Chabad Early Learning Center Parents Association Annual Fall Shabbat Dinner

Friday, November 20, 2009 3 Kislev 5770

Preface

As we sit here together, time is running out on the lease for Chabad ELC’s

building on 101 W. 92nd

Street. Faced with the end of that location, we

find ourselves nostalgic. For so many of our children, 101 W. 92nd

Street

will eternally house their first associations with school. They’ll forever

remember that funny little door facing the entranceway that could only

accommodate an elf, or a two-year old child. They’ll remember the rows

and rows of strollers parked under the overhang, and they’ll remember

how the overhang smelled like a mixture of plastic and earth whenever it

rained. They’ll remember the joyful day when they were told by their

morahs –finally! - that they were big enough to play in the “downstairs”

playground. They will never, ever forget the Friday afternoon smell of

warm Challah baking.

Our thoughts on the end of 92nd

Street eventually wandered to beginnings.

When did Chabad ELC start, and how? To find out, we turned to the very

gracious staff of Chabad ELC.

It’s funny what people remember. Our conversations with Rabbi Kugel

revealed a man with an absolute and almost tenacious faith in the plan

that G-d had for Chabad of the Upper West Side. He never doubted that

Chabad ELC would flourish, although he doesn’t credit himself when

listing its achievements. He’ll cite Rivka his wife, Pearl, Rabbi Fried,

Rabbi Ossey, active parents in the school, and most often, G-d, as the

bases for Chabad ELC’s success, but never, ever himself. When asked

what he’ll miss most about the 92nd

Street location, Rabbi Kugel sighs.

“The playground,” he responds. “To the children, it feels like suburbia.”

Rabbi Yisroel Fried proved to have the most colorful memory of the

history of Chabad ELC, offering juicy tidbits of what was going on behind

the scenes at every juncture. It was Rabbi Fried who recaptured the

tumult the Chabad ELC staff dealt with when moving the school from its

initial location on 103rd

Street to its second location on 92nd

Street, and it

was Rabbi Fried who opened our eyes to Pearl’s status among U.S.

Chabad centers as an early childhood development expert. Juxtaposed to

Rabbi Fried’s vivid accounts were the comprehensive mental records kept

by Rabbi Meir Ossey. Without a moment’s notice, Rabbi Ossey was able

to recall the minute terms contained in twenty-year old leases and

contracts. By heart, he could summon up lists of all the obstacles faced by

Chabad ELC through the years, and there were many obstacles indeed. It

seemed that Chabad ELC was constantly forced to wade through legal

and construction morass in order to operate, and its success in doing so is

due in large part to Rabbi Ossey’s behind-the-scenes work. “He’s just so

good at navigating all those things,” admires Rabbi Kugel. We asked

Rabbi Ossey how he learned to traverse all that red tape, and he

shrugged. “Good role models?” he suggests, his eyes twinkling.

Last, we sat with Pearl. She was surrounded by pictures of Chabad ELC

in its early days that she brought up from the basement in order to refresh

her recollection, but in fact, there was no need for her to have done so.

Here is a woman who could not only remember every single detail of her

extensive time at Chabad ELC, but also the dates on which those details

occurred. Without any prompting, she remembered the name of her first

student, the exact hour of her interview with Rabbi Kugel, and the months

and years that each morah joined Chabad ELC. Along with those factual

reminiscences, Pearl had the uncanny ability to recall how she felt at any

given point. Most prevalent among those feelings is the overflowing love

and concern she has for each child that walked through the door of

Chabad ELC.

When asked what she’ll miss about the 92nd

Street location, Pearl first

agrees with Rabbi Kugel’s sentiment: The playground. “Oh, but also the

kind crossing guard, and the fruit stand.”

The fruit stand?

“Of course. If you wanted to take the children on a little trip to pick up

apples, the fruit stand was right on the corner.” Pearl smiles sadly. “I’m

saying goodbye to an old me when we leave 92nd

Street. But Hashem

plants you where you’re supposed to be.”

Piecing together the recollections of four different individuals felt much to

us like the way we tell our children bedtime stories. The bones of the tale

are there, but we add and edit based on who we are, and who our children

are. For our daughters with high regard for anything fancy, we insert

flourishes of princesses and fairies. For our action-packed sons, we

sputter our lips in imitation of cars and trucks. For both, the story ends

happily, and each somehow plays the hero. After listening to the Chabad

ELC staff’s accounts, we each came away with our own impressions.

Each of us was struck by a different anecdote, or a singular phrase that

was used. For weeks, we added and edited based on who we are, but the

bones of the tale that was told to us by Rabbi Kugel, Rabbi Ossey, Rabbi

Fried, and of course, Pearl, are here.

This is their story, and ours.

Shabbat Shalom,

Elana Genger, PA Co-President (Gidon, Blue Toddlers & Nily, Gold Nursery)

Dina Gielchinsky, PA Co-President (Ilana, Silver Nursery)

Nicole Rothschild, PA Treasurer (Yael, Rainbow PK & Ezra, Brown Toddlers)

Stefanie Gershkovich, Dinner Chair (Seela,Purple Nursery)

The year was 1985, and 26-year old Shlomo Kugel had a goal. He

was determined to bring Chabad to unchartered territory: the island

of Manhattan.

“Unchartered” might be somewhat of a misnomer, since synagogues

aplenty abounded throughout the city. These synagogues,

particularly on the Upper West Side, were well-attended by

observant college alumnae and graduate school students, all of

whom found the area, with its low rents and close proximity to jobs

and schools, appealing. But without the presence of Chabad, and its

novel emphasis on kiruv - outreach - there was no one to seek out

the unaffiliated Jew. Young Rabbi Kugel was determined to fill this

void.

First, a bracha from the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel

Schneerson, was in order. Customary at that time was to write a

letter to the Rebbe. No simple task for the writer who doubtless

trembled as he sealed an envelope containing the piece of paper that

would maybe - please G-d! - beget the Rebbe’s crucial advice or

blessing. No simple task for the Rebbe and his secretary, either.

Sacks of letters from every corner of the world would pour in daily,

written in four hundred different languages by those seeking health,

marriage, children, income. Some way, somehow, the Rebbe

answered all of them. The Rebbe would first dictate an often

lengthy response to his secretary in either Hebrew or Yiddish. The

secretary would transcribe notes furiously in shorthand Hebrew

while the Rebbe spoke, and would then compose those notes into a

condensed English letter. This version of the letter was laid on the

Rebbe’s desk for the Rebbe to review. Finally, the English letter

was translated once again into the language that had been used by

the letter-writer. The writer would then receive a response.

In his letter to the Rebbe, Rabbi Kugel outlined his initial plan to

engage and inspire Jewish students attending Columbia University.

Certainly, a kosher hot dog stand would be a draw. So would

weekly learning sessions. Rabbi Kugel wrote and wrote, and then

he stopped, pen poised midair. What was he thinking, asking the

Rebbe if he could pursue a shlichus opportunity in Manhattan? At

that very moment, Chabad centers were opening up in countries

across the globe in order to revive diminishing Jewish communities

without synagogues or kosher meat. What would the Rebbe say

about starting a center in one of the most densely populated Jewish

cities in the world?

That evening after dinner, Rabbi Kugel and his wife, Rivka, took a

walk along Eastern Parkway. They stopped at address number 770.

They entered the building, and Rabbi Kugel submitted his letter.

Shadows grew long as the two walked home.

Days later, the phone rang as Rabbi Kugel was readying to leave for

morning prayers. The Rebbe’s secretary had a message from the

Rebbe for Rabbi Kugel. The Rebbe wished him bracha and

hatzlacha in opening up a Chabad center in Manhattan, but on one

condition.

“Your wife has to agree.”

And so, Rabbi Kugel and Rivka packed up their bags and drove

with their baby daughter from Crown Heights to Manhattan. During

the years that the Kugel family first lived on the Upper West Side

and organized learning programs and holiday events, the Soviet

Jewry Movement had reached a fever pitch. The Rebbe worked

fervently to maintain contact with the Jews of the Soviet Union,

even sending emissaries disguised as tourists to aid them. The

Rebbe also facilitated secret missions from Israel to support and

encourage Soviet Jews. And yet, the Rebbe kept close tabs on the

work of Rabbi Kugel. If Rabbi Kugel sent the Rebbe a flyer

announcing a Purim party that he planned to distribute, the Rebbe

would return it with his comments. Whereas the leaflet initially

read “Most Jews have not heard of the Megillah,” it was marked up

to read instead “Not all Jews have heard of the Megillah.” The

Rebbe may have made the change to reflect what he knew to be

true, or what he hoped to be true. The flyer was revised

accordingly.

Early pictures of Rabbi Kugel’s

kosher hot dog stand at Columbia

University. Rabbi Kugel stands at the

far right in the picture on the right.

Chabad of the Upper West Side celebrates one of its first Chanukahs

Years went by. As the community that drew inspiration from Rabbi

Kugel and Rivka grew larger, so did the Kugel family. Now a

family of seven, it was no wonder that the couple found themselves

thinking about starting a school.

“Just think of the all the good we could accomplish if we opened up

a school,” Rabbi Kugel would whisper to Rivka as he straightened

up the living room after all the children had gone to sleep.

“A preschool,” Rivka would interject, cracking open the door to

their youngest son’s room. The hissing steam radiators in their old

pre-war apartment made the baby’s room so hot. The hallway light

fell across the crib. Together, Rabbi Kugel and Rivka gazed at their

sleeping son.

“A preschool,” he agreed.

Money, however, was constantly an issue. For every dollar that was

earned through the couple’s fundraising efforts, two were needed to

organize the next event. How on earth could they open up a school?

Miracles, miracles every day. One afternoon in September of 1990,

Rabbi Kugel stopped an elderly couple strolling in Central Park. He

asked them if they would like to make a bracha on the lulav and

esrog he was holding. Passersby smiled as they witnessed the

white-haired husband gesture for his wife to go first. The wife

repeated the bracha after Rabbi Kugel in faltering Hebrew, and then

her husband did the same. Neither could remember the last time

they had held a lulav and esrog, and both were quite taken with the

spirited young Rabbi who kept thanking them for giving him the

opportunity to do a mitzvah. The next week, they found themselves

in the Kugels’ apartment, as they did the week after that, and the

week after that. The families grew close, and when the wife passed

an envelope to Rivka one day as the two sat in Rivka’s kitchen,

Rivka assumed it was a clipping of a newspaper article they had

talked about earlier in the week. Inside was a check for $150,000.

Plans for the preschool started immediately.

A young

Rabbi Kugel

asks

passersby on

Broadway if

they would

like to make

the bracha

on lulav and

esrog

At first, a vacant floor of a nursing home located on 103rd

Street

housed the preschool. Twenty-five children were in attendance, and

more were applying. Rabbi Kugel knew that he needed to bring in a

teacher who could guide the school’s course as it expanded, but

who? The teachers Rabbi Kugel interviewed were without a doubt

qualified and capable, but something was missing. Rabbi Kugel

couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“Meet my niece,” suggested Sarah Piekarski, the interior designer

from Crown Heights that Rabbi Kugel had hired to outfit the

classrooms. What did Rabbi Kugel have to lose? He picked up one

of the felt leaves that Sarah was stringing along the wall. He

smiled. His eight-year old daughter, Faya, had just asked him that

morning to go on a nature walk in Riverside Park. “Tell her I’ll call

her to schedule an interview,” he responded.

That night, Pearl Stroh stared at her Aunt Sarah in disbelief. “No.

No way.” Pearl was incredulous. At twenty-one, she was the

mother of two young children, whom she cared for while

babysitting a few of the neighborhood kids in order to bring in some

money. There was also the matter of the Master’s degree that she

was pursuing. Between working during the day and studying at

night, there were simply no hours left for anything else.

“Just meet Rabbi Kugel. A meeting is nothing,” replied Pearl’s

aunt. Pearl threw up her hands. Nothing? An interview would

mean that she would need to find someone to watch her children. It

would cut into her studying time. She would have to cancel on the

parents who sent their children to her for babysitting. Worst, she

would have to drive into Manhattan. In all of her life, she had been

to Manhattan three times. Her aunt may as well have told her that

the interview would be in Florida. “A meeting is nothing,” repeated

Sarah.

The next afternoon found Pearl on the floor, reading a story to seven

children. Two were her own; five were babysitting charges. To be

completely accurate, Pearl was actually reading the story to only

four children. The three babies lazed in a patch of sunlight that

streamed through the window, alternately dozing and waking. The

older children sat Indian-style on the worn rug listening to her read,

their little heads rolled back on their necks, mouths agape. Pearl

turned the page. They were getting to the good part.

The phone rang. Pearl didn’t answer. “Should I turn the page?” she

teased the children, smiling broadly. “Yeeeesssss!” they shrieked,

thrilled at knowing before Grover did, that there was in fact no

monster at the end of the book. “Are you sure?” Pearl laughed.

“Turn the page, turn the page!” the children clamored. It’s not often

that a toddler is in the know, and they couldn’t wait to let Grover in

on the joke.

The phone persisted. Pearl bit her lip. There was no answering

machine to pick up, but Pearl didn’t want to interrupt the fun. On

the other hand, what if it was one of the parents? “Maybe Grover is

on the phone!” Pearl cried, and she dashed to the kitchen to answer

it. The kids weren’t fooled. “READ!” they hollered.

“Hello, this is Shlomo Kugel, is Pearl there?” inquired the voice on

the other end of the phone. Oh, goodness, Rabbi Kugel. Did she

have the nerve to pretend that she was Esther, her younger sister,

and tell him that Pearl wasn’t home? “Morah Pearl, read!” Three-

year old Mordechai had scampered into the kitchen and was pushing

the book at her. The rest of the children followed him in. Pearl

looked down. Four pairs of eyes stared back at her.

“This is Pearl,” she said warily into the phone. Mordechai crossed

his arms and threw the book on the floor. Two-year old Miriam

Esther stamped her foot. Pearl sensed mutiny.

“This is Shlomo Kugel. I’m looking for someone to fill a teaching

position in Manhattan.”

“I’m not looking for a job at the moment, but thank you.”

“Can you come in for an interview tonight?”

“I … I can’t tonight.”

“Tomorrow works too. 10:30 a.m. We’re on 103rd

Street. I’m

looking forward to meeting you.”

Rabbi Kugel hung up. Pearl hung up. “Mommy, my belly is

hungry,” pleaded her own little Tzippy. The others agreed. A snack

sounded good to them. “Snack time!” announced Pearl. She herded

the kids to the table, and Grover was forgotten.

That night, Pearl sat at her desk with a textbook open in front of her,

unable to concentrate. She picked up the phone and punched in the

number of her best friend since age nine, Chaya. Chaya loved

Manhattan. She shopped there constantly. Chaya answered on the

second ring.

“It’s Pearl. What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

Pearl picked Chaya up at 9:30 a.m. the following day. They left

themselves a good hour to drive to Manhattan from Boro Park --

more than enough time. They felt giddy, like high-schoolers. When

was the last time they had spent time together without their

husbands or children, senior year? They recalled how when they

were fourteen, they had donned Purim wigs on a dull day in mid-

November and sauntered down Thirteenth Avenue. They howled

with laughter at the memory of how they had been thrilled and

disappointed that they hadn’t gotten caught.

Pearl stopped the car in front of Macy’s on 34th

Street. “Finish the

interview quickly so you can come shop with me,” called Chaya as

she stepped onto the pavement. “I’ll be back in an hour, tops,”

promised Pearl. Chaya disappeared into the crowd, and Pearl

checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll get a new

lipstick, she thought.

“West Side Highway, West Side Highway,” Pearl muttered to

herself as she drove west on 34th

Street. Chaya had told her that the

West Side Highway would take her right to 96th

Street without

having to contend with the taxis and their blaring horns, and Pearl

would then just need to drive a few blocks until she reached

Chabad. “Aha!” Pearl made a right onto the West Side Highway.

This wasn’t so bad after all. She hummed a little as she drove. She

exited at 96th

Street and turned north, but somehow missed 103rd

Street. She drove, and drove, and drove, but 103rd

Street was not to

be found. The neighborhood back then was rough, and Pearl

slouched down in her seat as she searched the passing street signs.

“A meeting is nothing,” she reminded herself.

Finally, Pearl arrived at Chabad, almost an hour late. Rabbi Kugel

met her at the entranceway, relieved to see her. He was worried that

she had gotten lost. Pearl looked at Rabbi Kugel, and she looked at

the makeshift school, and she knew in an instant that she would be

taking the job.

Rabbi Kugel and Pearl sat in the children’s chairs, low to the

ground. They spoke briefly, for Shabbos was approaching, and they

both had to prepare. The conversation ended, and Pearl stood up,

followed by Rabbi Kugel. Rabbi Kugel turned to Pearl, his

eyebrows raised. A thousand thoughts flitted through Pearl’s head.

She could bring her children to school while she taught. Tzippy

would love being in class with her. But she was still going to get

her Master’s if it was the last thing she did. Which meant that she

was going to have to study all night, every night. When was she

going to prepare a curriculum? What if her own children were sick

one day? Who would stay home with them? She should really tell

Rabbi Kugel that she’d get back to him.

“I’ll start on Monday.”

On the drive back home, Pearl turned to Chaya. “I have three things

to tell you.” “Can you tell me three things and keep your eyes on

the road?” responded Chaya. She examined her purchases. Donna

Karan, on sale! She had struck gold. Pearl gripped the wheel and

took a breath. “I’m going to take the job. I’m going to love it. I’m

going to be there for a long time.” Chaya saw how Pearl’s eyes

sparkled, just as they had when Pearl was nine. She squeezed her

best friend’s arm. “If you promise not to spill paint on it, I’ll lend

you my new blouse for your first day.” The women giggled.

The preschool grew. There were enough children to fill five classes.

Pearl taught the youngest of toddlers, the tenderest. She and her

husband welcomed more children of their own into the world, and at

some points, almost every class in the preschool had a Stroh child in

it. Pearl felt blessed.

Standing at the door as she does now, Pearl welcomed the children

and their parents every morning to Chabad ELC on 103rd

Street

One day, she walked into Rabbi Kugel’s office to let him know

about a city regulation that now required compliance, since there

were over forty students enrolled.

“You need to hire a director,” Pearl told him, scanning the

ordinance.

“I need to hire a teacher for the toddlers,” replied Rabbi Kugel. He

leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He

smiled.

“I’m the teacher for the …,” Pearl began. Her eyes widened. “Oh,”

she finished.

Pearl started interviewing for a teacher to replace her. Imagine, a

sea of seminary graduates, and yet not one was right was for the

position. Pearl wasn’t going to entrust her precious babies to just

anyone.

A few weeks passed, and Pearl found herself seated next to her

cousin at a nephew’s bris. In truth, the whole table consisted of

cousins, as did most of the tables in the reception hall. That was the

way it was at Stroh simchas. When she married, she became related

to half of Brooklyn. This particular cousin, Suri, was telling her

about how the school she worked for was closing. Pearl beheld Suri

as she spoke. She was so kind, so loving, so gentle. She had found

her new teacher, she was sure of it.

“I’m going to trust you with my toddlers,” announced Pearl to Suri.

She stabbed a cheese blintz and took a satisfied bite. Suri looked at

Pearl, surprised. It was no secret in the Kleinman family that Pearl

was holding interviews for a teaching position at Chabad in

Manhattan. It was also no secret that Pearl was dragging her feet in

the process.

“You will?” asked Suri.

Pearl took her time chewing and swallowing. “Maybe.”

And that’s how Suri Kleinman found her way to Chabad ELC.

Morah Suri’s first years at Chabad ELC

The coming years would see incredible growth and expansion. The

morahs who greet your children every morning became members of

Rabbi Kugel and Pearl’s team one by one, and the classrooms

exploded with delighted children. After eight years at 103rd

Street,

Chabad found space at 101 West 92nd

Street, where the school

would stay for ten happy years. In 2000, the student body doubled

in size, and so a concurrent location opened up at 166 West 97th

Street. Ultimately, the space adjacent to the initial 97th

Street

location became available, and the school consolidated its sites so

that everyone could be together, under one roof. Just like the school

sat under one roof seventeen years ago in 1992.

Just as we sit here now. Each and every single one of us, we are all

history of Chabad ELC. Whatever direction the school takes,

wherever it opens up new locations, we were here now. We were

here when Chabad ELC received approval from the NYC

Landmarks Preservation Commission to build a new preschool at

43-45 W. 86th Street, despite the strenuous objections of local

residents. We were here when Rivky Kleinman got engaged and we

were here when Morah Liba had her eighth child. We were here

when Faya Lipskier, Rabbi Kugel’s oldest daughter, went on the

Tyra Banks Show and discussed the laws of family purity.

What effects these events will have on the future of Chabad ELC is

too soon to tell. Once upon a time, a kosher hot dog stand opened

on Columbia University’s campus. And ten, and then twenty, and

then hundreds of unaffiliated Jews were beckoned by the Kugel

family. And then a preschool opened, and a thousand Jewish

children learned their alef beis and sang about Shabbat angels. It’s a

story that stretches back to 1985, or maybe back to the 18th century

when Chabad was born in the Imperial Russian town of Liadi by a

man named Shneur Zalman Baruchovitch, or maybe back to

Creation.

And we were here now.

Pearl lays bricks at a foundation ceremony for the

92nd

Street location in December of 1997

Pearl’s very first student, Mickey

Early classes at Chabad ELC