by
Rabbi Shmuel Simenowitz
The
gemara in Chagiga tells the tragic tale of the four who entered the “pardes”
– the mystical realm far beyond the pay grade of all but the most solid and
stalwart spiritual scholars. The story I present here, by contrast, not nearly
as dramatic but captivating nevertheless, is about three childhood friends.
Similar themes snake through their upbringing, and despite marked differences
in the forums within which they chose to leave their imprint, there are
underlying commonalities in their respective callings. One became a celebrated
rabbi, rarely failing to make the Newsweek
top-50 most influential rabbi list. A second became the American ambassador to
Israel during Donald Trump’s first term of office, and one of them tells jokes
at Beth Abraham (Hertzbergs) between the lukshen and potato kugels.
Please indulge me and allow me to elaborate.
* * *
When I was going into fourth grade, my father asked me
if I wanted to attend a local yeshiva. To this day, I recall my internal
reaction when I heard the unfamiliar word “yeshiva.” To my mind it sounded like
“sheikh,” and my fertile imagination immediately conjured up images of sand –
lots of sand – low-slung Bedouin-style tents, and camels. Wanting to humor my
father, I said, “Sure. And where exactly is this ‘yeshiva’?” He told me it was
in West Hempstead, a couple of towns from East Meadow, where we lived, in Nassau
County.
Deeply disappointed when I discovered that there was
neither sand nor camels involved, I gritted my teeth and decided to make the
best of a bad situation. That morning, one of the kids came over to me and
introduced himself, saying “Hi. My name is Irwin Kula.” It was the beginning of
a lifelong friendship, with our paths crisscrossing both personally and
professionally, for the next five decades. Irwin was extremely bright,
personable, and a deep thinker who possessed a devilish sense of humor, which
he dispensed freely and as necessary. He came from seven generations of rabbis
(his father was also a well-respected cantor who trained generations – myself included
– to lein, a skill which, although I rarely use it any longer, I am
grateful to possess). Irwin also had a musical sense and played the guitar
passably but felt the music deeply.
A while later, another boy named David Friedman became
the third wheel in our troika of trouble, our veritable triumvirate of
terror. He, too, came from a rabbinical background, his father being a
larger-than-life figure in the world of the Conservative rabbinate with an
influential and upscale congregation in Woodmere Long Island. You never knew
what to expect with David, who was studious, brilliant – he had skipped a grade
and was younger than we were – and possessed a dry, biting sense of humor and
the inability to suffer fools gladly. (It’s extremely rewarding to see his
finely honed sense of diplomacy temper some of those traits.) Like Irwin and I,
he too played some guitar (not particularly well), but at least he had the
foresight to hang on to his bar mitzvah guitar, which is now worth a small
fortune.
Going to David’s house was always an adventure because
there was always something notable going on. I remember staying over one night
and meeting the basketball players Willis Reed and Mike Reardon in his house. I
did miss the dinner with Ronald Reagan, but as they say, timing is everything
in music and comedy.
* * *
Our greatest challenge came in seventh and eighth
grade, when we had a certain rebbe (who shall remain nameless). He had gotten
out of Europe with his family just in time. In those days, modern Orthodoxy had
started to become a victim of its own success, and a career in chinuch (Jewish
education) was often back-burnered in favor of a career in law or medicine.
This had the effect of relegating chinuch to the chareidi sector,
which in the long term led to the movement of mainstream Orthodoxy sharply to
the right.
That being said, not everybody was cut out for chinuch,
which takes a soft touch to leave a long-term positive impression. In
retrospect, Rebbe X’s short fuse, especially with wisecracking teens, had
somewhat of a parah adumah effect on his students. Some of them, most
notably Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky, a year behind us, embraced him and let his
teachings catapult him to the prominent position he currently occupies. Others
were less fortunate, and the comments exchanged privately between alumni nearly
five decades later seem to suggest that full-time consideration of another
endeavor might have been in order.
Rabbi X was known for his spoonerisms, such as “your
grandparents move to Florida and buy a condimonium,” or “you have your fancy
bar mitzvahs with the big smorgasbords and the Vietnamese tables.” When Goldman
came in on a Monday, his arm in a cast, and confessed that he had broken it
playing basketball on Shabbos, Rabbi X yelled, “See what happens when you play
basketball on Shabbos? I don’t mean you, Goldman!” Priceless. His rants were
the stuff of legend. The rage in those days was to pull the weft threads out of
the bottom of our bell bottoms; the resulting fringe gave them a Clydesdale
horse-type look. His response was epic. “Rachmana l’hatzlan!” Someone
dies and you pin a shmatta on your clothing*, but for fashion you will
tear your clothes to shreds.” (He was actually on to something with that one.)
Rarely did a week go by when we were not being sent to
the principal’s office for some infraction, real or perceived. Sometimes it was
just for some comic relief humor, such as when Rebbe X asked me why Avraham Avinu stayed at the same inn
on the way back from Mitzrayim as he did on the way down. I immediately
responded, “Because they were the only ones that accepted Bank Egyptacard,”
which got me fast-tracked to Rabbi Fendel’s office.
Other queries were actually legitimate. Rebbe X was
fond of sharing with us that, back in the day, he had the privilege of driving
Rav Aharon Kotler. One day, he told us that when they came to a toll plaza, Rav
Aharon insisted on going through the lanes that were manned by a human as he
couldn’t imagine bypassing a human for a machine. David innocently asked him, “But
isn’t that why they put in the cash machines – because they don’t want you
using humans?” Rebbe X, being at a loss for words, summarily sent David to the
principal’s office. It was a fair question, and David got some early diplomacy
training, which would later serve him well.
Our principal, Rabbi Meyer Fendel, a”h, was a kind man and a genuine
pioneer of the Jewish day school system. Yet he, too, was at a loss as to how
to deal with us. When one of us would get sent to the office, he would tell
each of us that we were excellent students, but we were being negatively
influenced by the other two. The three of us compared notes after our
respective detentions and realized that we were each on the wrong end of a game
of divide and conquer which abruptly ceased upon our discovery.
*
* *
Fast forward a few years. David and I went to law
school, and David became a prominent bankruptcy and real estate attorney. I
practiced law and continued my lifelong journey as a musician and as an
attorney representing musicians. My background as a musician engendered a
degree of confidence in my musical clients, enabling my clientele to grow to
the point where many of my childhood musical heroes ended up becoming clients.
On more than one occasion, when I had a bankruptcy question beyond my comfort
level (musician’s incomes are notoriously mercurial), I would call David, and
he always had a creative way of dealing with my problems.
As an attorney, I was heavily influenced by my own
father, a powerful attorney who taught me to focus on the client in front of
me. As he would say, “We represent clients – not causes.” He believed he could
make a powerful difference to an individual’s life – a lesson that stuck with
me for over 40 years.
Irwin went to rabbinical school. We attended YU
together for a while, and then he transferred to JTS. One day, Irwin called me
and told me that he had been following my musical career and that he was
getting married and would be honored if I played at his wedding. Naturally, I
accepted and looked forward to the chance of being part of a simchas chassan
v’kalla on so many different levels.
The week of the wedding arrived. That weekend, I was a
scholar- and performing-artist-in-residence at a Jewish retreat center in the
Blue Ridge mountains. I finished my gig at about 1:00 in the morning, got a
ride through the mountains to the little outlying airport of
Asheville-Hendersonville, slept in the airport, caught a red-eye puddle jumper
to Raleigh-Durham and a connecting flight to LaGuardia, where I was to meet a
car with my equipment and take the ride up to Monsey where the wedding was
taking place.
The wedding was called for 1:00 p.m., and I arrived
promptly at 12:15. I looked around and nothing seemed ready. The bride and her
mother were wearing robes, sitting on the couch drinking coffee. It took a few
minutes for us to make the connection that I was there on the wrong day. During
the tumultuous aftermath, the rest of the band members began pulling up one by
one, at which point I told them that we were a week early. Irwin’s
mother-in-law called him in hysterics, since he only had one thing to do for
the wedding, which was to take care of the music. I finally got her calm
telling her that she was far better off with us being a week early than a week
late. She exacted a holy oath that I would reappear the following week. My
drummer unfortunately had a competing gig, and I told him to get me another
drummer who was at least as good as he was.
The next week, I was there extra early, and the band
members began to pull up one by one. A driver got out of one of the cars and
started unloading a couple of drums from the trunk for the occupant in the
backseat. The drummer got out and introduced himself as Hal. I introduced
myself and asked Hal if he had ever played a Jewish wedding before. He seemed
annoyed and said, “Just follow me.” Sure enough he counted off, and the entire
band followed him for the entire gig barely able to keep up with his energy level
and extraordinary technique. The gig was an absolute smash. When I called my
drummer and thanked him for sending me Hal, he asked me if I knew who he was. I
told him no. He explained to me that it was none other than the legendary Hal
Blaine from the famous Wrecking Crew, who recorded more hits than any other
drummer alive. When Hal got inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I
called Irwin to let him know that he probably had the only Jewish wedding with
an R&RHOF inductee!
Irwin ended up becoming the head of CLAL (National
Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership), using his “disruptive” and somewhat
controversial style to ask hard questions that needed asking. In an attempt to
widen his audience, he authored a widely read series entitled “Wisdom,” which
distilled ideas from Jewish sources and applied them to contemporary societal
disconnections. I found myself similarly engaged, sharing Torah-based ideas to
a wider audience and seeking siyata d’shmaya for just the right things
to say in any situation – whether a keynote speech or a private counseling
session. Not too long ago, Irwin and I had a highly unusual reunion.
* * *
I was driving my Rebbe, the Admor of Stropkov,
back to Baltimore from Pennsylvania during a light snowstorm. It was getting
late in the afternoon, and the Rebbe was anxious to daven Mincha. I mentioned that there was a
Jewish retreat center not too far from our location, and the Rebbe gladly
agreed to stop there to daven.
We arrived at the Pearlstone Retreat Center, with the
Rebbe already done with saying korbonos. As we entered the building, I looked up and saw none other than Irwin
Kula, who was there heading a conference for Rabbis without Borders. I
introduced Irwin to the Rebbe, and the two of them chatted for a minute. Irwin
was bare-headed, and the Rebbe told Irwin a story about the Rebbe’s father, who
was once in a cab driven by a chiloni
driver. The Rebbe’s father asked
him why he was not wearing a kippa, and the driver explained that he
felt that he was a Jew in his heart. The Rebbe’s father told him a story of
walking into the kitchen as a child and smelling the delicious foods his mother
was cooking. He asked her why she didn’t leave the pots uncovered so that the
house would always smell wonderful from the food. She replied that if the pot
is covered, it keeps the contents intact but if left open everything – the food
and the flavor – evaporates. The driver told the Rebbe’s father that that was
the kindest yet most direct explanation he had ever heard, and he undertook to
start wearing a kippa going forward.
The next day I got an email from Irwin saying that he
was so excited from his meeting with the Rebbe that he had to rewrite much of
the curriculum for the conference the previous night. He described our meeting
and meeting the Rebbe as “absolutely bashert.”
* * *
I knew of David’s connection with Donald Trump from
other channels, but one day Rabbi Dovid Katz came to me and asked me whether I
knew David. I told him I did, and Rabbi Katz gave me David’s first book to read,
telling me it was a quick read and seeking my input. I read it over a couple of
days and gave it back, saying that not only did I enjoy the book, but I
actually heard it read in David’s voice!
When David became ambassador to Israel, all of our
classmates were ecstatic. It could not have happened to a more deserving guy.
He joined our class WhatsApp group and graciously bore the brunt of people
recalling some of his “best hits” back in HANC. He lamented that he was glad
that those references were not provided to the feds during his confirmation
hearings. I told him that I was not really comfortable referring to him as Your
Excellency Minister Plenipotentiary, to which he responded that “Excellency”
was quite sufficient.
Recently, David was asked to give the Dahan Memorial
Lecture at Beth Tfiloh. It was an opportune time for me to catch up with him.
We met at the pre-lecture reception, and just as with Irwin, it was as if no
time had ever elapsed between us. During the lecture, he spoke about his
childhood on Long Island and his father’s quest to make history by reaching out
to Ronald Reagan before the election, a path David chose to pursue on his own.
He then shared an anecdote about how President Trump had sat him down in the
situation room with Secretary of State Rex Tillerson and Secretary of Defense
James Mattis on the question of relocating the embassy to Jerusalem, one of
David’s pet projects. They were to raise the objections to the President, and
David was to refute them. Recognizing that he was outgunned by these
professionals, he uttered the words “Hashem s’fasai tiftach” –
beseeching Hashem to give him siyata d’shmaya to come up with the right
responses. He was able to catch a factual mistake in Tillerson’s presentation
and call him out on it. (Actually, he called out the kid in Tillerson’s office
who had prepared the talking points.) Like a good trial lawyer, he knew his
facts and he knew his audience. Surprisingly, Mattis ended up agreeing with
David. (Truth be told, he is one of my personal heroes, known by his loyal
troops as “the warrior monk” because of his strong sense of integrity.)
David has an unassailable sense of Jewish history and
Jewish identity. He sees the first Rashi in Bereishis as the “title
policy” to put the world on notice of Hashem’s land grant to the Jewish nation.
Like Irwin, he too sounded a universal note that the Temple was not merely a
Jewish phenomenon but one for all the nations: “Ki beisi beis tefillah yikareh l’chol ha’amim.” (Conveniently, this
biblical verse is inscribed over Beth Tfiloh’s ark.) He believes deeply that a
united Israel will serve as a catalyst for a united world.
“Hashem s’fasai tiftach” resonated deeply
within me as it is part of a bracha that the Stropkover Rebbe inscribed in my sefer Tehillim. The Rebbe took pains to highlight the letters shin
and ches in the pasuk (my initials), and my son was even kind
enough to carve it in wood for my birthday; it hangs proudly above my shtender.
At a Friday night tisch, the Rebbe once stopped in the middle of saying “Ribbon
Kol Ha’olamim” and pointed out that it uses the language “lig’aleini”
– “to redeem me,” but it does not mention the final redemption – the geula
sheleima. He gently explained that not every redemption has to be the final
one – and that some people need a mini-personal geula in connection with
health, parnassa, shidduchim, etc.
On the way home from the lecture, I reflected happily
how wonderful it was that nearly 50 years later, the three amigos are still
working to bring the geula – both the geula sheleima as well as
those little, personal ones so desperately needed along the way.
*
The ribbon non-frum Jews pin on their
clothing in lieu of tearing keriya.
