The blessing of having learned what it really means to be a Yid is what makes the memories of that old shul count
Mr Basch and Mr Jundef learning bechavrusa. (Photos: Library of Rabbi Shia Neuman)
Nowadays, the building is grand.
Imported Jerusalem stone adorns the exterior, the professional painters came through, and a magnificent aron kodesh has been installed. Before all that, Khal Yereim was a basic storefront in Cleveland Heights, divided in two by a rickety pink mechitzah swaying on rusted aluminum.
Simple — the way it used to be in the days when simplicity carried weight, conveyed soul. When simple was the most beautiful way to be.
Davening was long, but back then, no one ever seemed to notice. The endless Mi Shebeirachs and the occasional hosafah weren’t perceived as communal waterboarding, but rather offered a chance for a child to smile when he heard his name called out, for a member of the kehillah who perhaps felt unheeded to know he was valued. The time Mussaf ended wasn’t decided by the board — it merely depended on who had yahrtzeit that week.
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