A Shabbat In Jerusalem
by Velvel "Wally" Spiegler

"What are you doing for Shabbat", he politely asked. It sounded like I was about to receive an invitation. "I haven't given it much thought yet", I replied, "maybe I'll davven at Heichel Shlomo (that's the Great Synagogue on Keren HaYesod) and have dinner afterwards at my hotel". "No, No, No", he responded adamantly, "on your first Shabbat in Jerusalem, you must go to the Kotel (The Wailing Wall).
Itzhak was behind the counter of a religious book shop off King David Street when I walked in that Friday morning. "Where are you from", he asked. "I just got here a few days ago from the U.S., from Massachusetts" to be more specific, "but originally from New York"  "Where in New York?" he asked in a tone only another Jew would understand. "We used to live in Brooklyn" "I'm from Brooklyn too", Itzhak admitted with pride, I used to be the Rabbi at the shul on Ocean Parkway and Avenue R. "What a coincidence" I confided, "my wife comes from that area and my brother-in-law became a Bar Mitzvah in that shul years ago. 

The sun began to set, traffic lessened, pedestrians dwindled and you knew Shabbat was close at hand. I made my way into the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. I took the only route I knew to the Wall via Chain Street:  the exotic Arab bazaar. But now, as the Friday sun dissolved, the shuk was deserted. A few beggars crouched in the doorways of closed shops. I had the distinct feeling that I was about to be grabbed by a sinister hand from behind a dark corner. I was scared. A thought arose: "this is going to be it". My fear subsided as I beheld singing and dancing by children and yeshiva students at the Wall. I was determined, however, not to leave the same way I came in; I was going to exit with the crowd. A hassidic figure appeared beside me. "Which way are we going?" I asked. "We're headed towards the Damascus Gate, just a short way from Mea Shearim". "That's great" I responded, "from there I can easily find the way back to my hotel".

About two weeks before leaving for Israel I met Avi Ravitsky, a visiting professor from Hebrew University, for lunch at Brown. I wanted his advice on how to locate enclaves of practicing mystics in Israel. He didn't know much about it, but suggested I locate a group known as Reb Arele's chassidim whose whereabouts were uncertain.

Mea Shearim was in total darkness except for the glow of candles coming from apartment windows and the bright starry night. The streets were filled with families exquisitely dressed, slowly promenading in every direction as if they were wandering with nowhere in mind. My eye caught an old man entering a narrow street and I felt an unusual compulsion to follow him. He turned a corner and soon I lost him in the darkness. I noticed, however, a strange luminosity coming from a building up ahead; several boys were playing outside. I hesitantly entered  to find before me a throng of chassidim, wearing gold caftans with white knitted yarmulkes, springing, whirling, tumbling in frenzied prayer. It was an astonishing sight, one you might never think as Jewish. One chassid, dressed in black Shabbat garb, approached me and politely asked."you're from the States, right?" "Right, I replied with a smile. "Hi, my name is Benyamin Falk and I'm from Monsey, New York. A moment later he asked, "won't you join me for dinner tonight at the home of my host?" How could I refuse. "By the way, I asked, "where am I?" "Why you're at the shul of Reb Arele's chassidim".

Coincidences like these should not be taken lightly. They show up at unexpected moments as gentle reminders that a purposeful blueprint for our universe exists.  Somehow, through what appears to be a coincidence or what Jungian analysts call synchronicity, the Holy architect is revealed at that very moment.

Benyamin introduced me to his host, Dov Patkin, a Reb Arele's chassid. The Patkin apartment at Shomrei Emunim was aglow for Shabbat with myriad flaming candles. Dov began with the blessings for the children.  He placed both hands on the heads of each one of their eight offsprings, and recited the holy words.  The men and boys sat in the dining room; the girls served. That evening, immersed in the tranquility and delight that Shabbat promises, turned out to be one I would never forget. Afterwards, Dov, Benyamin and I sat on the verandah for hours telling stories of coming to Israel. I left the Patkins at about two in the morning. I made my way across Rehov Mea Shearim, down Strauss Street, down King George, down Keren HaYesod and into the lobby of the Moriah hotel. Several years later, my first granddaughter was born; coincidentally she was named Moriah.