztz”l, and although I never heard a shiur from Reb Reuven because he had suffered a debilitating stroke by the time I arrived, he remained an unmistakable presence, and his ruach and greatness were indelible components of the yeshivah. The Mashgiach-Rosh Yeshivah was the gaon and tzaddik, Rav Yisrael Chaim Kaplan ztz”l, whom we saw and revered every day. The cooks were Mr. and Mrs. Apfeldorfer, whom Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky ztz”l, described as a living Shulchan Aruch of middos tovos.

The Shabbos seudah was punctuated with six zemiros (real zemiros, not popular recorded ditties) — two between each course — after which there a late-night seder.

One evening, Monsey — then a small hamlet — suffered a blackout. A bochur ran upstairs to the dorm rooms and brought down a box of candles (we used to light Shabbos candles in our rooms back then). We lit the candles, and the beis medrash was soon thundering again with the sound of bochurim learning by candlelight. You don’t forget things like that.

Mesivta Yesodei Yeshurun: Recharged

Rabbi Yaniv Meirov, CEO, Chazaq organization and Rav of Kehilla Charm Circle, Queens

I followed three older brothers to Yesodei Yeshurun in Queens, but it soon became clear that this was exactly the place for me.

The yeshivah, led by Rav Doniel Lander, had a rigorous learning program, combined with a high level of secular studies. I took my studies seriously, but I really had other things on my mind. When I was going into tenth grade, I learned that there were ten thousand Jewish kids attending public schools in Queens. I had a burning desire to do something for the klal, to give these kids an appreciation for the Judaism they knew so little about.

I started to put together a weekly parshah paper with short, important lessons and stories about keeping Shabbos, not being jealous, or the laws of kashrus. I distributed my paper in shuls, restaurants, and supermarkets, so it would reach these Jews.

I quickly discovered that there was a tremendous thirst for what I wasoffering. The papers were read all over Queens, and one year later, when I was 16, I began to arrange shiurim. There was a domino effect; one thing led to another, until it grew into the Chazaq organization I run today.

Many yeshivos would have discouraged a young bochur from getting involved in such a consuming kiruv venture. They would have told me to focus on my learning and leave the activism for others until I grew up. But my rebbeim, and the mashgiach, Rav Mordechai Finkelman, supported me and helped me. Some rebbeim offered to contribute articles for my paper. I was allowed to use the computer room during recess to format and print it, and one rebbi even reached out to my mother to give her a nachas report.

All this encouragement gave me a huge boost. Until today, Rabbi Lander always asks me how Chazaq is doing. But one comment in particular reframed the entire operation, and gave me the key to keep running it long past high school.

It happened when I came to yeshivah one morning with the weight of the organization clearly burdening my young shoulders.

“You seem stressed out,” my rebbi said.

I explained what I was involved in.

“But who’s in charge?” he wanted to know.

I gave a big smile. “I’m in charge.”

“That’s why you’re stressed out. If you don’t want to be stressed, let Hashem be in charge, and you work for the Boss.”

That Motzaei Shabbos, we had scheduled a shiur featuring a Russian-speaking rabbi. I thought we’d have 20 or 30 people in the audience, but over 500 showed up. When the speaker arrived, he said he’d given eight speeches over Shabbos, and his voice was almost gone. Problem: I didn’t have a microphone! I texted a few DJs asking them for mics, but no one responded.

I went to another room and raised my hands in a quick, improvised prayer: “HaKadosh Baruch Hu, You are in charge!”

Just that minute, of the DJs I’d reached out to passed the doorway. He had just finished a gig in the very same building, and he had a sound system we could use.

So the takeover happened right away, and I felt that the yeshivah was holding my hand and helping me in the work I was passionate about. Years later, that support still motivates and shapes my work.

Yeshivas Mesivta Rabeinu Chaim Berlin: Musical Interlude

Rabbi Suki Berry, Rebbi at Imrei Binah Yerushalayim

The Almighty “prepares the steps of man.” In my case, that included placing me in precisely the right yeshivah at the right time — providing me with the rosh yeshivah who appreciated both the potential and the challenges that came along with my talents.

Born into a musical home, music seemed to follow at every stage. As a child, I sang in professional choirs, accompanying chazzanim such as Dovid Werdyger. As a teen I began playing at chasunahs, enjoying the great experience that brings. I feel that Hashem continued opening doors for me as I was approached to arrange and participate in the “New Wave” of Jewish music developing in the 1970s.

When I was a 17-year-old talmid in Mesivta Rabbeinu Chaim Berlin, the Rosh Yeshivah Rav Yitzchok Hutner ztz”l, called me in to discuss, among other things, my musical experiences.

While it was common back then in yeshivah circles to discourage talmidim from pursuing careers in music, the Rosh Yeshivah saw his students as individuals, and in my case, I suppose he understood how much music was a part of me even before I realized this myself. At the same time, he wanted me to have the necessary safeguards to navigate what could be a spiritually challenging realm.

“Do you play at weddings?” the Rosh Yeshivah asked. When I said I did, the Rosh Yeshivah guided me as to which weddings were appropriate — specifically, those where the tzniyus was up to a certain standard. Then he said, “Playing at chasunahs is a nice thing, but you should know that when you turn 20, it’s not for you anymore.”

That command shaped my entire life. I played weddings quite a bit until I was 20, but then I knew it was time to stop. And once I did, not only did the Rosh Yeshivah’s instruction free up my schedule, it also cleared my head and my heart to go to yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael. This was before it was common to learn in Eretz Yisrael, and it offered me access to gedolim and relationships that I cherish until today.

The Rosh Yeshivah didn’t intend for me to break entirely with music. When he put a cap on my youthful performances, he gave me a direction for life. Music was and would always remain a part of my existence, but as the Rosh Yeshivah famously said, “One can live a broad life, but not a double life.” I learned that we can serve Hashem with all we have.

As the chassidim say, “bechol me’odecha.” When you serve Hashem with all that is “me’od” for you — your talents, your gifts and your strengths — then you are following the score of the Master Composer Himself.

Yeshivas Kochav Mi’Yaakov of Tchebin: It’s A Jungle in Here

Rabbi Shlomo Usher Tauber, Certified Trauma and Relationship Counselor and International Speaker, Monsey, NY

“lions grow in a jungle.”

I was a teenager living in Monsey, discussing yeshivos in Eretz Yisrael with my father, Rav Ezriel Tauber ztz”l, when I first heard that line.

What my father meant, I now know, was that if you want to grow into a lion, you need to be in an open space. Yes, it needs to be a safe place; it needs to be a good yeshivah with proper role models — but at the same time, you need a certain latitude and freedom in order to grow. A lion locked up in a cage does not grow.

We decided on the famous yeshivah Kochav Mi’Yaakov of Tchebin, in Yerushalayim, partly because my father had a close relationship with the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Baruch Shimon Schneersohn, whom he greatly admired. No one except my father would describe this vaunted yeshivah as a jungle — but in the ways that matter, it produced true lions.

I got to see the lions between those four walls up close. There were too many to mention, but among those unforgettable scholars were the Rosh Yeshivah himself, the maggid shiur Rav Avrohom Genichovsky, and the afternoon mashgiach Rav Mordche Rimmer. Among the geonim of Yerushalayim who spent time in the beis medrash were Rav Zundel Kroizer, Rav Yidel Rabinowitz, Rav Nosson Lubart, a talmid of Rav Meir Shapiro in Lublin, who would roam among the tables and talk to the bochurim “in learning,” and, still among us today, Rav Naftali Nussbaum shlita.

These role models didn’t say much to us, and they didn’t bother us. You could speak to them if you wanted to, but the main opportunity lay in watching them. And watch them we did. The environment, the very air was full of Torah, and we bochurim sat and learned — spurred onward by the lions in our midst.

The yeshivah framework in Tchebin was a very open space. If a bochur wanted to fool around, no one would say anything. Certainly no one there scrutinized or criticized a bochur’s glasses, hat, or shoes. No bochur was told they had to learn, admonished to be there on the bench or else.

From Friday afternoon until Sunday morning, there was no official yeshivah schedule. Bochurim could come and go. Even during the week, the only seder that was strictly enforced was the afternoon seder from 3 to 6:30 p.m., when Rav Mordche Rimmer knew exactly which boys were in attendance. Other than that, in the morning, and for davening, there was no accountability.

From that open freedom, the “jungle,” if you will, we heard a very loud, clear message: The reason you learn Torah is not because you’ve been forced to, but because you want to.

There in Tchebin, no one would force you to wake up on time or to sit for hours over a Gemara. But if you wanted to learn, you could get everything in that yeshivah. If you were in Tchebin, it meant you were big enough and strong enough to take the reins and steer your own destiny. That profound message helped many boys grow into healthy Yidden, and into lions of Torah.

When I was a chassan and went to the mashgiach in his home to get a brachah, I asked his mechilah in case I had said or done something wrong during my yeshivah years. He waved it away. Then I thanked Rav Rimmer for the deep insight the yeshivah had given me into why we learn. I told him I got the message, and I wanted to learn because I realized that I really wanted to, not because any rebbeim had told me I had to.

He smiled a big smile. “Yetzt zogst di epes, Now you’re saying something,” he said.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1027)