“We’ve Never Parted”

That wintry Shabbos night in Jerusalem has been etched in my heart forever. As on every Shabbos Jerusalem’s Batei Ungarin neighborhood was transformed its ancient floors shining as much as ancient floor tiles can shine. The men strode home from shul in their majestic gold Yerushalmi kapotes and in my youthful imagination it seemed as though the neighborhood itself had donned one tremendous shtreimel.

A group being led by a rav with a snow-white beard was heading toward one particular house — #182 in a neighborhood where homes are numbered without apparent order. It was our home; it was also the rav’s home. While the splendor and refinement of his noble figure seemed to radiate light those who marched after him clashed with the local landscape. No shtreimlach caftans or gartlach. At best a cardboard yarmulke from the Kosel Plaza; on others a ponytail and earring. They entered the house sat around the long table and gazed curiously about them. Were they curiosity-seekers? Somehow in my child’s mind it seemed like they were anticipating transformation.

As on every Shabbos and Yom Tov that table in our home was overflowing. Guests from various countries — more accurately from various worlds — crowded around conversing in a babble of mixed languages. And there between a Brazilian boy who was becoming frum and a Jewish doctor from the United States who had asked to meet the legendary Yerushalmi figure he’d heard so much about I sat together with my siblings.

At the head of the table sat the Rav Rabbi Moshe Weber ztz”l ready to open the hearts of those who had never tasted Torah or nearness to Hashem. At the Rav’s side sat my father Rabbi Ido Ehrlich-Weber translating the Rav’s words into English.