Reb Heshy Maryles, z”l: A Life of Torah, Chinuch, Chesed and Simchas Hachayim

The Los Angeles Jewish community and countless friends, students and admirers around the country mourned the passing of Reb Heshy Maryles, z”l, a longtime resident of Hancock Park whose life was distinguished by an uncommon combination of intense dedication to Torah, devotion to family, decades of chinuch and kiruv, musical talent, quiet chesed, and a simchas hachayim that remained with him until his final days.

Reb Heshy, whose Hebrew name was Tzvi ben Yosef, was born on April 27, 1953, to Yosef and Pearl Maryles and was raised in Borough Park. As a child he was known as Hershel; in adulthood, virtually everyone knew him simply as Heshy.

He was a ben achar ben, a direct paternal descendant of Reb Shimon of Yaroslav, a connection that was meaningful to him and reflected a heritage of Torah and avodas Hashem that he carried throughout his life.

His own Torah education began at Yeshiva Torah Vodaath. For high school, he attended Yeshiva Beis Shraga in Monsey, under the leadership of Rav Shmuel Feivelson. He subsequently learned under Rav Meir Hershkowitz, whose yeshiva was then located in Adelphia, New Jersey, and went on to spend several years learning in Beth Medrash Govoha in Lakewood.

Those years did not represent a youthful chapter that ended when professional and family responsibilities began. Torah remained the defining constant of his life.

One maspid at his levaya captured the distinction succinctly. Watching Reb Heshy learning for hours with intense concentration in the Kollel of Los Angeles, he said, it was clear: “This is not a baal habayis. This is a ben Torah that’s also working.”

A Marriage and a Home That Changed Lives

On November 19, 1978, Heshy married Shaindy, beginning a partnership that would span nearly 48 years and become the foundation of an extraordinary family and a home that influenced far more people than either of them could have counted.

In 1981 or 1982, the young couple moved to Los Angeles, where Heshy entered the world of chinuch. He spent approximately three to four years teaching, first at Emek and then at Yavneh, working in environments where reaching and inspiring Jewish children was an essential part of the mission.

Although he eventually left the classroom and established his career as a computer programmer, he never really left chinuch.

Together, Heshy and Shaindy became deeply involved with NCSY and kiruv, opening their home to teenagers and young adults, including many who were discovering Torah observance for the first time.

Decades later, those teenagers still remembered.

One former student recalled beginning to become religious while in her teens and keeping Shabbos largely on her own. The Maryles home became one of the places where Judaism came alive for her. She remembered Shabbos lunches filled with laughter, food and warmth and wrote to Shaindy after Heshy’s passing that their open home had been an inspiration.

Another former student put the impact in even starker terms: it was because of Heshy and Shaindy, she wrote, that she became frum, married a kollel yungerman and was raising a frum family.

The consequences of such statements extend far beyond a single student. A teenager entered their home. Years later there was another Torah home, another marriage, another generation of Jewish children.

That was the nature of much of Heshy’s influence. What looked small at the moment often proved enormous decades later.

One woman sent Heshy a voice message shortly before his passing recalling a lesson he had taught her in eighth grade. It was Parshas Behaaloscha, and he had taught about the Menorah and Moshe Rabbeinu’s difficulty understanding its construction.

Decades had passed. She had married and raised children. Yet when her husband began discussing the Menorah one Shabbos, she immediately remembered what “Heshy taught me in eighth grade.”

She described that class as one of her first experiences of taking ownership of her own Yiddishkeit and told him that the Torah and hashkafah she received from Heshy and Shaindy helped set the trajectory of the Jewish home she would eventually build.

A lesson delivered to an eighth grader had survived for a lifetime.

Heshy Did Not Believe in Skipping

If chinuch was one pillar of Reb Heshy’s life, Torah learning was its backbone.

For more than 30 years, he maintained an extraordinary chavrusa relationship with Kenny Lehman.

They learned through large portions of Shas and halachah: Menachos, Berachos, numerous other masechtos, years of Shemiras Shabbos K’Hilchasa with its footnotes, much of Orach Chaim with Mishnah Berurah, and practical areas of halachah including basar b’chalav, taaruvos, nidah, hagalas keilim, bishul akum, mezuzah and yichud.

His chavrusa summarized Reb Heshy’s approach with a sentence that could almost serve as a description of the man himself:

“Heshy did not believe in skipping.”

A difficult Mishnah Berurah was not skipped. A difficult Rashi was not passed over. If something did not make sense, they stayed with it until it did.

He brought the same insistence on clarity to questions of halachah. Rabbanim knew that an answer given to Heshy had to withstand scrutiny. He would return to a question, bring a source, examine the Shulchan Aruch and come back again until the issue was clear.

There was very little gray in his approach to Torah. Things had to make sense.

At the Kollel of Los Angeles, Torah was not something Reb Heshy fit into the margins of his schedule. The beis medrash was his makom. He attended sedarim, shiurim and chaburos, learning late at night and on Motzaei Shabbos. Even his hat and jacket were a familiar presence there—available, one maspid recalled, when another person needed them for davening.

Even after becoming ill, visitors quickly discovered what Heshy wanted to discuss.

Divrei Torah.

Rabbi Elchonon Tauber recalled that when he visited, Heshy looked forward to their Torah conversations and would sometimes have something prepared to discuss.

His intellectual gifts were considerable. But those who learned with him emphasized that his Torah was not merely the product of talent. It was the product of ameilus, consistency and an unwillingness to accept superficial understanding.

Music as Chinuch

Reb Heshy possessed another remarkable gift: music.

In his early years in Los Angeles, he formed a band, initially as a source of parnasah and eventually as a side pursuit. He was a gifted musician and an accomplished baal tefillah, particularly on the Yamim Noraim.

But his most enduring musical legacy may have been the LA Boys Choir.

For years, Reb Heshy trained and conducted boys for performances, most prominently at the annual Yeshiva Toras Emes dinners, as well as community events and the annual Chabad Telethon.

The performances were polished, and Heshy was a perfectionist. Yet alumni remembered something more important than the music.

They remembered what he did for the boys.

He understood children. He knew when to demand more and when a boy simply needed encouragement. He could maintain standards while making a child feel important. One story recalled at the levaya described how boys who might not have been able to sing particularly well were nevertheless given a place in the choir—sometimes strategically positioned near a microphone that was not carrying much sound—because Heshy understood what simply being included could do for a child.

Former choir member Yoni Sokol recalled the songs and performances decades later. More significantly, he credited Reb Heshy with giving him confidence that affected his ability to teach and accomplish other things in life.

Sokol eventually became a chazzan for the Yamim Noraim. He wrote that he would not have been able to do so without the years he spent under Reb Heshy’s direction.

Hundreds of boys passed through the choir. Some learned music. Some learned how to daven for the amud.

Many learned confidence.

For Heshy, that was part of the point.

Serious Without Being Heavy

There was an apparent contradiction to Reb Heshy that speaker after speaker attempted to describe.

His standards were serious. His yiras Shamayim was uncompromising. His learning was demanding. His views were considered and principled.

And yet he was remarkably easy to be around.

He possessed an infectious simchas hachayim.

There was nearly always a joke, a sharp line or a chuckle. He could relate comfortably to people of widely different backgrounds and levels of observance without changing who he was.

Rabbi Shmuel Fasman described the unusual combination: a person unwavering in his yiras Shamayim who nevertheless could make virtually anyone—from the most traditional to the most modern, from Americans to Israelis—feel comfortable in his presence.

Even serious illness could not easily suppress that instinct.

Weeks before his passing, Rabbi Fasman visited Heshy in the hospital. Heshy was extremely weak and could barely whisper. The family cautioned that the visit would have to be brief.

Rabbi Fasman jokingly told him that whereas he normally visited Heshy at home, Heshy had apparently come to the hospital just to give him additional sechar halichah for traveling farther to perform bikur cholim.

Without missing a beat, the barely audible Heshy whispered back:

“You’re right. I can’t think of another reason why you came.”

That was Heshy.

Chesed Without an Audience

His humor and sociability could make him highly visible. Much of his chesed was exactly the opposite.

Family members recalled that he noticed people whom others overlooked. He gave people kibbudim because he understood that they needed them. He gave tzedakah to individuals who might never have appeared on a communal campaign.

It did not have to look impressive. Someone needed something; that was sufficient.

His home reflected the same philosophy.

Shaindy became deeply involved in communal chesed and today runs One of a Kind, under the auspices of Tomchei Shabbos, providing new Yom Tov clothing to families in need.

Heshy took tremendous pride in her work. Those who spoke at the levaya stressed that an undertaking of that magnitude could not exist without the support of the home behind it. Her chesed was something he regarded with genuine admiration and encouraged wholeheartedly.

A Mechanech at Home

The most important recipients of Reb Heshy’s chinuch were his own children.

Heshy and Shaindy raised five: Yehuda, married to Sarah; Vivi Keilson, married to Ari Keilson; Duvie, married to Esther Malka; Shimi, married to Miriam; and Adeena Frommer, married to Avrohom Moshe. Their family grew to include many grandchildren.

His son-in-law Rabbi Ari Keilson described Heshy’s chinuch as thoughtful rather than reactionary.

When a child damaged a car, for example, Heshy understood that the child already felt terrible. Yelling would accomplish nothing educational, so he did not yell.

He also understood boundaries. Rabbi Keilson noted that in more than 23 years of marriage, despite Heshy being a man with definite opinions, he could not recall receiving unsolicited advice from his father-in-law.

When asked, Heshy gave advice.

When not asked, he understood that an adult child or son-in-law had to live his own life.

At the same time, he remained extraordinarily involved in the chinuch of his children and grandchildren. Even during his illness, he worried about grandchildren’s schools and learning.

Erev Shabbos conversations with Zeidy could include a requirement: have a good vort ready—and understand it. A superficial vort was unlikely to survive the inevitable questions.

His grandchildren’s achievements in Torah brought him profound nachas. One rav recalled telling Heshy about hearing his son Shimi daven a long, deliberate Minchah despite others being in a rush.

Heshy began to cry with pride.

“Shimi is tearing open the heavens for me,” he said.

Everything About Him Was Real

Perhaps the most penetrating description of Reb Heshy came from within the family.

“The shver was a real person,” Rabbi Keilson said at the levaya. “Everything about him was real.”

His learning was real.

His davening was real.

His chesed was real.

His hashkafos were thought through.

He was unimpressed by appearances and had enormous respect for genuine talmidei chachamim precisely because, to him, respect had to correspond to substance.

That authenticity also manifested itself in his relationships.

When someone once entered shul and inexplicably began screaming at him, Heshy did not respond. He later explained his reasoning: if an otherwise normal person was behaving that way, something was obviously troubling him. Why should Heshy unleash his own emotions on someone who was already struggling?

His strength was often expressed not through confrontation, but restraint.

Three Years

In 2023, Reb Heshy received a devastating diagnosis.

At one early hospital meeting, the family was told he might have only three to six months.

He lived another three years.

Those years brought painful treatments, severe physical discomfort, sleepless nights and repeated uncertainty. During that period, the family also endured the destruction of his home by fire.

Yet those closest to him repeatedly testified that bitterness was almost entirely absent.

A friend asking how he was doing shortly after the diagnosis received a characteristically Heshy response:

“A mensch tracht un der Eibershter lacht—and sometimes you just have to laugh with.”

Man plans, Hashem laughs—and sometimes one has to laugh along.

He fought fiercely to live. Doctors believed on more than one occasion that the end had arrived, yet he continued.

At the same time, he was unusually clear-eyed about death.

Rabbi Tauber, who spent considerable time with him during his illness, said Heshy was among the rare seriously ill people he had encountered who was willing to discuss death openly. He said Vidui repeatedly. He made a cheshbon. He asked practical and halachic questions about what needed to be done.

There was determination without denial.

As his physical strength disappeared, one of the things he missed most was simply returning to the beis medrash and learning with his chavrusos.

At first, when learning became difficult, he listened to shiurim. Eventually, even that became too physically taxing.

Yet the essential Heshy remained.

His visitors still encountered humor.

His family still encountered concern—not primarily for himself, but for Shaindy and for them.

He repeatedly framed his children’s trips to Los Angeles not as coming to care for him, but as coming “to help Mommy.”

One daughter recalled Heshy telling her that he hoped she would never have to be as good a wife as her mother had been during those years—a statement that captured both his awareness of what Shaindy was doing for him and the depth of his gratitude.

It’s Yom Tov

One story from the illness perhaps encapsulated him.

On Simchas Torah, not long after receiving the devastating diagnosis, Heshy stood beside his longtime chavrusa holding the Sifrei Torah.

His chavrusa looked at him and began to cry.

Heshy—the one who was sick—saw him.

“What are you crying for?” he said. “It’s nothing. It’s going to be good. It’s Yom Tov.”

He was comforting his chavrusa.

It was Yom Tov.

There was a Torah in his arms.

And that was where Heshy wanted the focus to remain.

A Legacy Measured in Generations

Reb Heshy Maryles passed away Friday night, Shabbos, July 24–25, 2026, at the age of 73.

A levaya was held in Los Angeles on Sunday, July 26, where rabbanim, friends and family attempted to describe the many dimensions of a man who had been part of the fabric of the Los Angeles Torah community for more than four decades. A second levaya and the kevurah took place Monday, July 27, in Lakewood, New Jersey. He was buried at Congregation Sons of Israel Cemetery.

He is survived by his wife, Shaindy; their five children and spouses, Yehuda and Sarah Maryles, Vivi and Ari Keilson, Duvie and Esther Malka Maryles, Shimi and Miriam Maryles, and Adeena and Avrohom Moshe Frommer; and many grandchildren.

He is also survived by his brother, Duvie Maryles, and sisters Esther Koslowitz and Toby Cohen, all of Lakewood.

But the number of people who carry something of Reb Heshy is considerably larger.

There are former students who built Torah homes after first experiencing an authentic Shabbos at the Maryles table.

There are children and grandchildren who absorbed his insistence that Torah be understood rather than merely repeated.

There are men who still remember standing as boys in the LA Boys Choir and discovering that they could sing, perform or lead a tefillah.

There are people who received tzedakah without anyone else knowing.

There are former teenagers who remember a teacher believing in them before they necessarily believed in themselves.

There are chavrusos who remember a telephone call asking whether they were learning that night.

And there are people who, decades later, open a Chumash to Parshas Behaaloscha and still hear Heshy Maryles teaching them about the Menorah.

At his levaya, he was described as an ish eshkolos—a man of many dimensions. Yet beneath the music, humor, intellect, confidence and talent ran a striking consistency.

Torah mattered.

People mattered.

Family mattered.

What was right mattered.

And if something mattered, Heshy did not believe in skipping it.

Yehi zichro baruch.