The young American man sat at his desk in the dead of night, hovering over a map lit up by a single lamp, a topographical map of a Tasmanian peninsula.
He was studying which mountains he’d have to scale, gauging how cold it would be, and calculating how much food he would bring.
For three days the young man would spend, traversing the elements of this lonely island, scaling a mountain in this worn peninsula, sleeping outdoors in the bitter cold, beholding sights he would have never seen, and having an experience that most young men his age would never have.
It’s gonna be cold
Early Sunday morning the young American man sets off on his adventure
The young American man was in the midst of reviewing the Gemara. It was a mere week and one day until he would be orally reviewed. He was interrupted. He was summoned by R Cohen.
As the young bochur traversed the short distance from his spot to the office his mind quickly raced through the possible cause of such a summons. He was a good bochur. What on earth could it be?
He knocked and entered the dank little office. There R. Cohen sat, a Gemara open before him on the small round table and various papers at his hands. He looked up at the young man and gave his characteristic nod. “Please, have a SEAT.” The young man sat.
“You exPRESSED your desire to…return, or shall I say…CONTINue here. We on our part are ready to fulfill such a reQUESTthat you…remain here for anotha year….however…[this is the part where the young man panicks at the pause, dreading the drama]…the honholah want you to first COMMIT to make some…changes or…imPROVEments on yourself before returning.”
R. Cohen gave a sheet of paper to the young man. It was written specifically for him. He saw the other sheets of paper before the Rosh were of a similar kind, each for a different person with different things written on them. He took his.
“Read it CAREfully and THINK about what it is that they are ASking. ONly if you really feel you want to, then you should…go to the mashgiach and say that you are… ready to SIGN it. Do you underSTAND?”
The young man read the paper. Three points.Minor ones that showed just how much attention the yeshiva paid to the bochurim. Two of them he didn’t even realize were issues, just things that could be improved. It wouldn’t have mattered what the paper said anyway. If it demanded he jump into a frozen lake he’d sign it. The young man had fallen in love with the place. He had met so many people, grown and improved so much, gathered so many things and experiences, all of which were leading him to finding himself. No way he’s leave just yet. There was still more to take and spread to his community back home.
He took a pen, firmly resolved to do what the paper asked of him, and signed his name. With the ink that flowed from that pen to the paper he signed his soul over to the institution for a whole year,
To really capture the experiences here, not only to capture them, but to show what it is I see in them as well, to somehow form it into articulate words, to somehow condense it to but a few paragraphs
Is damn near impossible
Yet I’ll try
Though it will be a mere glimmer
My week revolves around Shobbos.
This is going to be a very good week.
To preface:
Adam and I got special permission to leave yeshiva Friday night even though next week is an off Shobbos. We had gotten ourselves set up to have Adam be chazzan at a Mizrachi shul and made the mistake of thinking this week was an off Shobbos. We had to go since he had already invited a bunch of people for Shobbos night and rescheduled all of them to come this Friday night since we had originally thought it was the next Friday night that was off and then thought it was this one and it turned out we were wrong in the end anyway. Did you follow that? Either way, everyone got to watch us mysteriously disappear.
The Mizrachi shul was a little place. It was nice. The nusach aint so different though it does have a few curveballs.
==================
After davening everyone gathered outside the shul. It was a storefront right on the road. The young American bochur and his friend were introduced to the rabbi of the shul and to one of the guests, we’ll call him Shimon, that would be eating with them that night. They exchanged pleasantries, declared where they hailed from; the young man from Arizona and his friend from Vermont, and explained how they had met their wonderful host over Pesach. Also present were the Doctor and his wife whom the American had not seen since Pesach. It was nice to see the lovely couple again and he noted how much more, well, pregnant the doctor’s wife was than last time.
They remained there on the sidewalk as they waited for the Shimon’s wife to emerge from the shul. The American readers enjoying the start of their warm summer; bear in mind that Australia is yet to be in the dead of winter and Melbourne gets mighty cold. However, the chilly air didn’t trouble the young American the least bit. The sight of those people, smiling, laughing, talking, Shimon’s kids jumping up on the bench and playing with their father, all of them bundled up in winter garb, painted something classic in the young man’s eyes.
Shimon’s wife joined the group and they all began to migrate to the host’s home. The young American and his friend walked along side their host chatting and catching up on what was new in yeshiva life. As they turned onto the dimly lit street where the hosts home was, lo-and-behold yet another Jew appeared from the wintry darkness! It was another guest of the gracious host. The host introduced the two Americans and they shook hands with the man whom we’ll call Yosef.
They arrived at the host’s home. The door opened and the guests were greeted by the host’s wife and daughters beckoning them to leave the cold and dark and enter into the bright and warm. The guests filed in happy to escape. They gathered in the family room and removed their coats. Yosef’s wife, also an American, and son were already there. This lovely bunch of Jews was finally complete and needless to say, ready to eat.
The kids had their own table in the kitchen as the rest took their places in the dining room. The two young American men were both placed at the end, opposite the host and hostess, so they could see all and all could see them. The host began Kiddush much to the surprise of the young American man. Different customs perhaps? Perhaps I missed out? When the host finished Kiddush all slapped their heads and laughed
Oh!
My goodness!
We forgot Shalom Aleichem!
So the night began
They all washed and returned. At the head sat the host and to his right was his wife. To their right, on the side of the table, sat their older daughter, to her right, Yosef’s wife, next to her was Yosef, who was next to Shimon’s eldest son, who sat next to the young American at the end, who was next to his friend at the end, and at the side of the table next to the American’s friend sat Shimon, and next to him his wife, who sat next to the doctor’s wife, who was placed next to her husband, right near the end of the table where the host and hostess were.
Fish was served on a rectangle platter
With tongs that were shaped like fish
The conversation was great, the humor was dry, and the young American enjoyed every moment. The table was ever so vibrant. Many a good laugh they had as colorful exchanges were given all around. Of course, as the only two Lubavitchers and young Americans at the table, some fun was directed at the two gentlemen at the end who took it in good faith and even returned some chides to their Australian friends. As the courses changed so did the topics of their conversations.
All the other men were involved in daf-yomi which the young American man found to be quite intriguing. They told him how profound and unifying it was, how they it enabled them to know all the background information for all our laws and customs and how you could meet a random Jew on a plane who’s also doing daf-yomi and learn with him for the whole flight. The host had just completed the entire Sanhedrin, a big accomplishment, and the meal had more (often humorous) references to Sanhedrin than the American thought possible.
For much of the meal the young man was put on the hot-seat by Yosef. His respectful, well thought out, and practical questions kept the Lubavitcher on his toes as he navigated the very engaging discussion about Lubavitch, Moshiach and the Rebbe, and the meaning of and what is a leader of a generation. He managed to hold his ground though, leaving the rest of the table well informed and himself acutely aware of how much he needs to learn.
When desert was served everyone mutually fell into a sing-song mood. Their host passed out benchers that contained a good deal of songs within them. Being Lubavitchers, the young men at the end were hardly familiar with some of the songs, but they were able to follow and sing along with most.
One song after another
Singing singing singing
The young American man’s friend was quite musically inclined. However, he himself did not habitually sing loudly being himself too self-conscious. He looked around to all those at the table. This was no setting to be at all insecure. He was in an atmosphere where perfection was not at all expected. There was no pressure. No judging eye deciding how well he knew his stuff. At this table there were Jews and that’s all they were; Jews. They grew not beards nor wore hats and jackets. These people were to the young American what he was to them; another fellow doing what he can, the best he can, with a few wise words to share. He realized these people were just like him: mortal, with things that they worry about, things that they laugh about, and their Jewish heritage to unite them.
As the young American man looked around at these people, singing and smiling, joking and talking, words of torah and words of random, he decided to sing as loud as we wanted to.
He even led the bentching. Stuttered a bit. Messed up twice because of different customs, but he didn’t care. He laughed.
The meal ended but the young American man and his friend stayed. Played cards with the host’s children. Finally in the end, the said goodbye to their host, thanks for the meal and until next time.
Half-past one, the two young American men entered the cold. Not a soul in the street, not a car on the road. They walked on the long track home, talking and laughing about the highlights of their meal. As they traveled on the empty road, save for last of trams whizzing past to that mysterious place where all trams sleep, it started to drizzle. Being neither a soul on the street nor a car on the road, all you could hear was the sound of the piddle piddle piddle of rain and two American laughs.
They arrived in yeshiva way late at night. A few were still up and wanted to know where the heck they were.
And he told stories from the old-school-Lubavitch days
Throughout his fabrengen he asked “Are ya ready for this or are ya not ready for this?” eleven times (and then proceeded to tell us anyway)
He said “this is gonna knock ya socks off when ya hear this” five times
“Hold on to ya seats cuz this’ll blow you away” – four times
“…cuz this ones gonna knock off ya shoes cuz ya already lost ya socks.”
“If ya don’t got prahplems yeh dead.”
“…big fat hippopahtamus …” –regarding the yetzer hara
He was the kind of fabrenger that would call you out:
“Hello, sir, in the corner. [from way across the room mind you] How are you sir? Are you with the program? Then why don’t ya listen a little.”
Oh snap
The guy was Fredikre rebbe style. It was a classic what-the-heck-is-wrong-with-you-do-you-know-what-they-used-to-do kind of ordeal. Yiras shamayim, doing it right, not making excuses to justify or make ourselves all holy, and all that jazz.
He was a tad intense about though
“yeh gonna put ketchup on yeh hotdog?”
But it’s what us bochurim need to hear sometimes
And he said that right when I finished making the most amazing mixture of humus and salsa and was about to dip chips into it.
Come on, give me a break
At one point it started to rain. Such a memorable scene. Everyone sitting around a huge rectangle made of tables. Listening to the rabbi from across no man’s land*. There’s no noise but his voice and the torrent of rain striking the skylights above us in the huge expanse of the zal made me think:
Dang
I’m so lucky to be here
That coffee I have before davening?
You’re gonna have to pry that from my cold dead fingers
*no-man’s land is a term I made up for the absolutely wasted space that constitutes the inner area of the square of tables. The bochurim are prone to risk throwing a bag of chips or a roll of tissues across it per request of a fellow peer. If it doesn’t make it across and lands in no-man’s land then it stays there, unless a daring soul goes under the table and nabs it if it’s close enough and most of the time they make it back safely.