August, 1960. My family moved from the Jewish enclave in the Riggs Park section of Washington D.C., NE, to the Maryland suburb of Silver Spring. Our new home was located on Malibu Drive, in a neighborhood roughly equidistant from Langley Park and a new development named Kemp Mill. I was soon to enter the Hebrew Academy of Washington, Yeshivas Bais Yehuda, as a first grader, so my father took me to the school one day for the required interview. In those days, the Academy was located on 16th Street NW, adjacent to the Shepherd Park section of Washington. But enough geography.
That day, I was introduced to Mrs. Mantell, the secular principal, and to the legendary Morah Batya, first-grade Hebrew teacher. I was also introduced to the headmaster, Dr. Solomon Skaist, founder of the Skaist family chinuch dynasty on these shores. Upon meeting Dr. Skaist, I was immediately awed; he unmistakably projected both a regal bearing and a commanding presence. In time, I was also to learn that his word was absolute and final. After these introductory meetings, held in the presence of my father, I was summoned to Dr. Skaist’s office – alone. With a vague feeling of dread, I entered his office and took a seat as instructed. To steady myself, I tried to fix my gaze at the picture on the wall behind him, the famous Chagall painting of “The Praying Jew.” Why not? I was probably in a praying mood by this time. In truth, all he sought was a firm commitment on my part to behave with derech eretz. After all, a close relative had attended the school some years before and not all went well. I complied and was duly accepted.
Prior to the school year, transportation arrangements had to be made. Back then, the Academy had no school buses. The available choices were to carpool or join a “cab pool” as the Academy hired a fleet of cabbies to transport the students. My parents opted for the former. Guess who was in the carpool? Dr. Skaist!
My Odyssey: Part 1
It was about two weeks into the school year, and I found it nearly impossible to calm myself in the presence of the principal. I have absolutely no memory of ever riding in a car with Dr. Skaist, so frightened was I. One Friday afternoon around mid-September, I joined a throng of other students in the main lobby after dismissal, awaiting my carpool members for the ride home. Either I had arrived there early, or they were all late. Either way, no one was showing up, and I grew increasingly nervous and uptight. I then decided to take matters into my own hands and go it alone. Yep, at age six, I was going to make it all the way home on my own. Deep down, I must have realized this was foolish, but my emotions told me to take advantage of a golden opportunity to bolt, so I did.
Heading out the front door, I walked down the hill (Ft. Stevens Drive) to 16th Street and waited for the right bus. I don’t recall how many busses came my way, but I asked each driver whether he was headed toward Silver Spring until I found the right one. As I boarded, the driver held out his hand for fare. Of course, I had none but I saw a woman boarding directly in front of me. To indicate to the driver that this was my “mother,” I gave a slight, convenient tug on her skirt. Luckily she never turned around, and the driver just waved me on, so my wise-guy ploy worked. I then took a seat and gazed out at the world.
“Baruch...hameichin mizadei gaver.” This was to be a brief bus ride. For some reason, unfathomable, I alighted at the busy intersection of Piney Branch Road and Georgia Avenue, not a mile from school. Surveying the scene, I realized that out-maneuvering a bus driver is one thing, but no six-year-old could possibly negotiate a four-way commercial intersection. So I turned on my heel and headed down Georgia Avenue. This was all happening on erev Shabbos, and I was walking further into the city, decidedly the wrong direction.
After walking for a good block, with small shops lined up to my left, I approached a shop with an open door. I paused at the entrance and peered in. After a moment, the owner, standing behind a counter, gave the little boy a hard look. “Who are you? What are you doing here and at this time?” I had, bechemlas Hashem (G-d’s mercy), wandered into Silbert’s, a kosher butcher!* I started to answer, but he swiftly raised both hands, palms out. “Don’t say anything more, and don’t move.” He darted out from behind the counter and went to his wall phone to dial. After several moments, he held out the phone. “Here, someone would like to talk to you.”
Next thing I heard was, “ELLING! Where are you!? We’re still here at school and can’t find you! What have you done!?” This, of course, was the voice of Dr. Skaist. I made it home before Shabbos, but, as explained previously, blocked the ride home from my memory. In retrospect, my misadventure can be understood in terms of my emotional state, but I nevertheless erred and would eventually pay the price. More on that later.
My Odyssey: Part 2
Over the weekend, my parents made a fateful decision. Due to the aforementioned episode and other reasons, never disclosed to me, they were pulling me out of the Hebrew Academy. On Monday morning, I found myself seated in Mrs. Cox’s class at Montgomery Knolls Public Elementary School. Readers, please try to follow this. Not two days later, an announcement was made: Due to overcrowding conditions at the school (I was born near the end of the “baby boomer” generation), two of the first-grade classes were to immediately relocate to basement classrooms at the nearby Presbyterian church. Mrs. Cox’s class was one of them!
At this point, it is instructive to revisit school transportation matters once more. From my home to my new school was approximately a distance of three-quarters of a mile. Aside from an occasional ride, I was expected to walk the entire stretch each way, every day. By early October, my parents arranged for me to walk with classmate Peter, who lived at the other end of Malibu Drive. Now, Peter is a Jewish name, but I can assure you this Peter, though very friendly and well-mannered, was no Jew.
What was becoming of me? G-d had delivered me from physical danger and who knows what else. But by this time, I had exchanged the halls of the yeshiva for the very shadows of the local church. Furthermore, I was attempting to fraternize with a number of my gentile classmates and had no system of chinuch in place. All this conspired to put me at considerable spiritual risk. What would be?
Turnaround
Fortunately for me, this state of affairs did not long endure. One fine day, later in October, Peter turned to me in front of his house and intoned, “My grandmother comes from Lithuania and she lives with us. She found out you’re Jewish, so I’m not allowed to walk with you any more, and I’m not allowed to be your friend.” His words stung as I gawked at him in disbelief. (Of course, I was too young to comprehend the inherent good in his words.) When I informed my parents that evening, they told me the news had already reached them.
I next attempted a walking arrangement with classmate Jonah, also of the Hebrew persuasion, with very limited success. For the most part, I just walked solo and without incident, b”H.
Before the end of 1960, I believe, my parents decided I had better learn some Hebrew skills. Our next-door neighbor, Dr. Leonard Binstock, was already teaching his five-year-old daughter, Joy, Chaveri and Targilon in the evenings, and I now joined the class. Sometime before the start of the next school year, I was reenrolled in the Hebrew Academy, this time for good. Once again, I merited rachamei Shamayim.
Aftermath
Fast forward to June, 1965, the end of fifth grade. At this time, Dr. Skaist announced he was leaving the Academy to take a new position, in New York. For those who recall, our school building was two-storied, with the fourth- through ninth-grade classes situated upstairs. With just days left to the school year, I decided one afternoon to spend my brief recess strolling through the hallways of the first floor – for memory’s sake – in lieu of running around outside on the concrete playground. I had nearly completed my mini-excursion, when I stopped and peered into the glass window at the third-grade classroom. Little did I realize that, patrolling the hallway behind me, was Dr. Skaist! “Elling, step aside!” the principal ordered. He then dispensed severe punishment, which, I believe, took into account my 1960 misadventure as well. His work done, so to speak, Dr. Skaist shortly left the Academy.
Conclusions
Memories of the above sequence of events lay largely dormant in my psyche for about 50 years. I believe one reason for this is that little children sometimes adapt far more readily than do adults to distress; they just “roll with it.” The full impact simply did not sink in until several years ago.
Dr. Skaist, z”l, ran the Hebrew Academy during his tenure (1951 to 1965) with an extraordinarily firm hand, which, I am convinced, engendered proper decorum, respect, and stability. These are choice qualities that are frequently hard to come by. We all immeasurably benefited from his leadership, and his departure left a gaping void. May his memory be for an everlasting bracha.
On a most intimate level, the big take-away is realizing that we are truly never alone. The Ribono Shel Olam, in His infinite love for His children, manifests hashgachas pratis at all times. We must further acknowledge and appreciate that all that transpires, with or without hindsight, is for our best. It’s all good.
The author wishes to thank the Berman Hebrew Academy for its contributions to this article.
*As related by Rabbi Raphael Skaist.
by Howard (Tzvi) Elling
August, 1960. My family moved from the Jewish enclave in the Riggs Park section of Washington D.C., NE, to the Maryland suburb of Silver Spring. Our new home was located on Malibu Drive, in a neighborhood roughly equidistant from Langley Park and a new development named Kemp Mill. I was soon to enter the Hebrew Academy of Washington, Yeshivas Bais Yehuda, as a first grader, so my father took me to the school one day for the required interview. In those days, the Academy was located on 16th Street NW, adjacent to the Shepherd Park section of Washington. But enough geography.
That day, I was introduced to Mrs. Mantell, the secular principal, and to the legendary Morah Batya, first-grade Hebrew teacher. I was also introduced to the headmaster, Dr. Solomon Skaist, founder of the Skaist family chinuch dynasty on these shores. Upon meeting Dr. Skaist, I was immediately awed; he unmistakably projected both a regal bearing and a commanding presence. In time, I was also to learn that his word was absolute and final. After these introductory meetings, held in the presence of my father, I was summoned to Dr. Skaist’s office – alone. With a vague feeling of dread, I entered his office and took a seat as instructed. To steady myself, I tried to fix my gaze at the picture on the wall behind him, the famous Chagall painting of “The Praying Jew.” Why not? I was probably in a praying mood by this time. In truth, all he sought was a firm commitment on my part to behave with derech eretz. After all, a close relative had attended the school some years before and not all went well. I complied and was duly accepted.
Prior to the school year, transportation arrangements had to be made. Back then, the Academy had no school buses. The available choices were to carpool or join a “cab pool” as the Academy hired a fleet of cabbies to transport the students. My parents opted for the former. Guess who was in the carpool? Dr. Skaist!
My Odyssey: Part 1
It was about two weeks into the school year, and I found it nearly impossible to calm myself in the presence of the principal. I have absolutely no memory of ever riding in a car with Dr. Skaist, so frightened was I. One Friday afternoon around mid-September, I joined a throng of other students in the main lobby after dismissal, awaiting my carpool members for the ride home. Either I had arrived there early, or they were all late. Either way, no one was showing up, and I grew increasingly nervous and uptight. I then decided to take matters into my own hands and go it alone. Yep, at age six, I was going to make it all the way home on my own. Deep down, I must have realized this was foolish, but my emotions told me to take advantage of a golden opportunity to bolt, so I did.
Heading out the front door, I walked down the hill (Ft. Stevens Drive) to 16th Street and waited for the right bus. I don’t recall how many busses came my way, but I asked each driver whether he was headed toward Silver Spring until I found the right one. As I boarded, the driver held out his hand for fare. Of course, I had none but I saw a woman boarding directly in front of me. To indicate to the driver that this was my “mother,” I gave a slight, convenient tug on her skirt. Luckily she never turned around, and the driver just waved me on, so my wise-guy ploy worked. I then took a seat and gazed out at the world.
“Baruch...hameichin mizadei gaver.” This was to be a brief bus ride. For some reason, unfathomable, I alighted at the busy intersection of Piney Branch Road and Georgia Avenue, not a mile from school. Surveying the scene, I realized that out-maneuvering a bus driver is one thing, but no six-year-old could possibly negotiate a four-way commercial intersection. So I turned on my heel and headed down Georgia Avenue. This was all happening on erev Shabbos, and I was walking further into the city, decidedly the wrong direction.
After walking for a good block, with small shops lined up to my left, I approached a shop with an open door. I paused at the entrance and peered in. After a moment, the owner, standing behind a counter, gave the little boy a hard look. “Who are you? What are you doing here and at this time?” I had, bechemlas Hashem (G-d’s mercy), wandered into Silbert’s, a kosher butcher!* I started to answer, but he swiftly raised both hands, palms out. “Don’t say anything more, and don’t move.” He darted out from behind the counter and went to his wall phone to dial. After several moments, he held out the phone. “Here, someone would like to talk to you.”
Next thing I heard was, “ELLING! Where are you!? We’re still here at school and can’t find you! What have you done!?” This, of course, was the voice of Dr. Skaist. I made it home before Shabbos, but, as explained previously, blocked the ride home from my memory. In retrospect, my misadventure can be understood in terms of my emotional state, but I nevertheless erred and would eventually pay the price. More on that later.
My Odyssey: Part 2
Over the weekend, my parents made a fateful decision. Due to the aforementioned episode and other reasons, never disclosed to me, they were pulling me out of the Hebrew Academy. On Monday morning, I found myself seated in Mrs. Cox’s class at Montgomery Knolls Public Elementary School. Readers, please try to follow this. Not two days later, an announcement was made: Due to overcrowding conditions at the school (I was born near the end of the “baby boomer” generation), two of the first-grade classes were to immediately relocate to basement classrooms at the nearby Presbyterian church. Mrs. Cox’s class was one of them!
At this point, it is instructive to revisit school transportation matters once more. From my home to my new school was approximately a distance of three-quarters of a mile. Aside from an occasional ride, I was expected to walk the entire stretch each way, every day. By early October, my parents arranged for me to walk with classmate Peter, who lived at the other end of Malibu Drive. Now, Peter is a Jewish name, but I can assure you this Peter, though very friendly and well-mannered, was no Jew.
What was becoming of me? G-d had delivered me from physical danger and who knows what else. But by this time, I had exchanged the halls of the yeshiva for the very shadows of the local church. Furthermore, I was attempting to fraternize with a number of my gentile classmates and had no system of chinuch in place. All this conspired to put me at considerable spiritual risk. What would be?
Turnaround
Fortunately for me, this state of affairs did not long endure. One fine day, later in October, Peter turned to me in front of his house and intoned, “My grandmother comes from Lithuania and she lives with us. She found out you’re Jewish, so I’m not allowed to walk with you any more, and I’m not allowed to be your friend.” His words stung as I gawked at him in disbelief. (Of course, I was too young to comprehend the inherent good in his words.) When I informed my parents that evening, they told me the news had already reached them.
I next attempted a walking arrangement with classmate Jonah, also of the Hebrew persuasion, with very limited success. For the most part, I just walked solo and without incident, b”H.
Before the end of 1960, I believe, my parents decided I had better learn some Hebrew skills. Our next-door neighbor, Dr. Leonard Binstock, was already teaching his five-year-old daughter, Joy, Chaveri and Targilon in the evenings, and I now joined the class. Sometime before the start of the next school year, I was reenrolled in the Hebrew Academy, this time for good. Once again, I merited rachamei Shamayim.
Aftermath
Fast forward to June, 1965, the end of fifth grade. At this time, Dr. Skaist announced he was leaving the Academy to take a new position, in New York. For those who recall, our school building was two-storied, with the fourth- through ninth-grade classes situated upstairs. With just days left to the school year, I decided one afternoon to spend my brief recess strolling through the hallways of the first floor – for memory’s sake – in lieu of running around outside on the concrete playground. I had nearly completed my mini-excursion, when I stopped and peered into the glass window at the third-grade classroom. Little did I realize that, patrolling the hallway behind me, was Dr. Skaist! “Elling, step aside!” the principal ordered. He then dispensed severe punishment, which, I believe, took into account my 1960 misadventure as well. His work done, so to speak, Dr. Skaist shortly left the Academy.
Conclusions
Memories of the above sequence of events lay largely dormant in my psyche for about 50 years. I believe one reason for this is that little children sometimes adapt far more readily than do adults to distress; they just “roll with it.” The full impact simply did not sink in until several years ago.
Dr. Skaist, z”l, ran the Hebrew Academy during his tenure (1951 to 1965) with an extraordinarily firm hand, which, I am convinced, engendered proper decorum, respect, and stability. These are choice qualities that are frequently hard to come by. We all immeasurably benefited from his leadership, and his departure left a gaping void. May his memory be for an everlasting bracha.
On a most intimate level, the big take-away is realizing that we are truly never alone. The Ribono Shel Olam, in His infinite love for His children, manifests hashgachas pratis at all times. We must further acknowledge and appreciate that all that transpires, with or without hindsight, is for our best. It’s all good.
The author wishes to thank the Berman Hebrew Academy for its contributions to this article.
*As related by Rabbi Raphael Skaist.
