“So, does Rabbi Vorhand teach at a yeshiva during the day?” I asked Elliot, a robust Hassidic frequenter of the Heichal Moshe Synagogue on 91st Street. It is common practice that rabbis of small synagogues such as Heichal Moshe, popularly known as “Vorhand’s,” teach at Jewish schools during the day. “Rabbi Vorhand?” Elliot snickered at my inquiry, “No. Thank God, Rabbi Vorhand does not have to teach at a school during the day.” At this point I wondered what this rabbi, who seemed to be doing pretty well for himself, did for a living. “He owns a profitable construction company; they build houses in New Jersey.”

Although Hassidism spread quickly and gained tremendous popularity throughout Eastern Europe by the late 18th century, the controlling opposition banned followers of the movement from praying at the main synagogues. As a result, Hassidic Jews were limited to praying in each other’s houses or apartments. These humble, nonchalant places of worship became known as “shtiebels” (pronounced shtee-bl) meaning “small rooms” in Yiddish. They are ubiquitous throughout intrinsically holy areas such as Jerusalem and Boro Park. Still, despite the dominance of large synagogues in the Jewish life of the West Side, there remain a few vibrant shtiebels and their staunch adherents. The West Side consensus is that Rabbi Vorhand’s welcoming shtiebel attracts the most eclectic crowd.

I first attended services at Rabbi Vorhand’s shtiebel about three years ago. An acquaintance of mine had invited me to dine with his family on Friday night, and I joined him for services at the shtiebel. Now, the majority of synagogues I had been exposed to until that point were quite large and had stained glass windows, many pews, a grand ark containing Torah scrolls, and 1950s wallpaper designs on the occasionally stained carpeting. Prayer services were decorous and the rabbi spoke to the congregation. I would soon discover a completely different archetype for a synagogue.

The first thing I noticed upon entering the shtiebel was the familiar smell of old books. Instead of stained glass windows, the walls of the long, narrow shtiebel are lined with bookshelves. Many of the copies of the Pentateuch and volumes of the Talmud date back to the founding of the shtiebel by Rabbi Vorhand’s father immediately following World War II. In place of the countless pews are a few tables covered with white tablecloths and protected by the same plastic cover my grandmother uses to protect her living room sofa, but that I have yet to see sold in any furniture supply store as its popularity has decreased drastically since 1971. Surrounding the tables are dining room chairs with chipped gold-painted wooden frames and isolated threads of beige upholstery hanging on for their dear lives—also, it seems, from my grandmother’s set. Dozens of books lie on the tables and chairs, some stacked, some spread open. Granted, there are a few artificial pews toward the back of the shtiebel, and, like in other synagogues, a cloud of dust inevitably emerges upon any contact with their cushions. Many of the pews, in true college dorm room logic, serve more as space for vagabond books and loose papers than as seats for prayer and study.

Rather than a grand, elaborate ark, I observed a simple yellow fireplace in the middle of the eastern wall. A modest white curtain with gold Hebrew lettering protects it. Behind the curtain await once-sliding doors that now growl when strained open. Behind the doors are four Torah scrolls, by far the most elaborate and decorated items in the shtiebel. The floor is not composed of stained carpet with tacky designs, but of the tiles that probably lie beneath the carpet at the other synagogues. The authentic, unblemished holes, cracks, and burns on the tiles create a historical design that enhances the shtiebel’s story.

While at a modern synagogue silence and ponderous prayer are the ideal, mumbles and chatter characterize shtiebel praying. Reb Pinchas, an esteemed Talmudic scholar whose respect in the shtiebel is second only to Rabbi Vorhand’s, asks me to “pass the seltzer” countless times during the service, and people often talk about the Talmud while the service goes on. Rabbi Vorhand unsuccessfully attempts to quiet the room with a constant “Nu... nu... shhh!” Phrygian sounds dominate the melodies rather than Western modes, and the leader climbs the scales like a fiddler on the roof, crying the higher notes as the congregation chants along. Already, as soon as the prayers begin to approach their closing section, the shtiebel regulars rise and begin to set up the short snack that follows Sabbath prayers. Nissim instantly clears stacks of books from the tables to make room for the traditional Eastern European fare—kugel, beef cholent, potatoes, and fine single-malt scotches. Rabbi Vorhand then gives a short talk, not to mannerly listeners eagerly awaiting insights, but to hungry men feasting, many of whom are rabbis themselves.

While at large synagogues, a new face is just one of many and people scarcely regard the newcomers, the Vorhand’s regulars always greet the newcomer warmly, and immediately make his life story their business. It is run by the regulars, and even the head rabbi does not make his main income from the synagogue. Rather than a lavish sanctuary, it is an old Jewish boys’ club with no membership dues.

The author is a Columbia College senior studying linguistics and history.