The new zman is about to begin for yeshiva students
— for everyone, for that matter. It is a moment of
leave- taking from home. For some, for those who are first
leaving behind their warm home, the transition to yeshiva is
to leave behind their childhood as they go forth to "exile
themselves to a place of Torah" in their respective
dormitories.
It is difficult for the young boys, but also for the parents
as well. It has been so ever since we became a nation, from
the time that our ancestors immersed themselves in Torah
study. We find this already by Yaakov Ovinu, who left his
parents' home to study for fourteen years in Yeshivas
Sheim.
In the pre-Holocaust times, a widespread phenomenon was of
`essen teg — eating `days,' whereby yeshiva
students were assigned families which they would join for
designated meals during the course of the week.
This was very difficult for the young students. They had to
overcome their natural shyness and reticence, and many were
the times when their natural reluctance overcame their
physical need and they would prefer to remain without that
`chessed bread.'
In present times too, leaving one's home requires a great
deal of personal courage and stamina. The difficulties are
sometimes veiled and buried inside, but they exist,
nonetheless.
It is important for our tender young boys to know that they
are not alone: they are an integral part of a chain of
generations of mesirus nefesh to keep the Torah. And
according to the difficulty — commensurate is the
reward.
We have gathered a few stories which exemplify and illustrate
the difficulties of days gone by.
The Boy Who Remained in the Wagon
Three young boys were making their way to the outskirts of
the village of Neschiz, three brothers from the family of the
rov Rav Heller, headed for Yeshivas Kletsk. They had climbed
aboard the wagon, clutching their knapsacks, and the wagon
was now embarking on its journey into the big wide world.
Good-bye to you, village of our childhood, they waved
emotionally to the disappearing familiar scene, to their
father, their mother, who stood by, watching. The road before
them stretched far away into the future.
But, no. Something was holding them back. Deep-seated
feelings, wired emotions at the sight of Tatte and Mama
waving them on their way. Tears rolled down cheeks, both here
and there, rolling faster as the distance widened. The warmth
of the parents' love stretched out to them, but it was
bearable. Or was it?
The two older brothers suddenly called to the wagon driver to
halt. "Stop! We are not ready to go, not yet!"
And then, "Tatte! Mama!" they cried.
The climbed out of the wagon for one more parting scene. But
their youngest brother, Yosef, remained behind. The wagon
driver turned around and urged him to jump down as well, for
one more farewell from his parents. But he was adamant. "No,
I am not going back. I am remaining here with you."
The two brothers decided, in the end, not to go. But Yosef
told the wagon driver to forge ahead. And he traveled
alone.
Yosef Heller went on; he went on to learn in yeshiva and to
become the famous R' Yosef Heller, rosh yeshivas Ohr
Yisroel.
A Mother's Longing
The Mashgiach R' Yeruchom Levovitz from Mir zt'l
studied in Kelm in his youth. There was one stretch of
several months when his mother did not receive any
communication from him and she began to worry. She scrimped
from her daily bread and put together the necessary two
hundred rubles to hire a wagon to take her to Kelm.
It was midwinter, and the roads were covered with snow. When
she finally arrived in Kelm, it was late at night and all the
householders had already gone to sleep. Everything was dark
and deserted, except for a bright light burning in the
yeshiva. She headed there and climbed up to the women's
gallery. She looked down and saw one boy studying in a sweet,
melodious voice that captivated her heart. A second look
showed that this was her own beloved son, Yeruchom, studying
so diligently. This was all she needed to see.
She returned to the wagon and ordered the driver to take her
back home. She did not want to disturb her son from his study
or even distract him momentarily (Megged Givos
Olom).
The Dedication of a Mother
In the course of its wanderings, Yeshivas Radin, with its
illustrious rosh yeshiva, Maran the Chofetz Chaim, reached
the village of Simietz, where it remained for a while. The
Chevroni family lived there and the mother decided to send
her dear son, Avrohom Moshe, to study under the Chofetz
Chaim. When the yeshiva moved on, she urged him to join,
despite his tender age of eleven and the war raging all
about. She knew that he had no Torah future in their small
village, and that sealed her decision.
The Chofetz Chaim's son, R' Leib, was against the idea and
said so to his father. "He is so young and tender and times
are in such turmoil. How can you allow him to leave his
father and mother? Who knows if they will ever see him
again?"
The Chofetz Chaim thought otherwise and insisted on taking
the boy with him. And thus, Avrohom Moshe left his parents,
his siblings, his home and birthplace, and finally his
country, to go wandering with the yeshiva. In time, he became
famous as the rosh yeshiva of Chevron, R' Moshe Chevroni.
The Letters That Were Concealed from the Student
R' Yosef Feimer, the famous rabbi of Slutsk, studied in
Yeshivas Volozhin in his youth and was awarded the
unchallenged title of "pillar of the yeshiva." His tremendous
diligence and application were legend. It is told that Maran
R' Chaim once received a letter from Yosef's mother in which
she informed him of his father's demise. She begged him to
return home and help her in the business.
R' Chaim hid the letter from the boy. Then another letter
arrived, telling of the fire that had consumed their home.
Again, the mother begged him to return and help her. R' Chaim
hid this letter from him as well. A third letter said that
fire had broken out in the entire village and that she had no
roof to shelter her and her other children. "Please come
home!" the widowed mother begged again.
At this point, R' Chaim took all three letters and showed
them to R' Yosef, who intuitively understood that R' Chaim
had wanted him to continue studying. But he was puzzled why
R' Chaim had chosen to bring them all to him now.
"I wanted to show you how important your Torah study was in
Heaven. So much so that Satan was sent to burn an entire
village to get you to leave the yeshiva!"
The Meal That Was Not Served
In the youth of the Chofetz Chaim, his melamed came to
his father, R' Arye Zev Hacohen, saying, "This village is too
small for someone as great as your son. There is no one his
age with whom he can study and not a scholar on his level to
teach him. I urge you to take the boy to Vilna, where he will
surely find the right companionship and atmosphere for his
skills."
The father followed this advice and took the tender boy of
nine with him to Vilna and left him there. Yisroel Meir
continued to study with the same fiery enthusiasm and
devotion as he had shown in his home town. But here, the
environment contributed significantly to his growth in
Torah.
One day, little Yisroel Meir was scheduled to eat his midday
meal at the home of one of the baalebatim who had
initially committed himself to host a yeshiva student. He
changed his mind, however, giving all kinds of excuses, and
refused to take him in. Others tried to convince him what a
genius this little fellow was, how diligent, but he was firm
in his refusal. And so, Yisroel Meir remained hungry that
day, with pangs increasing as the hours ticked by.
He never forgot the torment of that imposed fast. Years
later, when his fortune turned from bad to worse, the
householder came before the Chofetz Chaim for a blessing.
When the latter reminded him of his deed, the man was beside
himself with remorse and pleaded for forgiveness. The Chofetz
Chaim said that he could make amends by supporting
yeshivos.
The Talmid Who Did Not Eat `Days'
Maran the Steipler ztvk'l was a student in Yeshivas
Novardok in his youth. His time was so precious to him that
he would forgo the meals that had been arranged for him by
baalebatim of the town. Instead, they used to send him
his meals to the yeshiva by messenger. And if the messenger
was delayed, R' Yaakov Yisroel would not bother to look or
inquire after him.
This concerted negligence of his physical needs was apparent
with regard to sleep as well. He did not care where he slept
and had no regular place to retire at all. Instead, he would
doze off on a bench in the beis medrash by the door,
even during the freezing winter nights.
His friends wondered at this. Perhaps, they concluded, he
wished to be woken up by the cold draft . . . At any rate,
when he left Yeshivas Novardok in Pinsk to go to Eretz
Yisroel, they made him a farewell party. One of the boys
began praising him but R' Yaakov Yisroel quickly hushed them
up.
Frozen Apples
R' Reuven Yosef Gershonowitz zt'l was compared to a
locomotive working tirelessly to pull a heavy train. In those
days, all the yeshiva students were assigned teg meals
eaten with the local baalebatim. R' Reuven was too
refined and bashful to go to eat at the table of strangers,
especially when he saw the rampant poverty in their homes.
He simply did not go to eat many a time, and would suffer the
pangs of hunger instead, subsisting on frozen apples which
the yeshiva was able to provide. He remained in yeshiva for
the span of half-a-year without going home, in the beis
medrash deep in study at all times.
"I Fasted on Shavuos"
In his work, Sam HaChaim, R' Moshe Kletzker presents
an interesting description of his experience of `eating days'
and the unpleasantness involved:
"I ate meals by certain baalebatim during the week,
but was assigned a very prestigious householder for Shabbos
meals. The custom was that when a yom tov fell on a
weekday, we would go to our Shabbos baalebos for the
meals.
"Shavuos fell one year on a Wednesday and Thursday. When I
ate by my weekday host the week before, the woman remarked
that I would probably be eating my next Thursday meal by my
Shabbos host, since it would be yom tov. I agreed. But
that Shabbos, my host remarked that he assumed I would be
eating the Thursday festive meal by my regular Thursday host.
I was shocked, but did not say a word, for I certainly was
not going to argue with a host. I simply judged him favorably
and concluded that there must be a good reason why he had not
invited me for Shavuos.
"Thursday came. The davening was very long, since it
included Akdomus and the reading of Megillas
Rus. Afterwards, the congregation dispersed and I
remained alone in the beis knesses. I had nowhere to
go . . .
"After a while, it dawned on me that someone might come and
ask my why I had not gone to eat. What would I reply? Would I
say the truth? This would border on rechilus and
loshon hora. And even if this person were to invite me
to eat leftovers from the meal by him, his family would
surely be surprised and I would have to repeat my sad story
before them, perhaps even several times. I realized that I
could not remain there. I took a sefer with me and
went to the outskirts of the city, where I sat down under a
tree and studied.
"I was unable to read, however, being so hungry. My stomach
was grumblingly demanding its due, as was my dry throat, for
I hadn't even drunk any water all day, not having made
kiddush. I took stock of my situation and realized
that this was not the right way. I would have to make a major
change in my lifestyle. I bore no ill will towards my regular
Shabbos host, since he did not realize that my Thursday
regular had told me not to come. But why hadn't I said
anything to my Shabbos host?
"It was only my fault if I remained hungry! I was to blame if
I was too bashful to speak up, on the one hand, and too proud
to go and ask someone else for food or even agree to accept
it. I decided, once and for all, to discontinue eating
`days.'
"I was `fed up' with the situation. I also discerned a
certain inequality regarding the hierarchy of the students in
the yeshiva [the pecking order, so to speak]. When it began
to grow dark, I returned to the beis medrash,
determined to effect a drastic change in my status and
lifestyle.
"I was deeply engrossed in the logistics of survival and how
to implement my new resolution. I asked the person in charge
of the chalukah, the money stipend which enabled some
of the students to fend for themselves and buy their own
meager supplies of bread, if I could be included. I was
turned down. I had, anyway, been reluctant to accept such
money for fear that I would be taking bread from the mouths
of others . . . "
A dilemma . . .
