Look Up

As a young boy, I was privileged to daven in a shtibel that, for its time, had a modern edifice. It had a balcony for the ezras nashim, and was blessed with acoustics that allowed every word of the baal tefillah to be heard in every nook and cranny.

Six fans hung on the walls bobbing their heads right to left, left to right, to provide seconds of relief as the air swept past your face. The shtibel boasted an honest-to-goodness, permanently built brick succah. Schlock, windows, doors, tables, and benches. There was a stove that upon its flames perpetually perched a 60-gallon pot with a spigot so there was always adequate hot water for “a glezzele tei.” The “scents” (essence) were piles of tea bags in a jar soaking in water. One or two drops of that liquid brewed that perfect cup of tea. The tiny fridge held the “limoneh” (lemon), and the closet, sugar, spoons, and glasses.

Then, the people. Each with a story of pain, loss, and horrors. Warsaw Ghetto, Auschwitz, Siberia, early ’20s in the US; yet they managed to smile, raised choshuve families, and were content. I can fill pages describing their depth of character, incredible personality, their awesome erlichkeit and cheishek haTorah.

Reb Zundel was the gabbai. While his word was law, he was an inspiration as well.