Rabbi Shain, always seeking ways to feed his bachurim well while still managing the yeshivah budget, once arranged for a great deal on a huge shipment of frozen chickens. A massive truck pulled up in front the dining room, and the driver jumped up and opened the truck. There were boxes and boxes of frozen chickens, each one very heavy. He surveyed the work ahead of him and shook his head, unsure of how he would manage it. Suddenly, as if on cue, Rabbi Trenk came bounding toward him, a large group of bachurim following close behind. “Guys, let’s get this done,” Rabbi Trenk cried. “Let’s make it happen.” He formed a conveyor belt of bachurim running through the doors into the kitchen, directly to the fridge. He lifted the first box and handed it to the next person, unleashing a chain of kindness, of teamwork, of responsibility to others and to the yeshivah. And of such simchah.
One of the talmidim in yeshivah maintained the yeshivah schedule, arriving on time for tefillos and sedarim. Rabbi Trenk commended him and gave him a prestigious appointment, handing him the attendance booklet. “Please mark this each morning by Shacharis. Check which bachur comes when, and fill it in. You’re in charge.” The young man conscientiously did his job for several weeks. Every so often, Rabbi Trenk would confirm that this bachur was taking attendance, but never once did he ask to see the results. The attendance-taker waited for weeks, wondering when Rabbi Trenk would review the notebook, and then months. But Rebbi never asked. In time, he would understand Rabbi Trenk’s intention. The rebbi wanted to acknowledge his punctuality and precision, and show him that it was important — but he also wanted him to learn compassion and acceptance, to realize that a bachur is about so much more than what time he arrives at Shacharis.
Bachurim being hungry in yeshivah isn’t unusual — but the way it was dealt with in Adelphia was quite unique. Late one night, a group of hungry boys headed toward the kitchen, intent on picking the locks and finding something to eat. It was well after midnight, but Rabbi Trenk was right there, confronting them as they were about to enter the kitchen. He understood. The boys were hungry. He didn’t mention the late, post-curfew hour, or the fact that the kitchen was locked. Instead, he insisted they follow him home where he sat them around his kitchen table. He proudly took down a large pot and started boiling pasta, showing them how he was adding slabs of butter to make it especially tasty. He showed them how to spice it, as if he were an award-winning chef, and then prepared heaping portions for each boy, serving them as if he were the proprietor of a recently opened restaurant, eager to earn new patrons. Years after that, if he happened to meet one of the talmidim who was there that night, he would smile broadly and say, “Remember our macaroni? Wasn’t that delicious?” He appreciated when they ate well.
On Rosh Chodesh mornings, he would drive to Lakewood and buy bagels for the bachurim, achieving a dual purpose: making sure his boys ate well, and adding to the sense of joyfulness that they felt on the special day. There was a bachur who was feeling dejected, and he missed yeshivah for several days. He simply didn’t have the emotional strength to get out of bed and go to shiur. One day, Rabbi Trenk told his talmidim, “Come, we’re going on a trip.” The bachurim excitedly piled into Rebbi’s van, wondering where they were headed: would they be going to Brooklyn, to visit Rabbi Trenk’s mother? To the kever of a tzaddik? The van pulled out and drove just a few hundred feet, heading directly for the dormitory, where the bachurim filled into the room of their absentee friend. Rabbi Trenk started shiur right there, in the room, the bachurim participating exuberantly. Then they left as suddenly as they came, heading back to the classroom, one more bachur joining them in the van.
On Motza’ei Shabbosos, Rabbi Trenk arranged to rent a gym and swimming pool for his bachurim. He would raise the money and drive them there. The rebbi would sit on the bench as they played ball, looking into his sefarim, raising his eyes every so often to watch his boys play. And at those moments, he appeared to be the happiest man in the world.
One day, a group of bachurim played a prank on Rebbi. Knowing that he had the habit of stepping on the rising pile in the garbage can so that the discarded paper towels and soda cans weren’t visible in the classroom, they filled the garbage bin with water, then layered it on top with papers. Rabbi Trenk, who could not see the water under the cover of garbage, lifted his foot and brought it down, as if to smooth out the pile — and stepped into a small pool of water. The moment it happened, the boys felt horrible, realizing what they had just done, and how they had allowed a wild idea to take hold of them. They hadn’t really wanted to cause their rebbi discomfort. Rabbi Trenk beamed. “You got me, boys, you got me,” he repeated, as if he was so proud of their ingenuity and resourcefulness. “The boys got me.” Throughout the class, every time more water came pouring out of the out of his pants, he smiled again and said, “ the guys got me.” “He didn’t punish and he didn’t berate our immaturity or poor judgment,” recalls a talmid. “The class was as cheerful as ever — but we all felt horrible, it was worse than any punishment!”
A bachur in yeshivah had an allergy to cow’s milk. He had other drinks, but Rebbi wanted him to be able to have milk as well, so one day, the whole class piled into Rebbi’s van for a trip. They went to a farm Rabbi Trenk had heard about, a place where goat milk was available. Rabbi Trenk didn’t just lead the adventure; he invested every single talmid with a sense that he had a personal responsibility to help his friend have milk. This was their shared mission, and together, they would accomplish it. On the first Chanukah in Adelphia, bachurim boarded buses that would take them home, to Brooklyn, for the out-Shabbos. The driver was about to pull out when he suddenly hit the brakes. The rabbi was running toward the bus, calling out to please hold off. The driver swung open the doors and Rabbi Trenk jumped on, carrying a huge tray of fresh doughnuts. “Boys, take one for the trip home, and enjoy your Shabbos,” he said. One year, just before an out-Shabbos, a talmid requested permission to take the public bus back home to New York, rather than the private charter bus arranged by the yeshivah. He didn’t explain why he was asking, but Rabbi Trenk understood that it was because of the cheaper price, and money was tight. Rabbi Trenk turned down the request. Later in the day, he called over this bachur and appointed him as monitor on the yeshivah bus, responsible for collecting the money from the other students. “And of course,” Rabbi Trenk added, “you know the bus monitor doesn’t have to pay, you’re doing us the favor.” He worked hard to create connections between the talmidim, eager to see the accomplished ones learn with the weaker ones, confident that even those talmidim who faced challenges in learning had much to offer their scholastically successful friends, and he would often arrange chavrusashafts.
He would set up bachurim with avreichim from Lakewood who would come for night seder, and when necessary, he would pay these married chavrusos out of his own pocket. One night, he was walking on campus and saw a kollel yungerman sitting in the car with his younger chavrusa, teaching the bachur how to drive. The older chavrusa felt silly — he was getting paid to learn, not to play games! — and he was surprised when a look of pure joy flooded Rabbi Trenk’s face. “This is what we want, a real, vibrant connection,” Rabbi Trenk told the older chavrusa. “You’re doing your job perfectly.”
One of the highlights of the week in Adelphia was the weekly shmuess given by Rabbi Kolman Krohn. One of the great tzaddikim of Lakewood, Reb Kolman had a burning sincerity that made an impact on the bachurim. Rabbi Trenk, who had conceived of the idea, would drive to Lakewood to pick up his close friend and cousin, Reb Kolman, and also drive him back after the shmuess. Reb Dovid would often go to Lakewood: to the mikveh each morning, to Gelbstein’s bakery to bring back treats for his boys, to drive or pick up his own children from school. He was always ready to take passengers along — except for those weekly trips with Reb Kolman. Those had to be private. He understood that Reb Kolman — who was immersed not only in Torah and avodah, but also in chessed, carrying the financial, emotional, and spiritual needs of many others on his shoulders — also needed a time to speak in confidence, a friend to cofide in. And this called for privacy. that was the only time talmidim remember their rebbi asking for privacy, just him and his passenger between Adelphia and Lakewood.
Just Love Them - Yisroel Besser - Artscroll
