Where What When

Montgomery to Mt. Wilson: The Journey Begins

To understand someone, you need to understand “mei’ayin basa” – where he comes from. That’s because who a person is and the choices he makes do not stand alone; they are but part of a continuum.

So it has been with me. I greatly appreciate the many comments I have received from so many people who felt my articles worthwhile. Some said they could identify with my story of growing up in an outlying Jewish community – in my case, Montgomery, Alabama – as they lived it also. Others said that it gave them some understanding of what it was really like in an earlier period. It is also important to me that my children and grandchildren understand their roots. After all, my story is the prologue to theirs.

My journey to Ner Israel began before I was born. My grandfather Eliezer Weinstock passed away when I was eight, and he was not very alert in his latter years. So, he had no direct influence on me, but he did influence me in an indirect way, as I will explain.

Coming to America in his 60s, my zaidy never assimilated into the American milieu. He remained as he was in Voliner Gebernye, a talmid chacham with his long white beard, who spend much of his time immersed in the holy books. Back home in Polona – that’s how my mother always pronounced it, never Polnoa as it is written in the history books – Zaidy was a chasid of the Mekarever Rebbe. He also traveled to the chassidic courts of Zvil and Berdichev. In the Old Country he made parnassa by bootlegging: that is, he produced alcoholic beverages in his house.

Once Zaidy saw the policeman coming, so Uncle Joe, who was a boy at the time, grabbed an empty bottle and ran away from the house. The Russian policeman ran after him, while Zaidy got rid of the evidence. When the policeman caught up with Uncle Joe, all he was carrying was an empty bottle: no evidence, no arrest. That was life back in Czarist Russia. Of course, it wasn’t so easy being Jewish; Zaidy only had one eyeball. The other had been knocked out in a pogrom.

Ukraine was the heartland of chassidus. Polona was the home of the talmid of the Besht (Baal Shem Tov), the Toldos Yaakov Yosef. But truth be told, Jewish life had been going down hill for a long time. Jews were attracted to every possible source of deliverance from Czarist oppression. Some turned to the Haskala (Enlightenment) movement, others to Communism, others to secular Zionism, and others to assimilation. But the main solution was to leave Russia for the “golden” streets of America. Like our forefather Joseph, who prepared the way for his brothers, so Uncle Joe came to the South before World War I and later brought over his parents and siblings.

* * *

We who live in Baltimore can be forgiven if we start to think that Yiddishkeit is strong. I just came home from an NCSY Concert at the Lyric Theater, along with 1,800 other Jews, mostly young. At Shomrei Emunah today, a Sunday, the sanctuary was full to the brim for Mincha/Maariv, and most of the people were also young. Shabbos I attended an aufruf at Bnai Jacob Shaarei Zion, and the place was totally full. The truth, however, is that we do not represent the majority of Jews in this country, unfortunately. We are only a pocket of life in the midst of a maelstrom.

Indeed, every one of us can aptly be described by the words of the Prophet Zacharia in the haftara for Shabbos Chanukah as an “ud mutzal mei’aish,” a stick plucked from the fire before it was completely burned. For each person who keeps mitzvos, there are so many who are drifting in the opposite direction. If you or I happen to be frum, it is a nes, a miracle. We are the lucky few who have not succumbed.

In Montgomery, where I grew up, there was also a Sephardic community, Etz Ahayim, made up of Jews from the Isle of Rhodes, near Greece. They had different names than the people in our shul: Capouya, Capilouto, Alhadeff. They had many cohanim but not one levi amongst them. My mother told me that in my Zaidy’s time, there was an old man in the Sephardic community who was learned, and he and Zaidy were friends. How does a chasid from Voliner Gebernye talk to a Sephardi from Rhodes? In lashon kodesh, of course.

Once, Mr. Varon, who owned a non-kosher restaurant, asked me to please come to his business, as he wanted to show me a sefer his father had written. He took it out of the safe and showed it to me. It was an entirely handwritten book, in Ladino, on the laws of ritual slaughtering, shechita. The Hebrew lettering was beautiful; you could see that a learned man had written it as a labor of love. All I could read was the title, which was in Hebrew. Think of what this means. Here was a sefer that no one would read, in a language that is almost dead, cherished by a son who loved his father but could not continue his legacy.

That is the norm; we are the exception.

* * *

Although Zaidy did not have direct influence on me, he did inspire my oldest brother Herman, Chaim, alav hashalom. Herman grew up in Montgomery, graduated from college in Montgomery, and served in the Navy as an ensign, all the while keeping strict Orthodox Judaism. He was the only one of his generation to do so, and he was moser nefesh, sacrificed, for Yiddishkeit more than I ever did.

During World War II, many Jewish servicemen were stationed in Montgomery, including Rabbi Nochum Salb’s father as well as a member of the famed Septimus family from New York. These young men gravitated to our home for the kosher food and Yiddishe ru’ach that prevailed. Remember that Zaidy and Bubby lived in the house with my parents, and everything was thus top-of-the-line kosher. My mother said, for example, that Zaidy never ate canned corn; she had to cook it fresh and cut off the kernels, as he didn’t trust the can to be kosher enough.

My brother was greatly influenced by these observant young men. Many years later, Herman moved to New York and was hired by the Septimus brothers as an accountant in their firm. There was another young accountant in that firm, Yitzchok Eichenthal. When Herman told him that his baby brother (there was a 17-year gap in age) was coming to New York to study at Yeshiva University High School, Yitzchok said he wanted me to come for Shabbos to his home in Boro Park. (That, indirectly, was reason I eventually arrived in Baltimore – but not for a number of years.)

Yitzchok was a talmid (alumnus) of Torah Vodaas, where the married men have a custom to invite bachurim to be their Shabbos bachur, as the yeshiva doesn’t serve food on Shabbos. The Eichenthals invited me to be their Shabbos bachur, to come every other week in perpetuity, and I did so for four years.

I remember the first Shabbos in the Eichenthal home. I had never seen anything like it. Yitzchok put his five children (at the time) on his lap and sang zemiros. He had a whole repertoire, and I know every one of them, even though I haven’t heard some in years. Askinu Seudoso was one, a different version for each of the three Shabbos meals. Yitzchok davened in a shteibl, which I had never experienced in my life; the rebbetzin served cholent on Shabbos day to encourage people to daven there.

One Shabbos at the Eichenthals, I told them about a boy at my school whom I couldn’t figure out. His name was Meir Fialkoff, and he was from Providence, Rhode Island. Meir told me that it is assur (forbidden) to go to YU. If that was so, I asked him, why was he there? He told me that his mother made him. I think YU is a great place, and it was just the right yeshiva for me at that time, but I still find it semi-amusing that there are guys who study there for four or eight years, all the while saying they don’t want to be there. Of course, Meir had a rebbe on the faculty of YU, Rabbi Gorelick, who echoed that same sentiment, even while working for the institution! Dr. Belkin, the president of YU, must have been a very kind man to put up with that. Of course, Yitzchok told me to bring Meir along, and he also became a Shabbos bachur.

Yitzchok and Brocho Eichenthal have had a tremendous impact on my life. In an age when we think of kiruv rechokim (outreach) as requiring moving to some far away place, the Eichenthal home was a de facto kiruv center in the heart of Boro Park – all while they were raising a large family and Yitzchok was earning a living as a CPA. I was the Eichenthals’ very first Shabbos bachur, and through me they invited many boys and girls from the YU world, who also sent them other guests, who sent them other guests.

Let me paint the scene: I came from a totally different environment, one of Zionism and pragmatic compromise in religion. I was raised as a proud Jew but in an environment that felt it was necessary to be “flexible.” This was my upbringing. I always had a strong connection to am Yisrael, the People of Israel. I remember in public school, the social studies book had a paragraph on each ancient people, the Egyptians, Phoenicians, etc., and what they gave to the world. I raised my hand and said to the teacher in front of the whole class, “I am an ancient Hebrew, and we are not dead.”

The Eichenthals were the first Agudists I met. The Eichenthal, Belsky, and Wilhelm families are among the first families in that world. Brocho’s grandfather, Binyomin Wilhelm, founded Torah Vodaas, and Yitzchok’s father was a charter member of Agudah in its earliest years in America. Brocho’s brother is a rosh yeshiva, Rabbi Yisroel Belsky.

Once, I casually mentioned that Yitzchok Ben Tzvi, the president of Israel, had passed away that week. This led them to explain to me a darker side of secular Zionism. A prime example was the “Yaldei Tehran” incident. Yaldei Tehran were a group of Polish children who had somehow managed to survive the Holocaust and arrived in Eretz Yisrael by way of Tehran, Iran. Yitzchok explained that Zionists of the Ben Gurion mold had sent these young children from frum homes to secular kibbutzim, where they were torn away from their religious heritage.

Yitzchok is the kindest, gentlest person one can imagine. He has infinite patience. He is calm and never loses his cool. In this case, however, I saw that he was very emotional about the priorities of Judaism and the need to build a Torah world, not a secular state. My father was a pragmatic person, and Ben Gurion was the hero, who led Israel to victory. Uncle Joe was a religious Zionist and totally emotional about Israel; he could only see good in the State. My father was more of an intellectual, but neither of them would have been as critical of the secular leaders of Israel. I must admit that, over time, what the Eichenthals explained to me opened my eyes to another way of looking at the “ingathering of the exiles” and the raison d’être of the new state.

I began to understand where they were coming from, just as they understood my background. They never criticized YU or suggested I go elsewhere; they never forced anything on me. They did show me another approach. Because of their influence, I spent one summer in Camp Agudah and another in Camp Morris.

* * *

Yeshiva University High School was my first encounter with a mass of religious young people my age. It provided a measure of freedom that was necessary if I were to remain in yeshiva. We had interesting secular classes that were taught by public school teachers who came and taught in the afternoon. The rebbes were nice, and I fit right in. There was just one thing about New York that I didn’t like. The rebbe called me by my last name. I once told Rabbi Parnes, “Rebbe, I have a name; my mother doesn’t call me Oberstein.” So he said, “Okay, Oberstein, what’s your name?”

It is due to Rabbi Morris Rapps that I was able to remain in the high school. In my second year, I returned, after spending Sukkos with my Uncle Moshe and Aunt Ruth Weinstock in Columbus, Ohio (where I helped Rabbi Stavsky put up his sukka). One day, a group of us was called down to the registrar’s office. This little man, whose name I will not reveal, was the boss. He said that he had gotten a report from our teachers that we were not up to the standard of the grade and we had to leave immediately. I said, “Mr. A, just because after only one year in the mechina class, I am not fluent in Hebrew, you are sending me back to Alabama to public school?!” He said yes, we had a year to catch up, and since we didn’t, we had to go.

I left his office and went straight to the teachers’ lounge and knocked on the door. Rabbi Rapps opened it with a sandwich in his hand. I asked him, “Why are you kicking me out of the school?” He looked at me dumfounded and said he had done no such thing. I told him what Mr.A had just said. Rabbi Rapps said that he would straighten it out. All he had told the man was that it would take a few more months before he could teach the class Ivrit b’Ivrit (in Hebrew),because about half of the class were not yet completely fluent in Hebrew, but he felt we would be after a few more months. Mr. A had not fully understood and had taken it too far. I guess in those days the idea that a yeshiva should accommodate late starters was novel.

My favorite rebbe was Rabbi Meir Simcha Hakohen Feldblum. He was the only rebbe in four years who invited me for a meal in his home. He lived in Washington Heights, and I used to walk him home after shiur. He was very smart in many areas and showed an interest in me. He probably also knew my first name.

Rabbi Feldblum once gave this advice to the class: “Boyes (not ‘boys’ but ‘boy-es’),” he said, “marry a girl who is frummer than you; she will pull you up to her madreiga (level). If you marry a girl who is less frum than you, she will pull you down to her madreiga.” He also told us we could use him as a reference for a shidduch. He said that the worst he would say was “I don’t remember him.”

Since this was a 12th grade shiur, I wondered why he was giving us this advice, but then I realized that only half the class would continue at YU. The other half was going to secular college, and he was the last rebbe they would have.

I was captain of the debating team in my senior year, and we had a number of debates with other schools, like RJJ and BTA, and also Central, the Yeshiva University girls high school. I think I may have been the first to organize a number of debates between YUHS and Central. No one objected, and we debated in Lamport Auditorium. One of the members of our team was Yitzchok Friedland, and he went to Kerem B’Yavne after high school.

I also wanted to go, but my mother was worried that it wasn’t safe. So I didn’t go in 1964, but I did go the next year, in 1965, after one year of college at YU. (I don’t know how my mother would have survived had I gone the next year, when the June 1967 war broke out.) I took a leave of absence with every intention of returning after one year in Israel.

So, why didn’t I? It was my brother Herman’s fault. In those days, there was no email or fax. I asked Herman to get me an application to return to YU, and it took a little longer than it should have to reach me. When I sent it in, I got a letter from YU stating that, while I was welcome to return to the college, there were no more beds in the dorm. I would have to rent an apartment with other boys. I really didn’t like that idea.

Another major factor was Yitzchok Friedland. Tragically, his father had died of a heart attack shortly after visiting him in Israel, where Yitzchok was spending a second year at Kerem B’Yavne. He flew home for the funeral, and after the shiva, his family told him that out of respect for his late father he had to go to YU. At that moment, Yitzchok was in a very frum mindset, as happens when one learns in Israel. He didn’t want to go but had to go out of kibud av. So, he went under duress and would write me letters not to come back. I wrote him that I didn’t care, I was coming anyway, and he wrote stronger mussar. Once again I encountered this strange phenomenon of students at YU who think it is assur (forbidden) to be there. I wouldn’t have paid attention to him, but when YU told me to go rent an apartment, I decided to explore other options.

Rabbi Aberman, my rebbe at Kerem B’Yavne, suggested I go to Skokie. I remember sitting on an Egged bus going from one town to another, and there was an old Jew sitting next to me. He looked like a talmid chacham. He asked me some questions and we started to talk. As I’ve written, Israel was very heimish back then. I told him I didn’t know if I should go to Skokie or back to YU. He said, “Shamati sheyesh talmidei chachamim beyeshivas Rabbi Yitzchok Elchonon, aval lo shamati zeh al Skokie.” This was his polite way of saying that YU was a more well-known Torah insitution. I never went to Skokie, so I cannot judge if he was right. I have no idea who this man was, but his comment gave me the impetus to continue to search.

I do not recall why or how I came to visit Rabbi Nota Schiller, who, a few years later, would found Ohr Samayach. He was a talmid of Ner Yisroel, and he told me how the boys go to Johns Hopkins. He painted an interesting picture of Ner Yisroel, which had never been on my radar. I still would not have gone there except that now I asked the Eichenthals what to do. Remember that they had never told me where to go to yeshiva; they accepted me as I was. But, if you ask, then they’ll tell you. On my return to New York, the Eichenthals took me to a wedding so as to introduce me to Rabbi Sholom Skaist, another Ner Yisroel alumnus. He further painted a nice picture of the Baltimore Yeshiva.

The next step was to take the train down to Baltimore on the way home to Montgomery. I got off the train and took a bus to 4411 Garrison Blvd., where I met the Rosh Hayeshiva, who tried to faher me in Yiddish. When that didn’t work tried to ask me questions in Ivrit. Amazingly, he told me I could enroll. He sent me to Rabbi Gershon Weiss, who made sure I had food to eat and something to take on the train also. I think it was Mordechai Sandhaus who actually cooked the lunch. In the summer, when the zman was over, the kitchen stopped serving food, but bachurim could go in and cook for themselves. It wouldn’t happen today, I guarantee you.

The next step was to go to Montgomery and convince my parents to let me go to Ner Yisroel. My mother was against it, and my father let me do what I felt was best, although he didn’t quite understand why I would make this change just because of not having a dorm room. Interestingly, Rabbi Borow, an Orthodox rabbi in a conservative shul in Montgomery, who had sent me to YUHS in the first place, was the most surprised. He told me that he had always figured that if I left YU, it would have been for the Jewish Theological Seminary, not Ner Yisroel. So why did it happen that way?

To answer that, I have to go back to one of my earliest memories, a Pesach Seder. I looked around the room and realized that the people who could read the Haggadah were all from elsewhere. Anyone from Montgomery could barely read Hebrew. I wondered who would lead the Seder when the older generation was gone. I must remind you that in Montgomery we really had no idea of the vibrant Orthodoxy that I later found up North. Most of the people I lived among, with the exception of Uncle Joe and Aunt Rose, believed that there was no future for Orthodoxy. If we wanted Judaism to survive, we had to make accommodations to the modern world. This was the realistic approach, and, based on the facts on the ground, it made sense.

What if, instead of Rabbi Aaron Borow, I had been influenced by a Conservative rabbi? This would have been the more logical scenario in Montgomery. Then, instead of going to YUHS, I would have gone to Camp Ramah. (Actually, my whole life has been a series of fortuitous meetings with people who enabled me to see parts of Judaism that I hadn’t known about.)

I thought about this recently when I read that the Conservative movement has now voted to allow openly gay rabbis and commitment ceremonies between two people of the same gender. I said to someone, how lucky I am. Had I taken that other path, to JTS, I would be saying now that my whole life was a waste; I would feel that all I had worked for was worthless. Indeed, the future survival of the Jewish people is clearly through Orthodox Judaism. Just look around you in Baltimore and see how our numbers are growing and how our community is full of families whose goal in life is to pass on the Torah to the next generation.

It is true that our numbers are relatively small. (Did you know that all of Ashkenazic Jewry is descended from about 15,000 people in Rashi’s time?) Our numbers may be small but our growth is in quantum leaps. After 45 years observing the Jewish scene, I see no alternate way to save the Jewish people. None of the secular ideologies work in the long run. The committed life – the one that accepts the absolute truth of the religion, not as a folkway but as the will of G-d, the one that sanctifies study and provides a method of remaining Jewish even in the midst of a gentile world – is the only path to the future of our people, and to me there is no greater or nobler goal.

* * *

By the way, I did follow Rabbi Feldblum’s advice and married a truly pious woman who has been trying to bring me up to her madreiga for many years. We have been blessed with banim uvnei vanim oskim batorah ubemitzvos. Unlike that poor old Sephardi man in Montgomery, my children and their children will delve into the holy books and serve the Lord all the days of their lives. That is what it is all about. My prologue is not the end of the line but the background for future generations descended from our pious and holy ancestors.

P.S.: Several years ago, my son Shmuli got married in Jerusalem. My daughter Estie made sheva brochos in Har Nof, where she lived at that time. She asked me if I had anyone I wanted to invite. I told her that I had seen in the Har Nof telephone book that my old friend Meir Fialkoff lived in Har Nof and it would be nice if he could come, as I had not seen him in ages.

Meir came, and my son Avi, who is the epitome of middos tovos, went over and started a conversation with him, as Meir didn’t know anyone there. The conversation got around to the fact that the Oberstein children, who are close and love one another, are not at all identical to one another. Each is unique, and they cover the spectrum. How can one father have such different children? Meir told Avi that he had to understand that his father (me) actually has each of these facets, and each child is just emphasizing another aspect. I guess I am complex, but I think I am the luckiest man in the world.

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Article List - February 2007