As Shavuos approaches, I always find myself remembering—with deep fondness—the Yomim Tovim I spent in yeshiva. Whether it was in Philadelphia, Ponovezh, or Lakewood, those long nights with the resounding kol Torah echoing through the walls are etched into my soul.
Of course, my years in Ponovezh were formative. That was where I learned what it meant to acclimate. I’ll never forget the awe I felt upon seeing the majestic edifice atop Mount Vilkomeer for the first time, the Ponovezh Yeshiva rising above the city like a fortress of Torah. In my memory, the staircase felt endless. I remember leaving my bags at the bottom and making the climb, awestruck, slowly ascending toward the gilded aron kodesh and the vast bais medrash beginning to fill up in the final days of bein hazemanim.
As an American kid, even after five-and-a-half years at the Philadelphia Yeshiva, I still stood out. Americans were considered sweet, maybe even witty, but still Americana. I didn’t speak the language properly, couldn’t stand mishi, and definitely showered too much. But I had one thing going for me: I was Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky’s grandson. That meant that I could be “the American guy” without being sent back to JFK with a polite “thanks, but no thanks.”
I was tolerated, sometimes even warmly, and over time, I earned my spot on the mountain. Even the Bnei Brakers who lived in the shadow of the Chazon Ish and the Steipler knew that my zaide was one of the most respected gedolei hador and a close confidant of the rosh yeshiva, Rav Shach. That connection gave me the space to remain my American self, while still living according to the rules, protocols, and etiquette of the yeshiva.
What I remember most, though, are the bochurim. So many of them would go on to become future talmidei chachomim and gedolim. Just last week, a fellow from Woodmere reignited those memories by mentioning names from back then—names that now belong to roshei yeshiva and roshei kollel.
“Did you know Rav Chaim Peretz?”
“He was in my kibbutz!” (That’s what we Americans called a chaburah.)
He rattled off names—Rav Dovid Feinstein, Rav Gefen, Rav Djimitrovsky, Rav Nebenzahl, Rav Freund—and I was surprised. How did someone from Woodmere know these giants-in-the-making, who were, in my day, just serious bochurim in the same bais medrash, and who rose to become gedolei Torah in today’s world?
Despite the memories of shiurim from Rav Shmuel Rozovsky, Rav Dovid Povarsky, and Rav Shach, and chaburos from Rav Gershon Edelstein and ybl”c Rav Berel Povarsky, some memories could only have happened because I was American. I got away with things an Israeli bochur might have been ostracized for. And I don’t regret it. I’m proud that I remained an American in Bnei Brak.
For some reason, Shavuos always brings it all back. Maybe it’s the sense of Matan Torah, of climbing a mountain, both literally and spiritually. And there’s one story that sticks with me, which happened just days before Shavuos. It wasn’t about a difficult Tosafos or a brilliant p’shat in a Rav Akiva Eiger. It was about a different kind of ascent. A literal trek up the mountain—and one that I didn’t make alone.
It was late afternoon during the Shloshes Yemei Hagbolah. I was heading up the familiar, towering staircase to the bais medrash when a brand-new Mercedes taxi came roaring up Rechov Vilkomeer, kicking up a choking cloud of Bnei Brak dust.
Behind the wheel sat a man in his 40s. Sleeves rolled up. Cigarette dangling. Shirt half-unbuttoned. No yarmulka in sight. He looked like he’d wandered in from Tel Aviv or a kibbutz. Tough. Hardened. Not exactly yeshivish. He was early for a pickup—some bochurim headed to a wedding—so he parked and started reading his paper.
I don’t know why, but something told me to speak to him. Maybe it was the pre-Shavuos air. Maybe it was a flashback to when my father once invited a local kid into our sukkah—a kid who had never made a brocha in his life, whose idea of Jewish pride involved setting off a cherry bomb in a payphone. Or maybe it was the sense that Torah doesn’t belong behind walls, but should flow outward. So I walked over.
He looked completely out of place in front of Ponovezh—as out of place as a bochur would be in a Tel Aviv nightclub. But I asked if he needed anything. He explained that he was waiting for three boys going to a wedding in Ramat Gan. He was early, so he figured he’d relax.
I pointed up toward the yeshiva. “You know what that is?”
“Zeh Yeshivat… Yeshivat…,” he trailed off.
“Ponovezh,” I finished.
“Right,” he nodded. “Rechov Vilkomeer. I don’t usually come out here. Just helping a friend.”
“Ever been inside?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The yeshiva? No. Never had a reason to.”
I paused. Then I said something I still don’t fully understand.
“Turn off the engine. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Come with me.”
He hesitated. I smiled. “I’ll watch the car,” I joked. “No one steals in Ponovezh.”
He smirked, shut the engine, and got out. I handed him the yarmulka from under my hat. Yes, it was sweaty, but it did the job. As we started walking, I made a little face and said gently but firmly, “Button up?” He did.
We climbed the stairs. Just the two of us. A few bochurim glanced over, clearly trying to figure out if this was my long-lost cousin from Belgium.
We entered the bais medrash.
It was majestic as ever, rows upon rows of young men swaying over Gemaros, voices blending in waves of sugya and sevara. The golden aron kodesh towered at the front like a sentinel of Jewish history. The room pulsed with holiness.
The driver stood there, completely still. He didn’t say a word. Neither did I.
Everyone watched us. “Who’s that guy with Kamenetzky?”
“A cousin?”
I had breached sacred space, bringing in a stranger. A man who had never made this climb, now standing at the summit.
Later, I would tell people that he was a distant cousin and we shared a grandfather named Avrohom. But in that moment, I knew exactly how I had felt ten years earlier, standing off to the side of the sukkah, not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud.
Ten years later, I knew. I was proud. Of myself. Of my father. Of the moment.
And then, as the three bochurim heading to the wedding spotted their driver and thanked him for coming up to get them, he paused before following them out. He turned back to me.
“Adoni,” he said, as if addressing a diplomat. His eyes glistened. “Todah. Thank you for bringing me up here.”
I wondered if there would be any follow through. Maybe he would have a kid who would become frum and the experience here alone would be enough for him to perhaps encourage him. Maybe he would go back to Tel Aviv and take an interest in Yiddishkeit.
I did nothing. But maybe I did something.
Then, with a voice I’ll never forget, he added something that made me feel that my efforts were worth it.
He smiled and said, “I felt that for the first time in my life…I had climbed to the top of Har Sinai.”
