ON the fifth night of Chanukah, photographer Avraham Elbaz arrived at the Flatbush home of Rav Zevi Trenk, the menahel at Yeshiva Darchei Torah in Far Rockaway, New York. Elbaz was hoping to get a shot of Rabbi Trenk as he kindled the menorah lights, but as he alighted from his car, he was in for a surprise — the ebullient Rabbi Trenk was standing outside of his house with a broom and shovel in hand.

Upon seeing Elbaz’s confusion, he explained: ‘They call me the rabbi on the block,” he said, “and I simply have to keep the front of my home clean.”

In fact, Rabbi Trenk’s house isn’t just “the Rabbi’s home.” His home has become a celebrated bastion of hachnassas orchim, a place where the front door barely closes and guests are welcomed in for a warm meal and a listening ear. Rabbi Trenk understood that people recognized the house as his home, and felt it was important that the sidewalk’s appearance reflects its occupant. True to form, he went about cleaning it by himself.

“This photo is even more important than the hadlakah photo,” he boomed to Elbaz. “This can teach anyone who sees it what it means that a Jew should keep the front of his home clean to make a kiddush Hashem!”

Happening in... Dallas

Last Sunday, the Dallas community united in a remarkable display of kavod haTorah, welcoming Rav Malkiel Kotler, rosh yeshivah of Beth Medrash Govoha. The occasion was a celebration of the kollel’s remarkable growth over the past few years, marked by the addition of multiple new families, including four families who settled in neighboring Plano, Texas.

A large crowd greeted Rav Malkiel at the airport and escorted him to the kollel, where he delivered a shiur on hilchos Chanukah to a packed beis medrash. As he stood at the shtender, his eyes swept across the audience. But before launching into his prepared shiur, he paused for a moment, and then shared an anecdote about his grandfather, Rav Aharon Kotler ztz”l.

“Sixty-five years ago, a menahel of a school in Texas came to the Zeide,” he said. “He asked the Zeide, ‘What should be our focus? That the talmidim should be shomrei Shabbos? That they shouldn’t marry out of the faith?’ ”

But Rav Aharon shook his head, objecting to both of those goals.

“The Zeide said, ‘Your focus should be that the talmidim should become Rav Akiva Eigers!’ ”

Rav Malkiel’s eyes remained fixed on the audience for another moment, and he gave a slight nod.

The Zeide was right.

Texas would yet be home to a generation of bnei Torah who would aspire to become the next Rav Akiva Eigers.

Overheard

“Today there is a popular song with the lyrics Hashem loves us, and everything will be fine, and even better, and even better. So we’re all fine with the words — this is what you want from Hashem. But what does Hashem want from us?

“Let’s see that you should always love Hashem — and that the love should increase from you to Him v’od yoter tov, v’od yoter tov — even more and even more.”

—Rav Shaul Alter

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1043)

The post The Moment: Issue 1043 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: “Dos Yiddishe Hartz”

Location: New York City

Time: May 1998

Writers’ Note

Last week’s For The Record, titled “The Finnish False Messiah,” included excerpts from an article written by the Yiddish journalist Mordechai Strigler. We received an email from a reader who asked if we had ever delved into Strigler’s background, because his story would surely be of interest. Additionally, we were pointed to an exceptional tribute to Strigler following his 1998 death, penned by Reb Yosef Friedenson, the noted editor of Agudath Israel of America’s Yiddish magazine, Dos Yiddishe Vort. We found it extremely moving and decided to share it with our readers this week in full.

(Our additions appear in a different font.)

At the Fresh Grave of a “Worldly” Writer

By Yosef Friedenson

I imagine that not a single one of our readers will, upon reading the title of this article, refrain from raising their eyebrows and wonder: Since when does Dos Yiddishe Vort write obituaries about prominent secular writers?

I have a response for this.

First and foremost, this relates to a personal feeling. We were friends, “companions in suffering,” or “brothers in adversity,” during our time in Buchenwald. There, he strengthened me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude — hakaras hatov, a core Jewish value. He earned my acknowledgment and, as is customary among Jews, a few words of praise.

But what relevance does this have to Dos Yiddishe Vort? After all, Dos Yiddishe Vort doesn’t belong to its editor, but to the Orthodox community. Did he merit recognition from this community?

My answer is that, despite all reservations about secular writers, Mordechai Strigler, of blessed memory, had many merits, some of which were public and worthy of acknowledgment. Moreover, I want to emphasize that when I use the term “secular” in relation to him, I do so with quotation marks, because his “secularism” never entirely overtook him. To some degree, a spark always remained from his younger years, when he studied in Novardok and Kletzk. While he unfortunately drifted far from Kletzk, Kletzk never entirely left him. This, too, is a merit in my eyes.

Moreover, my experiences with Mordechai Strigler carry a moral lesson from which one can learn something valuable.

The post “Dos Yiddishe Hartz” first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

IT was an unfathomable shift — from the pinnacle of joy to incomprehensible tragedy. Twelve-year-old Yehoshua Aharon Tuvia Simcha was sitting beside his sisters on the Jerusalem-bound 291 bus from Beitar, returning home from their older sister’s last sheva brachos, when a terrorist opened fire and killed the boy.

On 11 Kislev we lost a beautiful child — and the promise for so much greatness.

“Just a few months ago, you asked me about the tefillin I would buy you for your bar mitzvah,” wept his father, Rav Dovid Zusha, Rosh Yeshivah of Yeshiva Klal Chassidi in Beitar Illit. “You didn’t care about the hall or the event, only the tefillin. And now, instead of tefillin, I am buying you a burial plot.

“In your merit, I became a better father. I constantly felt that I needed to improve, so I could be worthy of being the father of a son like you.”

The sheva brachos had taken place in the yeshivah in Beitar. Afterward, half the family went home by car, and the others boarded the 291 bus. As it approached the checkpoint, terrorists fired 22 bullets at the bus.

Tuvia, Hashem yikom damo, learned in the Pnei Menachem cheder in Yerushalayim, and the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Shaul Alter, described him as the “crown of the Talmud Torah.”

Just a few days earlier, the Rosh Yeshivah had spoken to Tuvia about his upcoming bar mitzvah. “We spoke about ‘vayidar Yaakov neder’ — that when a Yid sets out on a journey, he makes a kabbalah. You made a kabbalah, intending to keep it. But Hashem didn’t want the kabbalah you took on for life. He wanted your life itself.”

Tuvia’s commitment to Torah was that of a bochur far older than him. A rebbi from the cheder shared how just a week before he was killed, Tuvia arrived at school and ran to open a Ketzos Hachoshen before eating breakfast.

“I asked him why he didn’t eat first,” the rebbi shared. “He said, ‘On the way to cheder I had a he’arah, (an insight) and I wanted to check if it was emes.’ ”

He was a mevakesh, never ceasing his pursuit for further clarity. “He kept asking me to learn with him,” his rebbi recalled. “When I explained a Tosafos, he insisted on understanding every detail. On his last day, I learned with him for twenty minutes. When we didn’t finish, I told him we would continue the next day. Now, he’ll continue learning in the Yeshivah shel Maalah.”

He was a role model to his classmates but also their best friend. He was constantly complimenting his friends; on his final trip home from Beitar, he borrowed a phone from someone so that he could call a friend and compliment him for something he’d done earlier that day.

Tuvia’s married brother described how whenever he came for Shabbos, Tuvia would help him with his suitcase, take care of whatever was needed, and then ask, “When will you learn with me?”

Perhaps the most heartbreaking hesped was given by his seven-year-old younger brother, Mordechai. “I loved you so much, I loved talking to you so much. And now — who will learn with me? Who will answer all my questions?”

For reasons we cannot understand, Hashem chose to transform joy into tragedy.

But He can also transform tragedy to joy.

May we soon see nechamah — for this tragedy and so many others — as the many tzaros fade away with the coming of Mashiach bimheirah b’yameinu. Amen. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post Our Tuvia’le      first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Last week, Klal Yisrael, and Daf Yomi participants and their families in particular, celebrated the completion of Maseches Bava Basra, the largest masechta in Shas. Siyumim, from fancy to folksy, were held the Jewish world over to mark the momentous accomplishment.

In the Minneapolis Community Kollel, Rav Chaim S. Gibber, the rosh kollel, walked up to the shtender in front of the beis medrash and — with night seder in full swing — did the “unthinkable:” He interrupted a full beis medrash of people learning to publicly wish mazel tov to a dozen or so community members who had just completed the masechta. By way of explanation, Rav Gibber shared a vignette from his days at Yeshivas Ner Yisroel. He recalled that his own rosh yeshivah, Rav Yaakov Yitzchok Ruderman ztz”l, had once halted the yeshivah’s learning seder to honor a group of Iranian refugees who completed a masechta of Gemara, marking their siyum with a celebration in the beis medrash.

Why Rav Ruderman halted a night seder for a siyum begged an explanation, and Rav Gibber offered one: “The honor of Torah must precede the learning of Torah,” he explained. The room erupted in joy and dancing for a brief moment, and then the mesaymim continued the celebration at a local restaurant, while the others returned to their learning, having gained new insight into the honor due Torah and those who study it.

Happening in... Cincinnati

This past week saw a significant milestone achieved in Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, which will offer relief to dozens of Jewish families.

Rabbi Yisroel Kaufman, MSW, is the chaplain at Cincinnati Children’s, which serves as an international destination for families whose children are in need of medical intervention. He also oversees the frum community’s bikur cholim organization, and acts as a medical advocate and liaison, spending sleepless nights working on behalf of frum patients from all over the world.

Over the years, Rabbi Kaufman has made great strides in educating the very accommodating staff at Cincinnati Children’s on the various laws, customs, and cultural nuances inherent in the Orthodox way of life. Now, after many years of cultivating the staff’s trust and understanding, he has finally been able to see a long-standing dream come true. The hospital now features a fully kosher bikur cholim room, stocked with a wide assortment of kosher foods and with all the amenities that an Orthodox family may need.

While we yearn for a time when all illness will fade, it is surely this kind of stalwart commitment to chesed and ahavas Yisrael that will usher in this miraculous era, bimheirah b’yameinu, amen.

Links in the Chain

While gedolim pictures hanging on a school’s walls are a fairly common sight, Rabbi Dovid Morgenstern, the menahel of the fourth and fifth grade division of Far Rockaway’s Yeshiva Darchei Torah, has infused new significance into the concept. The pictures now hanging in his division’s hallways all share one common denominator: They are the rebbeim of the division’s rebbeim.

Rav Avrohom Pam’s picture is there because one of the rebbeim is his talmid from Torah Vodaath; Rav Shmuel Berenbaum’s picture is there because one of the rabbeim is his talmid from the Mirrer Yeshiva of Brooklyn. And the same holds true for Rav Chaim Stein, Rav Moshe Shmuel Shapiro, Rav Chaim Epstein, Rav Elya Meir Sorotzkin, and many other gedolim.

When the fourth and fifth graders look at these pictures, they also glean a cogent message.

Dear talmid, you are a link in a chain. A long, long, chain going all the way back to Moshe Rabbeinu who received the Torah directly from Hashem. We received Torah from our rebbeim, and we then taught your rebbeim, who now teach you.

One day, you too will have talmidim.

Because the chain of Torah will never stop.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post The Moment: Issue 1042 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah Rav Asher Deutsch didn’t just believe that a yeshivah student or kollel avreich should be occupied with Torah throughout the day, not just during study hours. He actually lived it

W

hile many of the tens of thousands of mourners who accompanied Ponevezh Rosh Yeshivah Rav Asher Deutsch ztz”l to his final resting place last week had known him from his daily shiurim in the yeshivah’s beis medrash, perhaps only a fraction of them were able to truly grasp the depth of his teachings or appreciate the heights he’d achieved in Torah study during his lifetime.

“Rosh Yeshivah had tremendous talent, but he never made things easier for himself,” one talmid explained. “He fully utilized his sharp intellect and, combined with his renowned perseverance, achieved incredible heights in learning. His shiurim were so profound that students who hadn’t thoroughly prepared the sugya struggled to follow his reasoning.

“During his shiurim, he was like a burning flame,” the talmid continues. “He was completely absorbed in the sugya, oblivious to time. We once bought him a large wall clock and hung it in front of him to remind him when to conclude so that we could go and daven, but it didn’t help. We always had to remind him when it was time for the Minchah minyan.”

As part of his rare brilliance, Rav Deutsch was involved in writing and editing the lectures of Rav Shmuel Rozovsky, Ponevezh’s first rosh yeshivah, known for his extensive study of the commentaries and deep analytical approach. Other Torah luminaries, including current Slabodka Rosh Yeshivah Rav Dov Landau, entrusted their manuscripts to Rav Deutsch for his insights and annotations. After the passing of Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach, Rav Deutsch was asked by Rav Shach’s son-in-law, Rav Meir Tzvi Bergman, to head the institute for the publishing of Rav Shach’s teachings.

R

av Asher HaKohein Deutsch’s light first shone on the first night of Chanukah, 5706 (1945). His father, Rav Binyamin Zev Deutsch, was a devoted confidant and right-hand man of the Ponevezher Rav, Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman. Rav Binyamin Zev played a key role in establishing the yeshivah and managing its affiliated institutions, known as Batei Avot, and the Ponevezher Rav attended Asher Deutsch’s bar mitzvah seudah as a tribute to his father’s significant contributions.

Rav Deutsch acquired his early education at the Tashbar Talmud Torah, which at the time operated out of the home of the Chazon Ish. From there he moved on to Ponevezh’s yeshivah ketanah and then to the yeshivah gedolah, where he secured a distinguished place among the elite talmidim. Despite his young age compared to many of his peers, he earned a place of prominence among the yeshivah’s greatest talmidei chachamim. (It is told that after learning around the clock, he once fell into a sudden deep sleep in the middle of working through a sugya, and when his friends, noticing his unusual posture, awakened him, within seconds he resumed learning precisely from where he had left off.)

During these formative years, he developed a close relationship with the rosh yeshivah, Rav Shmuel Rozovsky, becoming one of the few students capable of fully grasping the depth of Rav Shmuel’s shiurim. After Rav Shmuel’s passing in 1979, leadership of the yeshivah passed to Rav Shach, and Rav Deutsch formed a deep and enduring connection with him.

“Rav Asher saw Rav Shach as his primary mentor,” says Rav Eliyahu Cohen, one of Rav Deutsch’s leading talmidim and longtime chavrusa. “He would consult him on every matter, whether personal or communal. He would often share with us stories of Rav Shach’s incredible diligence and the clear path he charted in his public battles, serving as a symbol and role model.”

Rav Asher married Rebbetzin Miriam, the daughter of Rav Raphael Eisenberg a”h. The Rebbetzin worked for many years as a midwife at the Mayanei Hayeshua Medical Center, and she also became a mentor for dozens of young people from dysfunctional or troubled families who made their way to the Deutsch home.

“The Rebbetzin and the Rosh Yeshivah were a team when it came to tzedakah and chesed,” says Rav Cohen. “Once, the Rosh Yeshivah heard about a Torah scholar in Bnei Brak who had broken his arm and was in severe pain. Without asking any questions, he and his wife took a comfortable armchair from their home and brought it right over to the home of this talmid chacham. Rav Asher explained to him that this chair had been particularly comfortable when he himself had been in a similar situation. He didn’t give a second thought to the idea that carrying a chair through the streets of Bnei Brak might seem unfitting for someone of his stature.”

Rav Deutsch’s talmidim relate how the Rosh Yeshivah would often engage in vigorous debates with the students, and the entire hall seemed ablaze with energy. While he would sometimes raise his voice and passionately debate those students whose arguments he found unconvincing, they knew never to take it personally. His fire was for extracting the truth of Torah, but even those talmidim on the receiving end of his arguments sensed his love for them.

“I remember how, after delivering such a shiur, the Rosh Yeshivah exited the beit medrash,” says a talmid. “Outside, it was pouring rain, and Rav Asher stood there without even an umbrella. He seemed to be looking for something. When he saw me, his eyes lit up. He asked me to call over another student — someone he had debated with during the shiur. Rav Asher sought his forgiveness, concerned that he may not have spoken to him with sufficient respect.”

S

hortly after his marriage, Rav Asher Deutsch moved to Jerusalem, where he served as a maggid shiur at Yeshivas Knesses Beis Aharon headed by Rav Ephraim Zureiven ztz”l. He also delivered chaburahs at the Mir, and later, he gave shiurim at Yeshivas Knesset Yitzchak in Hadera.

In late 1988, Rav Deutsch was asked by Rav Shach and by Ponevezh president Rav Avraham Kahaneman to become a maggid shiur in Ponevezh.

“Rav Asher began by giving shiur to first-year students,” recalls Rav Cohen. “In the following years, he delivered regular lectures to higher-level classes and eventually to the advanced kibbutz group. Until Elul, he continued to come to the yeshivah daily to deliver his shiurim.

“In addition to his regular shiur, which involved many hours of preparation,” Rav Cohen adds, “the Rosh Yeshivah had chavrusas practically around the clock. I was fortunate to learn together with him for many years, and I was in good company — one of his most well-known chavrusas was renowned Ezra Lemarpeh founder Rabbi Elimelech Firer.”

When Rav Cohen tries to think of a specific stringency or practice the Rosh Yeshivah was especially particular about, he mentions that, as scrupulous as he was in all mitzvos both bein adam l’chaveiro and bein adam laMakom, he was especially vigilant when it came to the possibility of transgressing any aspect of ribbis — he even wrote a sefer called Shaarei Ribbis.

“He was an expert in these in these matters, and many people sought his guidance regarding how to avoid actions that might be considered as taking interest from another person,” Rav Cohen says. “In addition, he was extremely meticulous regarding the mitzvah of arba minim, adhering to the Chazon Ish’s stringencies. Many students would come to his home before Succos to show him what they’d purchased or were considering buying. Sometimes the line wrapped around the block, but despite the pressure, he never turned anyone away.”

But the most important thing he emphasized, says Rav Cohen, is immersion in Torah. “He believed the mind must always be involved in Torah, and not just during set times for learning,” Rav Cohen relates. “A yeshivah student or kollel fellow, he taught, should be occupied with learning throughout the day. And he practiced what he preached. In his view, someone aspiring to spiritual greatness could not achieve it unless their mind was entirely absorbed in Torah during all their waking hours.”

A tense silence filled the room of the Rosh Yeshivah as family members gathered to bid farewell to their patriarch, whose passing was imminent.

“In the past year and a half, the Rosh Yeshivah battled a severe illness,” says Rav Cohen. “He underwent intense treatments, and somehow, he bounced back, with Hashem’s help. During that interim time, he maintained his schedule of shiurim without interruption, continuing to push himself. And he tried never to cancel his chavrusas – sometimes they’d join him at the hospital if he had the strength.”

About half a year ago, the illness resurfaced, and the Rosh Yeshivah began another series of treatments. Yet in the last two months, repeated hospitalizations due to infections and complications took their toll.

“His suffering was immense,” says Rav Cohen. “Once, one of his sons tried to remove a needle causing him discomfort, but the Rosh Yeshivah reprimanded him, saying it was forbidden for a son to perform such an act for his father. There were entire days when he couldn’t speak due to the pain and weakness. Still, when he returned home from the hospital, utterly exhausted, his first request was always for a sefer.”

And no matter how exhausted he was toward the end, he wouldn’t back out of his unwavering commitment to chinuch. “He’d just returned from a grueling treatment, when some family members of a boy enrolled in one of the institutions under his jurisdiction approached him,” Rav Cohen relates. “They told him that the administration had decided to expel the child due to behavioral issues. The Rosh Yeshivah, though frail and drained of energy, was quite upset. With superhuman strength, he exclaimed that no child should ever be removed from a yeshivah without a proper alternative, no matter the circumstances, contacted the people involved, and made sure the boy remained in the institution. That moment was a powerful message, timeless and universal.”

In his last month, the Rosh Yeshivah’s condition fluctuated, with periods of slight improvement followed by rapid decline. By Friday, 12 Kislev, his condition was deemed critical. His family came to bid him farewell. But then, suddenly, his vital signs stabilized and he awakened, interacting with his family. It seemed as if he’d rally after all.

“On Shabbat morning, he even requested a cup of wine for Kiddush,” Rav Cohen recalls. “He forced himself to drink, fulfilling the mitzvah of sanctifying the day. It was a true miracle — it was almost like techiyas hameisim, as though his soul clung to his body with superhuman tenacity. He used those moments of grace to perform another mitzvah.”

The hours that followed were fraught with tension. By Monday afternoon, 14 Kislev, his condition deteriorated rapidly, as family members and close disciples rushed to his bedside at Maayanei Hayeshua. This time, however, the malachim prevailed.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post Like a Burning Flame  first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: The Finnish False Messiah

Location: Paris, France

Document: The Jewish Frontier

Time: 1951

Numerous false messiahs have cropped up throughout history. Some, like the Christian messiah, Shabtai Zvi, and Jacob Frank, had a significant and often damaging impact; others made for curious historical footnotes rather than causing widespread upheaval. Jewish hope for the final redemption became especially acute following times of crisis.

The Roman persecution in the second century fanned hopes for the ultimately failed messiah of Shimon Bar Kochva. Following the expulsion from Spain and Portugal at the end of the 15th century, David Hareuveni and Shlomo Molcho turned up on the scene promising redemption. And in the wake of the desolation of the 1648-49 Chmielnicki massacres, the infamous Shabtai Zvi wreaked havoc on the Jewish world desperate for a better future.

It was only natural that following the Holocaust, the greatest destruction in Jewish history, messianic yearnings would once again surface. Many survivors described liberation as a moment of mixed emotion, after they had fantasized through the years of horror that the end of the war would bring the arrival of Mashiach.

A prominent chassidic survivor from Hungary named Reb Chaim Alter Roth submitted this testimony:

The entire time in the camps, a desperate hope pulsated within us, that immediately tomorrow the Geulah would arrive. My father would often wistfully remark, “Mashiach Tzidkeinu will come to Auschwitz.” We thought that with that revelation, all would instantly become clear with the Geulah. We would clearly see and understand why we had suffered so much, and we would finally gain an insight into the purpose of all of our misery and pain.

But it was even more difficult when the day of liberation came. It was referred to as “liberation,” but I’m not sure why. Instead of experiencing redemption, we instead internalized the total destruction all around us. The world continued on its usual course, nothing had changed, the hester panim continued on as before….

That tangible sense of disappointment was fertile ground for messianic tension. Though there’s much to expound on the diverse postwar reactions to the stirrings of redemption, it’s worth focusing on a more obscure and rather bizarre expression of a false messiah who appeared on the Jewish scene very briefly and rather quietly.

IN 1945, while residing in Paris as the editor of the Yiddish newspaper Unser Vort, Yiddish journalist Mordechai Shtrigler became aware of a curious figure. One Shabbos afternoon, Shtrigler was invited to deliver a lecture on the topic of false messiahs throughout history. In the front row of the audience sat an elegantly dressed Jewish man, accompanied by a sad-looking and clearly physically unwell woman. Shtrigler noticed that the man’s eyes occasionally flashed with anger at what he said.

After the speech, the man approached Shtrigler and launched into an attack on his lecture:

So you wanted to prove that all those who claimed to be messiahs were liars or deluded persons? Eh? Reason dictates such a conclusion, you say. Maybe you don’t believe that a true Messiah will ever come at all.

Well, I want to ask you something. See this girl? This is my sister. The Germans robbed her of her parents, her sisters, her bridegroom. All of them are dead. She hid in a damp basement for years, and now she is crippled. Maybe you know why this is so? I tell you, they were all innocent victims. What? You know it. Well, then, will it remain this way forever? Will this wrong never be made right?

I tell you it will be made right. One must come — yes, the Messiah — who will make all things right. Otherwise the world has no right to go on for even half a minute. I must get back my innocently murdered parents and she, my sister, must get back her groom, just as he was before. This is how it will be. The Messiah will make everything right again. Nothing that was in the past will be missing. Only He can give meaning to the world.

Shtrigler now understood the circumstances (or he thought he did) and began to pity the poor woman. Even as a survivor himself of Majdanek and Buchenwald, there was little he could say or do that would help console her. Her tragic plight had just one solution — the coming of Mashiach — and because of her fragile state, she had seen his lecture on the fraudulent messiahs in history as getting in the way of her ironclad beliefs.

Shtrigler goes on to describe the sad sight:

Tears flooded the sick girl’s eyes, and because of them, it became pointless to answer the man.

Anything I might have said in reply would have been a dagger aimed at the heart of the girl’s hopes. What she needed was a detailed description of the Messiah’s appearance, how he would restore color to her face and straighten her deformed shoulder. She needed to hear how a mighty hand would restore the life of her groom from the scattered ashes and bring him back to her, whole and alive.

Suddenly, the entire conversation changed as her brother leaned over to Shtrigler and whispered: “He [the Messiah] has already arrived. I even know where he is. You want to know where? He is in Finland now, in Finland.”

Sometime later, Shtrigler received a pamphlet titled, “My Annunciation of the Complete Redemption and Concerning the Coming of the Messiah of G-d,” authored by the self-proclaimed Messiah from Finland, whose name was given as Ze’ev Mordecai (Ulf) Karmi (1912–1969). The pamphlet contained writing that was strange and clumsy, but showed sparks of intelligence.

Shtrigler later discovered that Karmi (born Kantarowitz) was presenting himself as a pious young rabbi, and had been invited by the French government to catalog biblical literature at the Sorbonne. He began sending out bulletins hinting at his divine mission. His disciples spread tales of his miraculous powers — how famous scientists left his presence astonished, how people fell into trances upon seeing him and shouted that they saw G-d on earth, how he cured a dying man with a touch and a word.

Shtrigler’s curiosity was piqued. When one of Karmi’s followers called to ask if he’d like to meet the Messiah, Shtrigler agreed, though the meeting could only take place once Karmi had examined Shtrigler’s soul from afar to determine if he was deserving. Finally, a note arrived in Karmi’s own hand agreeing to an audience.

In a darkened private apartment, Karmi made his entrance — a tall man dressed in neat black rabbinical garb, with a carefully trimmed beard framing his pale face. He sat in profound silence.

After some coaxing, Karmi began to share his story:

He was born in Finland. There, he managed to study Hebrew, and as he grew up, he was overcome with the urge to study the Torah. So he went to the yeshivah of Telz, and then to the one in Mir.

That was in the 1920s. He studied much. He probed the morality [mussar] books. He was ordained a rabbi. He mentioned the names of some of the outstanding rabbinical scholars of that time whom he had met personally because the fame of his piety had gotten around, and there was curiosity to see a yeshivah student from remote Finland.

Later, he studied in the universities of Helsinki, Stockholm, and Copenhagen. He obtained a number of doctorate degrees. He studied several subjects simultaneously. There was no satiating his hunger for knowledge.

Then the war broke out. He was a citizen of Finland. His brother was a high-ranking officer in the Finnish army. It was a comical situation, during World War II, when German soldiers fighting on the Finnish front had to take orders from Karmi’s brother, the Jew. Hitlerites had to salute him.

Oh, that was something to see.

He must have noticed on my face an expression of distaste for the humor of the situation.

He hastened to explain. What could the few hundred Jewish soldiers do? They were citizens of Finland, a country that had never known discrimination or anti-Semitism. Even when German units were stationed in the country, the Finnish government did not permit them to show their hatred in any way. Karmi served as a chaplain in the Finnish army. Yes, it was a satisfaction to have German soldiers salute Jewish officers, helpless in their rage. There was healing in such a sight. What? I did not agree?

Well, I should have seen it with my own eyes.

Though, of course, there was another side to the picture — the stories of Nazi atrocities in other countries and the impotence to do anything about them.

Karmi’s brother, the officer, was killed in battle. After the war, Karmi took a post as a Hebrew teacher in Finland. His salary was fair, and he could have organized his life very satisfactorily indeed.

What was he lacking in prosperous Finland?

Nothing at all. He enjoyed the respect of all his acquaintances and even commenced work on a great book. He could have lived so peacefully that there would have been no story to tell. And then something happened.

After the war, while working as a Hebrew teacher in Finland, Karmi said that G-d had appeared to him and given him a divine mission, but he would need “thousands of young prophets also capable of seeing G-d” to fulfill it. He taught prophecy to his students, Christian and Jewish, and claimed that some attained direct revelations. But this led to his persecution and exile, first to Denmark and Sweden, then to France.

In France, Karmi said, G-d appeared to him and instructed him to set up a school of prophecy and convert the world to the true faith only he understood. Biblical figures visited him (as well as the so-called prophets of other religions). He claimed to have influenced world leaders telepathically to allow for the creation of the State of Israel. He offered to make Shtrigler a prophet too, if only he would believe in him.

When Shtrigler tried to counter Karmi’s assertions with basic Talmudic and rabbinic sources, Karmi dismissed them, saying, “There was a time when I, too, sought truth in books. Now I need them no longer. I draw on the original source. I see to the very bottom of things.”

He departed abruptly, leaving Shtrigler perplexed.

Shtrigler walked away from the meeting confused. He realized that Karmi was an intelligent man, but clearly suffered from a mental illness. But his motivations eluded the author. He seemed to crave neither wealth nor honor. Under normal conditions, Shtrigler mused, what might such a man have accomplished? Earlier, Shtrigler had suggested Karmi go to Israel, where he could be useful; Karmi replied “I am there whenever I have to be there, whenever I want to be there.”

Shtrigler concluded that here was a soul who had simply lost its way, a tragedy not just for Karmi but for the entire Jewish People, following the great tragedy of the Holocaust. Lost souls, post trauma, and messianic yearnings, were all woven together during this challenging time of rehabilitation.

Finnish Jews in the Fuhrer’s Forces

The Jewish community in Finland traces its origins to when the country was incorporated into the Czarist Russian Empire. Jewish veterans of the Czarist military, such as Cantonists from the time of Czar Nicholas I, were permitted to reside outside the Pale of Settlement following their departure from the military. Some of these former Russian Jewish soldiers settled in Finland and established a Jewish community there.

At least two shuls were constructed, and Rav Yisrael Salanter’s close student Rav Naftali Amsterdam even served as rabbi of this unique community for a time. During World War II, Finland was an ally of Nazi Germany in the war against the Soviet Union. But Finland didn’t strip its Jews of any rights, and a few hundred Jews served in the Finnish military during the war, some even as officers.

These were the only Jews during World War II who served on the side of the Nazis. It was an incredibly ironic situation, in which Finnish Jews were proudly serving their country to regain territory taken by the Soviet Union, yet they were serving side by side with the German army that was carrying out the Final Solution in Europe. Perhaps the greatest historical irony of all was that these Finnish Jewish soldiers were descendants of Jewish soldiers who had been drafted into the Czarist military a century earlier.

Divine Delusions in the City of Gold

The ancient stones and spiritual intensity of Yerushalayim have long drawn seekers of meaning and transcendence. For a rare few, this sanctity overwhelms, leading to Jerusalem syndrome — a psychological phenomenon with visitors who, swept up in the city’s holiness, believe they are on divine missions. Clad in flowing robes and quoting scripture, they wander the Old City imagining themselves as prophets or biblical figures.

Most cases are brief, lasting no more than a week, though some reveal deeper mental health struggles. Between 1980 and 1993, Jerusalem’s Kfar Shaul Mental Health Center treated about 1,200 such visitors.

“If you’re in L.A. and you think you’re Napoleon, you don’t have a burning desire to go to Paris and start a war,” explained Dr. Yair Barel, an expert on the syndrome. “But if you’re in L.A. and you think you’re the Messiah, you definitely have a need to come to Jerusalem.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post The Finnish False Messiah first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Living Higher

R

av Asher Weiss, av beis din of Darkei Hora’ah, one of our generations venerated poskim, and author of the multivolume classic, Minchas Asher, was visited by his talmid, Rabbi Shay Shachter, the current rabbi and rosh beis medrash of Young Israel of Woodmere, and Rabbi Sruly Bornstein, the popular Lakewood Daf Yomi maggid shiur.

At one point, Rav Weiss showed his distinguished guests two canisters, each filled with dozens of dry pens. Rav Weiss explained that the pens were his “siyum pens.” He had used them to write his voluminous notes of chiddushei Torah. Rav Weiss consistently used the same pen to write and in time, after penning approximately one and a half notebooks — which would eventually be published as Minchas Asher — the pen ran dry. When that happened, he would reverently place it back in its canister and take out the next one. After several dozen volumes of chiddushei Torah, the “siyum pens” — dry pens whose entire ink cartridge had been devoted exclusively to Torah — accumulated into an impressive collection.

Rav Weiss showed the unique Torah collection to his guests, encouraging the young talmidei chachamim to write down their own Torah thoughts — and showcasing the copious output that comes from years of devotion.

Happening in... Vienna

Avi Junger of Vienna, Austria, has contended with more in his 27 years than many do in a lifetime.  Avi has a rare nerve condition called familial dysautonomia (FD). His parents have been at his side every step of the way, supporting him through countless difficulties.

Just recently, their wisdom and resilience brought them to an astounding milestone. For two years, Avi worked hard to raise the funds to have his own sefer Torah. With tremendous siyata diShmaya, his goal was met. A beautiful hachnassas sefer Torah was held in Vienna, and the entire Jewish community joined to celebrate Avi’s accomplishment, making it a day of joy and unity.

The sefer Torah was given to the Agudas Yisrael shul, led by Rav Dovid Leib Grunfeld, where the Jungers are members. It was dedicated in memory of Avi’s grandparents.

At the dinner, friends and family reflected on Avi’s many hardships, marveling at the strength and courage of a single man — and his devotion and love for the Torah that was now being celebrated.

Call of Oneness

It was Thanksgiving afternoon when Gedalia Schatzkamer alighted from the train that took him from his Connecticut-based yeshivah to his hometown of New York. Almost immediately, he realized that he had forgotten one critical item — his tefillin were on the train.

He immediately notified his father, Mr. Dovid Schatzkamer. Because it was Thanksgiving, the Lost and Found was closed, and most of the relevant contacts were unavailable. It was 5:15 p.m. at this point. Not willing to concede so easily, Mr. Schatzkamer posted notifications on his LinkedIn account as well as his WhatsApp status, describing the dilemma.

“Within an hour,” he says, “I was bombarded with messages.”

At around 9:15 p.m., he received a message: “We have the tefillin.”

Someone with connections to the police department had asked for help. The police got ahold of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which was able to locate the tefillin. By 12 a.m., the tefillin were back in Gedalia Schatzkamer’s possession.

Our tefillin contain the parshah of Shema Yisrael, in which we declare Hashem’s Oneness.

Hashem is one. His People are one.

And stories like this one are the greatest attestation to this truth.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)

The post The Moment: Issue 1041 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

The report that Rabbi Meyer Fendel had passed away in Eretz Yisrael at the age of 98 on December 7 came as a jolt.

NOdoubt, for tens of thousands of his talmidim, the news made their minds wander back to the time they spent with him, and the impact he had on their lives. I know it did for me.

It was way back in the spring of 1976, and I was teaching English at Yeshiva High School of Queens and acting as assistant principal at Mesivta Tifereth Jerusalem in the afternoon. Marvin Hirschorn, the English chairman at YHSQ, also chaired the board of the Hebrew Academy of Nassau County (HANC). When their general studies principal, Mrs. Sally Reimer, decided to retire to Florida, Mr. Hirschorn suggested I interview for the position. By that time, HANC had already established itself as one of the elite yeshivah day schools in the country, and I approached the upcoming interview with trepidation.

The greenery of HANC’s Mitchel Field campus was stunning, and I felt more at ease after a pleasant talk with Rabbi Fendel, the founding dean. Afterward, we walked out together just as the bell rang, and the diversity of the student population swarming through the hallway immediately caught my eye. There were boys with white shirts, black pants, and velvet yarmulkes walking with boys with longish hair (this was the ’70s) and kippot sitting askew on their heads.

Intrigued, I asked, “What type of school caters to such different levels of religiosity? How does it work?”

Rabbi Fendel’s answer summed up what HANC was all about: “We’re a community school. We accept all those who want to attend a yeshivah to learn about their heritage and to see the beauty of the Torah. We’re not concerned with the way they come in. What’s important is the way they go out.

“That is one aspect of HANC’s eternal motto — ‘Chanoch lanaar al pi darko.’ Teach a child on his own level of background and understanding. This is what HANC is and hopefully will always be.”

With these wise words ringing in my head, I became a colleague of Rabbi Fendel and part of the HANC family.

A Torah Wilderness

Meyer Fendel was born in 1926 in Williamsburg to Rabbi Zalman Hillel and Chaya Raizel Fendel and grew up in a home steeped in Torah and Yiddishkeit. He learned in Yeshivah Torah Vodaath, and after high school learned for a time in the yeshivah started by Rav Dovid Leibowitz. He made a trip to Eretz Yisrael as a young man, before he was married, which imbued him with a love of the land.

In 1952, Rabbi Fendel accepted the position of Torah Umesorah’s director of school development, charged with developing new Jewish day schools throughout the US. That role made him aware of a number of communities across the country in desperate need of chinuch resources. One in particular, Nassau County on Long Island, was not far from his childhood home in Brooklyn — but it was a Torah wilderness. Almost all the synagogues there were affiliated with the Conservative and Reform movements.

Rabbi Fendel decided to take a bold step, and selected West Hempstead as the target town for the kind of school he wanted to establish, despite there being only one or two observant families residing there. A small ad soon appeared in a local West Hempstead newspaper: “Nine Men Wanted for a Minyan.” Rabbi Fendel would later use that as the title of the book he wrote about those years.

The Hebrew Academy of Nassau County opened in a building known as the Oppenheimer Collins Estate (where the present-day elementary school is located). A problem arose almost immediately when an occupant of the building refused to vacate the premises. But the problem was solved when the resident, who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, was suddenly killed by a falling concrete block.

The nascent school would eventually become a four-campus complex with over 1,000 students. Rabbi Fendel served as the new school’s principal as well as the first rabbi of the Young Israel of West Hempstead.

HANC’s educational philosophy is based on the teachings of Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohein Kook, whom Rabbi Fendel venerated. Each child in HANC was deemed special and was to be educated accordingly. The bonds between the students and their teachers grew to be as strong as those between them and their parents and grandparents.

Rabbi Fendel adopted a “benevolent dictator” approach to make this happen. He hand-selected his administrators, his staff, and — most importantly — the heads and members of his Board of Education and Board of Directors, so that the entire school became a reflection of his sensitivity, personality, and vision of what Jewish education should be. It was a glorious era.

In 1957 Rabbi Fendel married Goldie Feldman, and together they built a warm home that extolled service for Klal Yisrael. Their children, Rabbi David Fendel, who founded the Hesder yeshivah in Sderot, and longtime Orthodox journalist Hillel Fendel, were inspired by their parents’ example.

New Opportunities

“To say that HANC changed my life is too trite a statement,” says Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky, famed rabbi, teacher, and lecturer. “How about it gave me my very life. I grew up in a home that was not shomer Shabbos. There was no reason that my family should not have quietly assimilated, just like millions of other nominally affiliated Jews of that era. That Rabbi Fendel moved into Long Island in the 1950s to start an Orthodox day school was nothing short of miraculous. Because of his vision, today my parents have over 37 grandchildren and almost as many great-grandchildren — all of them shomrei Torah u’mitzvos.”

Perhaps Rabbi Fendel’s greatest educational achievement was his establishment in 1971 of HANC’s unique New Opportunities Program (NOP), designed to enable students with little or no Torah background to join the school. Students with only rudimentary knowledge of Hebrew literacy would be placed in special morning classes teaching the basics of Chumash, Navi, halachah, and Jewish history, and in mainstream general studies classes in the afternoon. Many teens inspired by their summer’s experience with NCSY or JEP would apply for admission to NOP in late August. It brought hundreds into the world of Torah Judaism.

The stories that emanate from NOP are electrifying. There was the odyssey of Yitzchak P. After the Shah of Iran was deposed, Jewish parents in Iran began smuggling their children out of the country through Pakistan and Vienna to the US to stay with relatives in Great Neck, Long Island, which was morphing into New Tehran and Mashhad.

Yitzchak’s uncle brought him to HANC a few weeks before Pesach, asking the school to accept him. When he was asked if he knew a little Chumash, he looked bewildered.

“The Bible,” we explained.

“Oh, yes. I know the Koran,” he said.

Since he had to know at least some of the basics of Hebrew and Judaism to be able to function in a class that had already been underway for a few months, we suggested he contact a tutor we recommended to bring him up to speed. To our astonishment, when he returned after Pesach, not only did he know how to read Hebrew, but he had already mastered the basics of Chumash and Mishnah.

After graduating from HANC, he went to Yeshivas Ner Yisroel in Baltimore to learn full time. After Succos, Rabbi Fendel received a call from the mashgiach of Ner Yisroel, who shared that Yitzchak was unwilling to leave the beis medrash when they wanted to shut the lights at 2 a.m.

And then there’s the story of Wade. When the Los Angeles branch of NCSY called to ask if our school had a program that could take in an 11th-grader with no yeshivah background named Wade, I pictured a six-foot-eleven basketball player.

“Wade?” I stammered.

“Don’t worry, he’s Jewish,” the L.A. caller reassured me.

Wade flew through NOP on wings of determination, entered mainstream limudei kodesh shiurim midyear, and went on to learn in Eretz Yisrael. Upon returning to America, “Wade” started going by his Hebrew name and is today a well-known askan.

Countless more boys and girls who are today raising Torah families credit Rabbi Fendel’s visionary program with turning their lives around.

Rallying Support

The 1980s was a decade full of protests and demonstrations against the government of the Soviet Union and its treatment of the refuseniks, Jews who wished to emigrate to Israel. They were punished for their “crime” with imprisonment and torture, consigned to gulags in Siberia.

Rabbi Fendel was an active participant in the cause to free them, not sufficing with having his students attend protest rallies or write letters. Every day — rain or shine, warm or cold — Rabbi Fendel sent two cars filled with HANC students to the courthouse in Mineola, where the students and their teachers, sometimes accompanied by local rabbis, would daven Minchah and recite Tehillim under banners calling for Russia to “Let My People Go.”

This went on for years until both Yosef Mendelevitch and Natan Sharansky, two of the most longstanding refuseniks, were able to leave the Soviet Union for Eretz Yisrael. In appreciation for what the HANC students had done for him, Rabbi Mendelevitch stopped off at HANC on the way to JFK to thank Rabbi Fendel and the HANC students in person.

Rabbi Fendel didn’t just muster his students to protest against the Soviet Union; he also assembled them to show support for US troops. The school is adjacent to an army base, and as soon as it was opened, Rabbi Fendel crossed over to the base and introduced himself, telling the commander that the school would be there for them if needed.

Indeed, when the soldiers who trained there were called up for duty in Iraq during the first Gulf War, HANC students geared up for action, as well. On the day before the reserve soldiers packed out, the entire school marched to the base with signs and songs wishing them success and praying that they would all return to base safely. It was a tremendous kiddush Hashem, and the tears in the eyes of both soldiers and students were readily visible.

From a school that began with less than 20 students, HANC grew into an institution with four campuses, housing over a thousand students. The tens of thousands of alumni include many of New York’s Orthodox doctors and public health officials. His approach to chinuch would influence generations of Jewish educators. His dedication to making Torah accessible to all Jews, regardless of background, reshaped the American Jewish landscape. Rabbi Fendel had the zechus of seeing the fruits of his work before he and his wife moved to Eretz Yisrael later in life.

Yehi zichro baruch.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)

The post A Pioneering Spirit      first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: Cholent Is Its Name

Location: New York

Document: Advertisements in the Yiddish Press

Time: 1930s

Every Friday, my mother used to send me to the baker to have him cook the cholent that she always prepared for the Sabbath. I loved eating the special dish, traditionally prepared to eat on the Jewish Sabbath, the day of rest when no cooking was allowed. She would make the cholent with a great deal of care and attention, using beans and potatoes and brown eggs and vegetables. When we had the money, she would add meat.

You could always tell our financial situation that week by the quality of the meat she bought for the cholent. If times were comparatively prosperous, she would get a good piece of beef from the butcher, a large chunk. But most of the time, it was scraggly pieces, which were all she could afford. Sometimes, when the situation was very bad, there was no meat at all. I could tell by the look on her face how much meat there would be in the cholent when she handed me the dish to take to the baker.

There were many weeks when she looked miserable. She hated seeing us go hungry, and she was always ready to give us her share because, like every Jewish mother in the neighborhood, she gladly sacrificed herself for the children.

Even as a little boy, I remember swearing to myself that when I grew up, I’d be very rich, and I’d make sure that for the rest of her days, my mother had only the best. In my childish mind I saw us all having a cholent with lots of meat every Friday night for the rest of our lives, a Sabbath dish with the best beef in the world. That was what I dreamed for the future, and I have a feeling that my desire to be rich, to have the best of everything, stems from those Fridays when I saw my mother’s face as she handed me the cholent dish.

—Meyer Lansky

From the times of Chazal, Jews kept the cherished custom of serving a hot dish as part of the Shabbos day repast. The reasons for this were halachic in origin. Unlike the Sadducees or the later Karaites, Rabbinic Jews believing in Torah shebe’al peh understood that utilizing heat on Shabbos is permitted provided that the fire was kindled before Shabbos. As a demonstration of loyalty to Rabbinic Judaism, the custom arose in the early centuries following the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash to include a hot dish in the Shabbos daytime meal. But the ingredients of that dish would take on many permutations over the millennia, developing new variations across the diaspora.

What likely began as something very similar to the Middle Eastern dish harissa, basically ground wheat mixed with meat and local seasoning, eventually evolved as it migrated to other domains. During Spain’s golden age, Sephardic chefs added chickpeas and beans to their hamin. Centuries later, conversos preparing hamin did so at risk to their lives, and officers of the Inquisition knew to search for it in their homes. It became a symbol of underground Judaism on the Iberian Peninsula in the centuries following the expulsion edict of 1492.

Meanwhile, Sephardic culinary customs migrated north through Provence into France. The Ashkenazi Jewish community slowly adopted hamin in the 12th century and referred to it by the Old French word for warm, chalt. As the Shabbos delicacy migrated further east to the German lands of Bohemia and Moravia and later to Poland, the word evolved into “cholent.”

The discovery of the New World and the introduction of foods and grains from there would have a decisive impact on the recipe for cholent. Beans and, of course, potatoes, emerged as the staple ingredients of cholent from the 16th century. Beef was generally a constant component, although in some regions of central Europe, goose was preferred.

Throughout most of history, in the shtetls of Europe, in the mellahs of Morocco, in the Old Yishuv of Yerushalayim, Jews did not own individual ovens. This posed a challenge to keeping the cholent hot on Shabbos. This was famously solved by having the townspeople deposit all their cholent pots with the town bakery. For a small fee, the baker would keep his oven hot for all of Shabbos. Every cholent pot had to have a unique design or color to make it easily recognizable, which led to artistic creativity with cholent pots throughout history.

Keeping the cholent hot at the bakery solved one problem but created another. Many shtetls lacked an eiruv to enable families to carry their cholent home on Shabbos morning. According to some survivor testimonies, this challenge was solved in a rather creative fashion. Young children from each family were designated as the cholent delivery service. The young children would go to the bakery, identify their family pot, and carry it home for their family to enjoy.

Cholent Creativity in Shaarei Chesed

Following the construction of Jerusalem’s Shaarei Chesed neighborhood in 1909, a communal oven was built in the back of the central Gra shul. The chimney of this original oven can be viewed even today.

The oven was administered by a colorful character named Chaim der Beker (“the baker”). His name was actually Chaim Levi, and he was a Yemenite Jew who didn’t even live in Shaarei Chesed. But in his capacity as the neighborhood baker, he spoke fluent Yiddish. He arranged a unique payment method for his cholent services. If he thought that a particular balabusta’s cholent was tasty, he’d demand payment in the form of maaser from the cholent itself. But if he thought it was lousy, then he required payment in cash.

One Shabbos, the Shaarei Chesed eiruv broke. A cholent crisis was declared, and the solution was a communal meal. The entire neighborhood encamped in the alleyway behind the Gra shul next to the oven and enjoyed their cholent together.

Cholent Innovation in America

In 1936, a Chicago engineer named Irving Naxon (born Nachumsohn), inspired by his Vilna-born mother and her stories of preparing cholent in her hometown, invented the Naxon Beanery. This electric slow cooker was designed to mimic the steady, all-night cooking process used in communal ovens.

The Rival Company purchased Naxon’s business and patent in 1970, rebranding the device as the Crock-Pot, which would soon become a fixture in kitchens worldwide. Today, over 80% of American households own a slow cooker, which, ironically, is said to have contributed to healthier eating habits — a likely unintended impact of Naxon’s innovation.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)

The post Cholent Is Its Name first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Title: What Is a Yeshivah?

Location: Cleveland, Ohio

Document Interview with Rav Mottel Katz

Time: 1950s

I commented recently about a new craze in America — the belief that it’s impossible to get any job, even as a chimney sweep, without a college degree. To this I add: granted the bnei hayeshivah won’t become chimney sweeps. But they will become talmidei chachamim and gedolei Torah!

Our entire purpose in life is achieving gadlus in Torah and yiras Shamayim. If a person fails to achieve this, he remains as pitiful as a chimney sweep. This is our attitude, and for this purpose we should exert ourselves with all our strength — that we should raise gedolei Torah. It is only through toiling in Torah that a person can cleave to his Creator.

—Rav Mottel Katz (Shiurei Daas)

 Internal disputes over the place of mussar in the yeshivah curriculum led to Rav Yosef Leib Bloch leaving the Telshe Yeshivah of his father-in-law, Rav Eliezer Gordon, in 1902. He was later appointed rabbi of nearby Shadova, where he opened his own yeshivah. One of his prime students there was Rav Chaim Mordechai (Mottel) Katz (1894–1964), born in Shadova to Rav Yaakov, a respected maggid shiur; his mother, Rochel Leah, came from distinguished lineage through her father, Rav Shmuel Yosef Havsha.

When Rav Yosef Leib returned to Telshe after his father-in-law passed away in 1910, he agreed not to bring his Shadova talmidim with him, so as not to dilute the Telshe Yeshivah’s unique atmosphere. So a young Mottel Katz traveled to Slabodka, where he joined Rav Boruch Ber Leibowitz’s Knesses Beis Yitzchak yeshivah. He later moved on to Telshe, remaining there until the outbreak of World War I, when he joined the Volozhin Yeshivah for two years, receiving semichah from its rosh yeshivah Rav Refael Shapiro. During this period, he was also privileged to forge a relationship with Rav Shlomo Polachek, the Meitscheter Illui, who particularly appreciated Rav Mottel’s grasp of the distinct derech halimud of each yeshivah.

Even as his parents and several siblings emigrated to South Africa, the young Mottel showed his dedication to Torah by staying behind.

Following World War I, he returned to Telshe in newly independent Lithuania, where he married Perel Leah, the daughter of his rosh yeshivah, Rav Yosef Leib Bloch. Rav Mottel then formally joined the faculty of the burgeoning institutional network that his father-in-law was building. His first position was as head of the Telshe Mechinah, a preparatory school for younger students, where he served as maggid shiur for the senior talmidim. He also served on the administration of the Yavneh School for girls, the first of its kind.

In 1924, he was appointed to the helm of the kollel in Telshe. Rav Mottel’s talents had begun to attract notice in the wider Jewish sphere, and he was tapped to serve as head of Zeirei Agudas Yisrael and participated in multiple Knessios Gedolos.

The year 1929 brought multiple personal tragedies: the passing of his revered father-in-law Rav Yosef Leib, of his father in South Africa, and the losses of his wife Perel Leah and his young son Shmuel. Despite these devastating blows, Rav Mottel maintained his countless responsibilities while increasing his involvement in communal affairs. He remarried in 1931; his second wife, Chaya Kravitz, was daughter of Rav Moshe Kravitz, the rav of Piyura, and Rav Yosef Leib’s brother-in-law. Together they merited seven more children.

Lithuania was forcibly incorporated into the Soviet Union in 1940, and the Communist regime began closing religious institutions. Rav Mottel and his brother-in-law Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch were dispatched to the United States to try to arrange for the resettlement of the yeshivah there.

Reb Aharon Bentzion Shurin recalled a fall evening in 1940 when he was among a group of European-born Telshe alumni who greeted the roshei yeshivah at Penn Station:

These two roshei yeshivah of Telshe succeeded in reaching American shores following significant challenges and tribulations. They arrived exhausted, but full of hope. They declared at that first meeting of Telshe Yeshivah alumni in America that despite the fact they couldn’t know the ultimate fate of Telshe Yeshivah back in the alte heim, they still hoped to continue the great tradition of Telshe Yeshivah here in America.

Over the course of 1941 the terrible news arrived of the destruction of Lithuanian Jewry, the annihilation of Telshe, and the loss of Rav Katz’s entire family — his wife and ten children. We can only imagine how the Telshe rosh yeshivah felt at that moment. One must be possessed of an iron will and strength of the spirit in order to continue living in the face of such devastation. He seemingly felt that Hashem’s hashgachah had sent him to America to rebuild Telshe Yeshivah, and that sense of mission must have strengthened him and encouraged him to persevere against all odds.

If not for that sense of mission, how is it even possible to comprehend the superhuman spirit that moved Rav Mottel Katz and his brother-in-law Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch to initiate their plans to reestablish the great Telshe Yeshivah in America?

Despite this unimaginable personal tragedy, Rav Mottel and Rav Eliyahu Meir demonstrated remarkable resilience by rebuilding Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland. In October 1942, they opened the yeshivah with just a handful of students. Their efforts extended to founding the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland in 1943, and Yavneh for girls in 1946.

Under their joint leadership, the Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland grew steadily, becoming a beacon of Torah learning in America. When Rav Eliyahu Meir passed away in 1955, Rav Mottel continued as sole rosh yeshivah. In 1957, he oversaw the yeshivah’s move from downtown Cleveland to a spacious campus in Wickliffe, Ohio. This move allowed for increased enrollment and improved facilities. In 1960, Rav Mottel established a branch of Telshe in Chicago.

Throughout his leadership, Rav Mottel maintained the high standards and unique derech halimud that had characterized Telshe in Europe. He was known for his ability to connect with American-born students while imparting the depth and breadth of the “Telsher Derech.”

In a tribute to Rav Mottel, Rav Reuven Feinstein, who studied in Telshe during his formative years, expounded upon the malchus (majesty) of Telshe:

Malchus, we must realize, is not only about majesty and regality. True malchus entails leadership and a deep sense of achrayus, the ability to perceive what the moment calls for and summoning the kochos hanefesh to follow through with it. It was during those years of Telshe’s growth and expansion, when Rav Mottel was the sole rosh yeshivah, that his personification of malchus truly came to the fore and was most perceptible.

Even in the face of adversity, such as a devastating fire in the yeshivah dormitories in 1963, Rav Mottel’s leadership remained steadfast. He immediately launched a rebuilding campaign, raising significant funds to ensure the yeshivah’s continued growth.

Rav Mottel’s impact extended beyond the walls of Telshe. He served as a member of the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah of Agudath Israel, contributing his wisdom to broader Jewish communal issues. His leadership in Cleveland helped establish the city as a major Torah community.

Go West, Young Men

Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch and Rav Mottel Katz didn’t reestablish Telshe in New York or any other location on the East Coast. They endeavored to spread Torah in an area of the country where it was most needed, and decided to explore the frontier and establish their yeshivah in Cleveland. Later Rav Mottel would expand upon the Telshe “manifest destiny,” and open another branch in the Midwest with the Telshe Yeshivah of Chicago. As Rabbi Berel Wein recalls in his memoirs:

In early 1960, I received a phone call from Rabbi Mordechai Katz, head of Telshe Yeshivah in Cleveland, to please come to Cleveland to discuss an important matter with him. I had no idea what he wanted, but I went anyway.…

Rabbi Katz wanted to establish a branch of Telshe Yeshivah in Chicago in the fall, and asked for my help. He told me to expect the usual opposition to anything new in an established Jewish community; but he was convinced that Telshe Yeshivah could and would succeed in Chicago. The yeshivah would be headed by my brother-in-law [Rav Avraham Chaim Levin] and Rabbi Chaim Shmelczer. The first students would be a group of twelve young men whom he would send from Cleveland.…

The Telshe Yeshivah in Chicago has since become an important fixture on the American yeshivah landscape.

In the Face of Sorrow

Despite the unimaginable loss of his family, Rav Mottel dedicated his entire being to rebuilding the yeshivah and creating a new life in America. Publicly, he maintained a composed and stoic demeanor, focusing on his mission to perpetuate Torah learning and the legacy of Telshe.

However, one day, a student passing by Rav Mottel’s office witnessed an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. The rosh yeshivah was overcome with grief, weeping uncontrollably. Concerned, the student entered the room to see what had caused such anguish.

Rav Mottel explained: “Every day, I sit here and picture the faces of my wife and each of my precious children who were taken from me. Today, for the first time, I could no longer remember how my youngest child looked.”

The 11th of  Kislev will mark the 60th yahrtzeit of Rav Chaim Mordechai Katz.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1040)

The post What Is a Yeshivah? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.