Hell's Malachim

שמואל א פרק יז

וייצא איש-הביניים ממחנות פלשתים, גולית שמו מגת: גובהו, שש אמות וזרת

When I was 14 years old, I had a chavrusa who was working in a frumme day camp in Milwaukee, and since I wasn’t doing very much otherwise, I thought it would be a good idea to get away from my father AND escape the stifling NY summer heat by heading off to the Midwest for some fun and free time to sit and learn in a quiet setting. Besides, my train fare, room, board, and meals would all be provided by the camp. Kashrus was guaranteed.

After a grueling day of herding dozens of little stuck up brats just like ourselves, we counselors needed a way to unwind from the mental strain of looking in the mirror all day. Some of us sat and learned, some of us took up weightlifting, and others thought that sight-seeing around Milwaukee, out of ear and eyeshot of parents would be the thing to do. Most of us did a little of a lot of different things to cut loose. I don’t remember Milwaukee being much of a tourist attraction, and I certainly don’t recall anything out of the ordinary occurring during my summer there. That is, however, with one glaring exception.

One Motzei Shabbos (Saturday night) after Melave Malka, five of us decided to pile into the camp bus and drive over to North Ave., having no idea where we would go or what we would be doing. None of us had a driver’s license at the time either. For those unfamiliar with Milwaukee, North Ave. is the divider between the north and south half of the city. At the time, North Ave. was home to bowling alleys, small offices, some lower income residences, and motorcycle clubs. I don’t know what it looks like today.

Driving along North Ave. at around midnight, we were really looking for somewhere to be or something to do, having lots of energy and not much money. We noticed a bowling alley that offered all-night open bowling (something I still enjoy), so we stopped, piled out of the bus, proceeded to order up two open lanes with bowling shoes, and the quest for the perfect fitting bowling ball began in earnest.

Being a yeshiva/chasidishe bochur and growing up somewhat cloistered or preoccupied, though not really a bad thing in and of itself, has one sometimes problematic side-effect. One might fail to notice some very important things that are going on in one’s immediate surroundings, and may not become aware these happenings until it is too late. Our little venture into late night bowling in Milwaukee turned into just such a situation.

Most bowling alleys have bars in them where patrons can drink while waiting their turn to bowl. (Drinking doesn’t help my bowling, but it helps how I deal with my bowling when I’m not bowling well.) This bowling alley was no exception and though the lanes were free from other bowlers, there were perhaps a dozen or so ‘Cossacks’ at the bar laughing and having a good time. The part that went unnoticed by me was the one ‘Cossack’ who was carefully watching us from the time we entered the bar.

(I use the term ‘Cossack’ because my father o’h used to use that term when referring to very large, unshaven, white goyim. It’s how he remembered them from the Alte Heim.)

If you are a Yiddel in full levush (attire), or even just an average orthodox kid in a dress shirt and a yarmulke, you will get noticed and eyeballed when traveling the Midwest, especially at around 12:30 a.m. in an empty bowling alley in Milwaukee. It’s no big deal. You get used to the reactions and stares of other people. In this case however, I should have been more aware of the glances we were receiving, but shrugged them off to the above mentioned rationalization. The likelihood of us being attacked by anti-Semites never came to mind. All I wanted to do was bowl. All else was meaningless.

About half way through the first game one of our chevra, Chaim B., noticed one of the ‘Cossacks’ walking over from the bar area toward the lanes we were occupying. Since there was no one else in the bowling alley, this meant that he was coming for us! “Shloyme! Der sheygitz kimmt!” I turned around and Chaim was painfully right. This mountain of a human being, covered in tattooes, faded leather, and various insignia (Swastika included) was fast approaching. This was the same ‘Cossack’ that had been watching us as we came into the bowling alley. Two words came to mind at that very moment, “Oh Shit.”

I don’t remember thinking about what to do or formulating a plan of action. I told my chaverim to stay put while I talked to the ‘Cossack.’ I strode up to meet him and it felt like Dovid and Golyas all over again, except I had no rocks and no sling. I would have to do battle with a handshake, a smile, and a pair of ill-fitting bowling shoes if it came to that. As kids, we see all adults as physically imposing, but this Cossack was HUGE, even by Biblical standards, and we yeshiva kids were used to paying a token to ride things that big, not confront them in bowling alleys far from home in the middle of the night.

The Cossack extended his over-large hand to me and said “Shalom Aleychem. My name is Shmuel!” I was so shocked that I couldn’t even respond! He began telling me about his going to cheder as a child, his grandmother lighting Shabbos Licht, and how he loved walking to shul with her. There was this massive and imposing member of the Hell’s Angels, eyes swollen with tears of joy, telling us stories of his childhood and how much he missed it and his grandmother as well. His Yiddish was good, too. He told us that he never imagined that here, of all places, he would run into a reminder of his happier times and childhood days. This was why we had caught his attention. Here, this giant of a man sat, saying the same Viduy(not literally), that I was getting ready to say myself not 5 minutes earlier.

I asked him only one question; how it was that he could be Jewish and wear a swastika. He told me that for the Hell’s Angels it doesn’t have the same meaning as for the Nazis (yimach shemam), but out of respect for us, he removed it for the few minutes we talked. It seems there are various insignia and ‘colors’ that bikers wear to differentiate themselves from other biker clubs. It’s much like the way you can tell Chasidim apart by the subtle differences in levush. The ‘Cossack’ thanked us, went back to his buddies at the bar, and we, relieved to live another day, went back to our bowling. I regret now not asking him more details about his life. I wish I had more to tell about this man.

I learned that night that there really is no way to corrupt a Yiddishe Neshamele. We have our apikorsim, our chachomim, our batlanim, and our own faults and doubts, but deep down, we are who we are, no matter what the outside looks like to others. Sure, one can still judge the book by its cover, but the book might be in Yiddish and if you don’t open it, you’ll never know how the story began, how it ended, or what beautiful things happened along the way.