In my youth, almost every Orthodox shul had a shamash. I fondly remember the elderly shamash who would pinch my cheeks at my
grandpa’s shul when I was young. For those unfamiliar with the role and
responsibilities of the shamash, I’ll
explain. If you google the term, you’ll be informed that Shamash was a
Mesopotamian sun god. Actually, there may have been some shamashim who thought of themselves in such terms. Nevertheless,
for centuries, until rather recently, the shamash
assisted the rabbi, the chazan, the baal koreh,
and the gabbayim in the many tasks
involved in maintaining and running a shul. In the shtetls of Europe, the shamash,
using a special wooden mallet, would knock on the doors of congregants to wake
them up and remind them to get to the minyan.
References to the role of a shamash, or “communal helper,” are found
in the Mishna and Gemara. These days, the shamash
has been partially replaced by executive directors and assistant rabbis. But
the authentic shamash cannot be
duplicated. The current generation has no memories of “the shamash.”
* * *
When I became the rabbi of Claremont
Hebrew Congregation in Cape Town, I inherited a 100% authentic shamash. His name was Wasserman, but due
to his Lithuanian accent, he called himself Vasherman. Others pronounced it
Vasserman. He was 35 years older than me and had been the shamash for 30 of those years, prior to which he was a shochet and a butcher. He arrived in
South Africa as a stowaway on a ship in 1939 at the age of 22. Tragically, his
entire family would be wiped out in the Holocaust. To some, he was known as
Reverend Vasserman, to others Mr. Wasserman, but the regulars called him
Vassie.
Upon my arrival to take up the
position of senior rabbi at Claremont – notwithstanding having been approved by
the shul board, the chief rabbi, and the av
beth din – Vassie had his own criteria for testing me in order to earn his respect. My first few months were a
bit difficult until I had completed the Vassie obstacle course. One of the
things that had initially upset him was my decision for the shul’s klei kodesh (rabbi, assistant rabbi, chazan, baal koreh, and shamash)
to stop wearing “canonicals.” Canonicals were the official vestments (flowing
black robes and tall yarmulke hats) that were worn by the klei kodesh in all of the
major cathedral-type shuls in England and South Africa. The chazan’s hat actually had a pom-pom on
top. Vassie was less than delighted with my decision to “ignore the shul’s
established vestment ‘minhag.’” Personally, I felt that the canonicals were too
church-like. From my point of view, the shul needed to become user friendly and
move from being stiff and formal to becoming more modern and welcoming.
Since this issue was very upsetting
for him, he appealed to the board and was further irritated when they supported
my decision. So I asked Vassie if we could meet to discuss the matter over
coffee. He said, “I drink tea.” I readily agreed – tea it was! As soon as we
sat down, Vassie said, “Rebbeh, I know dat you’re de boss – and because you’re da
rebbeh, everyone knows you’re da rebbeh. But me, I’m just a schlepper unless I have on my Shabbos
and Yontiff canonicals. Even mine vife respects me more because I vear da canonicals.”
Upon hearing his case, I decided on a compromise. He would continue to wear his
“holy vestments,” but the chazan and
I would not. From that moment, our relationship changed for the better.
* * *
Vassie, like many of his Lithuanian shamash colleagues, stood just under five
feet tall. He had learned in Telshe (in “der
heim”) and spoke English with a thick accent, preferring to communicate in
Yiddish. His feet were small and wide from his childhood years of wearing shoes
that were too small as he grew. He always wore a tie and jacket (usually
mismatched) and in summer wore straw fedoras, while in winter he wore felt.
Whether felt or straw, his preferred colors were tan, gray, or blue.
?Thirty-two years ago, Rav Yissacher Frand and his rebbitzen
were our guests in Cape Town for a scholar-in-residence weekend. We had made
posters, which hung in various shuls, including ours, and in kosher
establishments in the community, advertising “Ner Israel Rosh Yeshiva comes to
Cape Town.”
Kabbalas Shabbos davening
in South African shuls always attracted a huge crowd, including women, since
there was an abundance of domestic help to assist with Shabbos preparations. Rabbis
therefore gave both a Friday evening sermon as well as one on Shabbos morning.
That Friday night, Rabbi Frand was delivering the sermon. Our shul had a
designated seat of honor between the rabbi and the aron kodesh for visiting rabbonim. Just before Mincha on erev
Shabbos I walked Rabbi Frand to his seat. A minute later, Vassie (wearing his
beloved canonicals) walked straight up to Rabbi Frand, stuck out his hand, and
said, “Hallo, mine name is Vasherman, I’m da shamash. I learned in Vilna, Vere did da Rosh Yeshiva learn?”
Rabbi Frand responded, “I learned in
Baltimore.”
Immediately, Vassie waved his
hand in a dismissive manner and said, incredulously, “in America?!”
To which Rabbi Frand responded, “Yes.”
Vassie then shook his head and
mumbled, “How can he be a Rosh Yeshiva if he learned in America?!” Rabbi Frand
looked at me, and smiled and said, “Ya know, if I were him, I’d ask the same
question.” Then Rabbi Frand said, “It’s amazing; your shamash is straight out of central casting.”
On another occasion, Rabbi Beryl
Wein was our scholar-in-residence. He had arrived with his rebbitzen late
Thursday night. The following morning he came with me to the shul’s beis medrash
for Shacharis. Just before davening, Vassie walked over to greet Rabbi Wein in
a similar fashion to his greeting for Rabbi Frand. Rabbi Wein turned to me and
said, “He is classic! I had his shamash
clone in my shul in Miami years ago.”
One of my favorite Vassie memories
was when Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski, who made several visits, came for the
first time. Rabbi Twerski and I walked into shul together on Friday evening. He
was dressed regally in his beautiful beckisha
(frockcoat) and shtreimel (fur hat),
his long payos dangling gracefully.
Vassie immediately raced to the front of the shul, stared at Rabbi Twerski,
then turned to me while pointing towards Rabbi Twerski and said, “Dos is a real Rebbeh fun der heim.”
Rabbi Twerski whispered in my ear, “Should
I tell him I’m from Milwaukee?”
I said, “Better not; you’ll ruin his
Shabbos.” Vassie had his best Shabbos ever as he sat next to Rabbi Twerski at a
tish that night, singing and
schmoozing in Yiddish with – as Vassie said – “Der Heimeshe Rebbeh.”
* * *
Most of the weddings – and there
were many – that took place in our shul involved myself, the chazan, a choir, and musical
accompaniment. Sometimes there were guest rabbis in attendance as well. The shamash was always in attendance but in
a supporting role, making sure that everything that was needed was on a small
table next to the chuppa. One of
those items was a beautiful velvet bag that contained the glass that the chassan would smash. Pause! Vassie came from a background that
did not allow him to be wasteful. Our shul had huge chandeliers with dozens of
incandescent light bulbs. Changing the bulbs was a difficult task because they
were 40 feet above the floor. When bulbs were replaced, Vassie made sure that
the maintenance man gave him the ones that were burned out. (Most bulbs were
100 watts, but some were only 40; save this information for the next paragraph.)
Vassie would place an old bulb inside the velvet wedding bag for the chassan to step on. From Vassie’s
standpoint, there was no way he was going to allow a perfectly good glass to get
broken – and he said, even the weakest man could easily crush a light bulb.
At one particular wedding, after the
chassan broke the “glass,” his
brother said to me, “Could you please give me the velvet bag? I’m going to save
the shards from the glass and have them placed into an engraved lucite block to
give to the couple.” I had never had such a request before. I told the brother
that he should accompany the groom and bride out of the shul, and I would bring
him the bag. I quickly ran into the kitchen and shook out the remains of the
light bulb and tried to get every last remnant out. I then grabbed a wine glass,
put it in the bag, and smashed it. I hope that the couple who have that glass
encased in lucite never read this.
Another memorable wedding with the shamash was one I conducted for an 85-year-old
man and his 80-year-old kalla. He was
a widower and she was a widow. They had been seated next to each other on a
long flight from Atlanta to Cape Town. By the end of the 16-hour flight, they
decided to get married. The chassan,
a long-time member of my shul, came to see me the day after they arrived back
in Cape Town. He excitedly told me about his wonderful kalla and said, “We want to get married as soon as possible; it’ll
be a small morning wedding in my back garden.”
I said, “How soon?”
He said, “Look rabbi, I’m 85. I
don’t know how much time I have left, but I’m not going to waste a minute. We
want to be married in about 10 days. That will give the kids and grandkids who
want to come time to get here.” Even for a chareidi
couple, a 10-day engagement is a bit short; nevertheless, he and the kalla were happy and determined. They
headed to a lawyer the next day to complete a pre-nup. Since this was going to
be a simple wedding, only the shamash
and I would be officiating. Although there would be a minyan, I needed the shamash to be the other shomer Shabbos witness besides myself.
On the morning of the wedding, the chassan came to the morning minyan to
get an aliyah. The shamash was thrilled because it was
Thursday, and long tachnun would not
be recited, allowing the shamash to
have his morning tea and Danish five minutes earlier than usual. Following the
silent Shemoneh Esrei, as I was
taking three steps back, I nearly stepped on the shamash, who was standing directly behind me. I turned around, and
he said, “Rebbeh, I’m vatching de chassan
very closely – 40 vatts is plenty!” Suffice it to say, it was difficult for me
to not burst out laughing.
Finally, three hours later, we were
at the small garden wedding. Vassie had an unusual sense of humor. While I was
reading the kesuva, he had the gold
cord of the velvet bag wrapped around his index finger and was casually
swinging it back and forth. To say the least, it was very difficult for me to “hold
kup” (concentrate) as “40 vatts” kept
coming into my head. Finally the chuppa
ended, and Vassie placed the bag under the chassan’s
shoe. He made his standard comment, “Vell, dis vill be de last time you put
your foot down.” Then the chassan
smashed the glass (bulb) and immediately grabbed his kallah and embraced her, lifted her off the ground, and kissed her.
Vassie looked at me and said, “I should have given him 150 vatts!”
* * *
Oh, as long as we’re on the topic of
weddings I’d like to offer a bit of shalom
bayis advice for men. When your family is directly involved in the simcha,
and your wife says, “I must have a chartreuse gown to match the ‘color scheme,’”
do not ask why! Also, do not go to your wife’s closet and say,
“Why can’t you wear this lovely dress.” Do
not try to understand why matching colors for the bridal entourage is
absolutely critical. Do not try to
convince your wife that she has other wonderful dresses! Since you are a man,
you will never understand – and it’s best not to even attempt to understand.
That’s because you’ll just put on one of your white shirts, your Shabbos
suit (which is five years old but dry-cleaned) and you’re ready to go. Also,
don’t try to understand the centerpieces on the tables. Ask any man if he can
remember the centerpiece that was on the table of any wedding he’s been to.
He’ll have no clue – unless it was something gross which blocked his view of
the relish dish.
Getting back to Vassie, every Shabbos,
our shul had an elaborate sit-down kiddush, which was catered out of our dairy
kitchen since this allowed for milk in the coffee, as well as cheesecake. Every
week, Vassie would mention that, notwithstanding the “vonderful kiddish,” he
missed not having cholent. So one Friday, my wife made one of her famous
vegetarian cholents. Vassie was delighted at the prospect – especially because
it was winter. After had had consumed two bowls, my wife asked him if he
enjoyed it. In his inimitable fashion, Vassie replied, “A cholent vit-out meat
is like a voman vit-out lipshtik – something’s missing.”
* *
*
Claremont shul’s main sanctuary was
quite large. On the main level, there were 650 permanent seats, and the
upstairs women’s gallery had 640. Instead of the seats facing forward they
faced the center of the shul, meaning that half the daveners faced the other
half. The open space between the center bimah
and the front of the shul was patrolled by Vassie. In the very back of the shul,
there was a rack of taleisim in case
someone needed to borrow a talis.
There were occasions when some of the guests at a bar mitzvah were quite
unlearned of Jewish traditions. And sometimes there were non-Jews in
attendance. On those occasions, I tried to make the davening explanatory and
user friendly. On one occasion, while Vassie was on patrol near the front of
the shul, an obviously non-Jewish man came in and took a kippah out of the bin
next to the taleisim and proceeded to
put on a talis. I don’t know if you
recall the Bugs Bunny cartoons when Bugs observed something shocking and his
eyes popped out of his head. Well, Vassie did a Bugs imitation as he watched
with horror that a non-Jew put on a talis.
From my seat, I had a view of the
entire shul, and I not only saw Vassie; I also noticed that dozens of women
upstairs were staring at him as he literally ran towards me. Reaching me, he
said (while pointing to the back of the shul with his thumb over his shoulder),
“Rebbeh, ve got a shaygits mit a talis.”
I said, “It’s okay, Vassie; let it
be.” This was taking place while many congregants were watching the drama
unfold.
Vassie took hold of his talis, stepped closer to me, and said, “It’s a shaygits mit a talis,” as if I
had somehow not understood.
I responded by saying, “I know; it’s
okay; let it be.” Incredibly, Vassie then went to the aron kodesh, pulled back the curtain, and disappeared inside. From
the aron kodesh, I heard him say, “Vell,
I tried, but he vouldn’t lishen, so don’t blame me.” It was, to say the least,
a memorable moment.
Then there was the time that Vassie
was standing at the center bimah for laining, a fair distance from my seat,
when I heard him make a mishebeirach
for “Hakelev Pinkey.” Sometimes, when something is already done, you just move
on. After davening, I asked Vassie, “Did you make a mishebeirach for a dog?”
He said, “Vell, da man vas upset dat
his dog vas sick; he vanted a mishebeiyrach.
I figured if I told him dat dog mishebeirachs
cost 100 rand (the South African currency), he’d say never mind, but he said, ‘Okay,
do it.’ So I made 100 bucks for da shul. I should’ve said it was 200. I’ll know
for next time.”
* *
*
As we approach this difficult Rosh
Hashanah, I will, as always, fondly remember Vassie in my Yizkor. He suffered a lot of adversity and trauma in his life, but
he always remained upbeat and maintained his sense of humor. He was an eved Hashem,
a servant of G-d, who served with joy! As the sole survivor of a huge family
murdered by the Nazis, Vassie has many descendants in Eretz Yisrael. Having
grown up with pogroms, and having barely escaped the Nazis, Vassie appreciated
Eretz Yisrael in every fiber of his being. In the prayer for Eretz Yisrael,
there is a line (which some find controversial) “Reishis tzemichat geulaseinu - the first flowering of our
redemption.” Vassie would say that line loudly and then offer his personal
prayer that the redemption should speedily become complete. Vassie understood
that “Yisrael b’tach bashem” (Israel,
trusts in G-d) every day.
The last time I saw Vassie was 19
years ago. He passed away soon after. He was living in Highlands House, the
beautiful Jewish elder care facility in Cape Town. His beloved wife Ray had
passed away a couple of years earlier. I was in Cape Town for a visit. The
staff at Highlands House knew me and allowed me to go directly to Vassie’s
room. I gently knocked, but there was no reply. So, I quietly opened the door
and saw that he was napping on the sofa. I sat down on a chair next to him,
holding a honey cake from his favorite bakery. I sat still for a while until
Vassie opened his eyes. He turned to me and said, “Rebbeh!! Am I in dee Olam Ha’emess (Heaven)?”
I said, “Maybe.”
He then sat up, washed his hands,
and said, “Do vee get honey cake in dee Olam
HaEmess?”
I said, “Probably.”
He said, “Dats good.” Then we cut
the cake, had tea, and reminisced.
May Aharon Wasserman’s neshama continue to have an aliyah with much nachas from his descendents. May Am Yisrael have a new year of bracha
and hatzlacha.
