Just before noon on September 1, 1989, I was driving through a seedy sec­tion of downtown Elizabeth, New Jersey, when I spotted a branch of my bank. I parked in the deserted lot behind the building, walked around to the front entrance, and then remembered that I had left my check in my car. I trotted back, unlocked the car door, and leaned inside while fumbling through an assortment of papers and bills that filled my coat pocket. Finally, I found the envelope with my precious monthly stipend – most of which I had already spent, having mailed out a slew of checks the day before to pay some long overdue bills – and laid my coat back over the seat. As I straightened up and turned to close the car door, I let out a gasp.

Reeking of alcohol, three men wearing tattered jeans and filthy T-shirts had formed a tight semicircle around me. The man on my left was clutching the skinny neck of an empty whiskey bottle. Aiming it upward, he looked as if he were about to hammer something – or someone. His dark, glassy eyes revealed a mean, desperate gaze. The scrawny guy on my right looked almost friendly, but a little scared and hungry. The one in the mid­dle, however, was Lerch, straight out of The Addams Family. His large, rectangular head loomed above me.

As I pen this article, just hours before the levaya of Dovid Hess, a”h, one of Baltimore’s biggest askanim, I can’t help but wonder what will become of our community as the proverbial torch is passed to the next generation. After some research, I was reassured to find that the next generation is continuing the mesora (heritage) that Mr. Hess and other exemplary community-minded members have established. Here is just a sampling of some of the acts of chesed our youth perform, 24/7.

WOW!

Batsheva Feldman, 22, is a graduate student at University of Maryland School of Social Work. Although she tutors and babysits on the side, she also makes the time to learn weekly with a young non-observant female at WOW’s learning program for young professionals. She learns halachos of Shabbos, modesty, and other philosophical topics, and answers questions about Judaism. In addition, she learns with two other college students, weekly, through Skype.

   7 Mile Market – The Store that Jack Built

Once upon a time, before Seven Mile Market was even a thought, there was Jack’s grocery store. Little did Jacob (Jack) and Rose Boehm, its Holocaust-survivor owners, dream that their little mom-and-pop store would be the forerunner of the soon-to-be largest kosher supermarket in the nation. In an exclusive WWW interview, the behind-the-scenes story of one of our community’s major institutions is revealed.

Growing up in Czechoslovakia, Jack Boehm was extremely close to his grandfather, and spent a lot of time in his grocery/clothing business. “I remember going to the flea market with my grandfather when I was 14 years old,” recalls Mr. Boehm. “My grandfather taught me a lot about business. I used to buy walnuts and dried fruits for him from the peasants on the farms, and he would give me suits and money, as pay. I took a liking to business. Finding a job is a hard thing; sometimes you have one, sometimes you don’t. But a business keeps on going.”

When Mr. Boehm survived the war – a miraculous story in itself – and arrived in America, he worked at various jobs before going into business for himself. “It was very hard to find a decent-paying job here because of the mentality of the old-timers in America; they didn’t like the newcomers,” explains Mr. Boehm. “When I first arrived, I got paid 75 cents an hour, minimum wage. I did not know the language. I later worked for a good while in the stockroom of a men’s clothing store, receiving goods. Because the pants and jackets were made in different places, I had to match them and put them together. Another worker who was not an immigrant made more than I did, even though I knew that I was worth more than he was. I went to the boss, who spoke Yiddish, and asked for a raise,” continues Mr. Boehm. “He didn’t want to give it to me since I didn’t know English. He offered me half of what he offered the other workers, so I left.”

Azriela Jaffe, a writer for Mishpacha magazine, was so moved by an article she read in the Yated about the power of chatzos – being ready for Shabbos by Friday midday – that she has not missed chatzos since. Reorganizing her life and her week has been so life-changing and brought so much kavod Shabbos into her home that she wrote an article about it for Mishpacha. And, judging by the droves of letters the magazine received, the idea obviously hit a chord among readers around the world. They too craved greater serenity on erev Shabbos or were looking for

A boy is not suited to any of the yeshiva high schools in Baltimore, and is sitting at home, bored and miserable. The desperate parents have heard about Mordechai Bamberger. “Can you help,” they ask.

A single yeshiva graduate is working and has lost touch with the learning community. After a discreet call from the young man’s friend, Mordechai Bamberger invites him to join a shiur with his peers at the Community Kollel.

A young man is having trouble with shidduchim. Mordechai Bamberger networks on his behalf, and he is soon a chassan.

A Chesed Activist

Mordechai Bamberger credits his parents, Osher and Rochel

The women of our community might seem to have a monopoly on doing chesed, perhaps, thanks to the formal chesed activities that were inculcated in them back in their school days. However, there are men out there, too, who do chesed, notwithstanding their often demanding daily davening, working, and learning schedules. This is part one of a series of articles that will spotlight just some of the men in the Baltimore community who take the time to do chesed, because they feel it is important to give back to a community that has given them so much.

Simcha Kossman’s typical day