by Naomi Ragen
“My name is Mrs. Leah Lehman, but I’m not sure what happened.”
“It was an accident,” a man offered.
“No, it was dafka. Some Hasid, a meshuganah bulvan on a bicycle, was riding on the sidewalk and rammed right into her! Didn’t even stop!” an older woman informed him, adjusting her head covering. “What’s going on in this neighborhood? A shandah!”
The EMT nodded, surprised. “A Hasid? Are you sure?”
“I don’t know a Hasid from a misnagid?” the woman scoffed. “Payis down to his pupik.”
“A frum person to do something like this. Disgusting,” the young mother agreed, incensed.
“Teenagers,” someone else suggested.
“Teenagers don’t have long beards,” the irate older woman continued. “Here, sweetheart, I’m writing down my name, my number. I’ll put it in your pocketbook. I’ll be a witness for you. Zay gezunt! Be well.”
“Someone called the police?” the EMT asked.
No one spoke.
“Okay, we’ll report this. But first, let’s take care of you,” he said, his wide, dark eyes filled with concern and sincere sympathy. “Tell me how you feel.”
“Like I got into a fight with an angry three-hundred-pound gorilla.”
He smiled. “Do I have your permission to examine you?” he asked.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, but we are all trained professionals, and we will only do first aid. In ten minutes, you’ll be in the emergency room of Maimonides Medical Center. We’ve already called ahead.”
“Okay, thanks.” Gently, and very delicately, they lifted her onto a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. Behind a curtain pulled closed for modesty, one of them very professionally examined her wounds, cleaning them and applying disinfectant. “The good news is that mostly you’ve just got some superficial scrapes and bruises. We can’t tell for sure, but you don’t seem to have a concussion. The bad news is that it looks like one of the fingers on your left hand might be broken. Can you try moving it?”
She shook her head. The pain was excruciating.
* * *
By the time Yaakov arrived at the hospital, her head had already been x-rayed, concussion and bleeding ruled out, the finger set, and all her wounds—all of them ugly but superficial—bandaged.
She touched the bandage on her forehead. “I must look like an extra in a disaster movie.”
He sat down next to her, a flash of fury and anguish in his eyes as he looked at her wounds. He reached out for her unbandaged hand, kissing her fingers. “You look beautiful. Leah, Leah, why were you walking? Why didn’t you take the car? We spoke about this!”
“Yaakov, the tires were slashed.”
His shoulders slumped, and his face stiffened furiously.
“And, Yaakov, I’ve lost all my customers. The Bobelger threatened them.”
He turned away from her, looking at the ground. “My boss called me in, too. Told me he’d had complaints about my work from clients, people I don’t even work for, Hasidim. I tried to explain, but he doesn’t want to hear. They can’t afford to lose customers, he says. He wants me to deal with this or he might fire me.”
“Deal with this? What, send her back to Grub? Apologize to him? Pretend we were mistaken?” She searched his face, holding her breath.
“Never!” he said emphatically, and her heart filled with love for him, for this brave, upright, kind man.
“Oh, what are we going to do? This is what it must be like to live with the Mafia in places like Sicily or Naples.”
“And this is how criminals spread their evil and torture the innocent. Whatever happens, we can’t give in!”
Then she thought of something. “Did Shaindele get home all right?”
“Fruma Esther took a taxi. Picked up all the children and took them home. She’s waiting for us.”
“What would we do without her, Yaakov?”
He nodded. “She’s a blessing.”
“When are they releasing me?”
“I think they want we should wait another hour, just to make sure you aren’t dizzy or throwing up.”
And then, there was nothing left to say. She closed her eyes, giving him her hand. He sat by her bedside holding it like a precious jewel.
Help me, he prayed. Dear Lord. Help me.
32
GOD’S MESSENGER
When they got home later that night, Chasya was still up, sitting in the living room with her sister and Bubbee.
“Mommy!” Chasya screamed, running toward her. Yaakov smiled at her but held up a hand, cautioning her not to get too close. After he helped Leah walk toward the couch and sit down, he lifted the child in his arms.
“You were worried about Mommy,” he said gently, and the child nodded.
“The rosha knocked her down—his head should only crack open like an egg! And someone should steal his bicycle!” she added for good measure.
“Come here.”
Yaakov sat the child on the couch next to Leah, who wrapped her uninjured hand around the little girl’s shoulder, pulling her close. She brushed away her silky dark hair from her forehead and kissed her.
“Why did he do it, Mommy?” the child asked, putting her thumb in her mouth and leaning her head against Leah’s shoulder.
Leah looked over her head at Yaakov, who looked back at her, his jaw flinching.
“We can’t know why people do things. HaShem allows everyone to decide what they’re going to do all by themselves.”
Chasya took her thumb out of her mouth. “Except for Pharaoh,” she whispered sleepily.
Despite their pain, Leah and Yaakov pressed their lips closed to hide proud smiles, winking at each other.
“What do you mean, Icy?”
“HaShem made his heart hard like a stone so he couldn’t change his mind and do teshuva, so HaShem could give him the worst punishment for what he did to the Yidden,” the child told them. “The man on the bicycle, he’s worse than Pharaoh! HaShem should give him eleven plagues!”
“My Icy.” Leah kissed her again, squeezing her gently. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve been so good. But you’ve had such a long day! So many things happened. Are you ready for your tateh to carry you to bed and tuck you in?”
She nodded sleepily, lifting her arms up to her father, who hovered over her.
“Did you say thank you to Bubbee for taking you home?” Yaakov whispered to the child, who lifted her tired head from his shoulder. “A dank, Bubbee.”
Fruma Esther got up and walked to the child, kissing her. “Your mommy is right. You were a very good girl, Chasya. Not even a minute’s trouble did you give your bubbee.”
The child nodded happily, acknowledging the compliment, settling her head back into her father’s chest as he took her to bed.
“Where’s Shaindele?” Leah asked, suddenly realizing she hadn’t seen the girl.
“She’s in her room. She’s ashamed from you. She thinks it’s her fault.”
“Please, tell her to come, would you, Fruma Esther?”
Shaindele came into the living room and just stood there, staring at Leah, then burst into tears.
“HaShem Yishmor, HaShem Yishmor, this is all my fault!”
“Come here and sit down with me, Shaindele.”
The girl obeyed, her movements slow and reluctant. “Now listen to me. Who are the guilty ones? All the criminals in jail or the people they attacked, robbed, and murdered?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Shaindele wept, covering her face with her hands. “If I hadn’t sneaked around with Duvie and hadn’t been sent to Grub, none of this would have ever happened.”
You can’t argue with that, Leah thought, moved by the girl’s sincere contrition and sorrow. She put her arm around her heaving shoulders, just as she had her little sister’s. “And if you hadn’t gone to Grub, he’d still be abusing little girls from our neighborhood and no one would ever know. It was beshert you should go through this, to expose
him, to help others. I’m so proud of you!”
But Shaindele refused to be comforted. “Please forgive me, Leah. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll never do anything like that again. I—” She was crying so hard, her voice became incoherent.
Yaakov moved into the room and stood in front of her. “I’m going to say this, and I’m saying it to all of you, not just Shaindele. ‘Fret not because of evildoers, nor envy workers of violence, for like grass they will soon be cut down … trust in the Lord and do good,’” he said in Hebrew, quoting the words of Psalm 37. His voice shook, and his body trembled.
Leah reached out a steadying hand, caressing him.
“This is what I’ve decided. Leah, you are going to visit your mother in Florida, and you’ll take the little ones with you. Shaindele, you are going to your uncle in Baltimore to be with your brothers.”
“But what about school, graduation?”
“Your uncle has arranged for you to finish school in Bais Yaakov in Baltimore. He knows the principal, and they are happy to have you.”
“But I won’t know anyone,” she began, then suddenly stopped, swallowing hard. “Yes, Tateh. Thank you, Tateh.”
“It’s a very good idea,” Leah said. “But what will you do here all alone, Yaakov?”
“I won’t be alone. After all, I’ve lived here all my life. I have friends, neighbors.”
He sounds very brave, and very foolish, Leah thought, loving him more than she ever thought possible.
“You are also going to Florida, Yaakov,” Fruma Esther interjected suddenly. All this time, she had been sitting quietly in the big easy chair, her face white and drawn, her eyes shocked as she took in Leah’s injuries, the bandage on her forehead, the splint on her finger, the hint of leg bandages slightly visible beneath her long, modest skirt. She couldn’t believe it had happened in Boro Park, on these kind, familiar streets where she had spent her entire life! That a Jew would do this to another Jew … It was unthinkable!
Then, suddenly, she remembered the vague stories over the years of what went on among the Hasidim—here and in Kiryas Yoel, Meah Shearim, and B’nai Brak—scandalous tales about how different warring sects vandalized each other’s synagogues and study houses, beat up rabbis, broke into homes and businesses, and all in the name of God. She remembered what Basha had said about the Bobelger. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but like medicine with a horrible taste, she forced herself to swallow. And if this was the truth, then it was better for Yaakov and Leah to take the little ones somewhere else until she could try to put an end to it.
“How else is she going to get to Florida? You’ll drive her down, Yaakov. She’s not fit to take care of the children and drive yet.”
“We can’t drive down,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Well, the thing is, the tires on the car—” Leah began.
“Don’t tell me!”
“That’s why I was walking to pick the kids up.”
“We’ll call the tow company now. It’s Heschel Altshuler’s nephew. He’ll pick up the car, change the tires, and bring it back by noon tomorrow.”
Leah shook her head. “It’s going to cost a lot of money, and right now…”
Fruma Esther looked from Leah to Yaakov. “Something else happened?”
“I lost all my customers. The Bobelger threatened them.”
“They threatened my boss, too,” Yaakov told her suddenly. He hadn’t planned on it, wanting to spare her, but there it was. It was a relief to him. He was so tired of secrets, of making up lies to save face, to cover crimes, to make their world seem a better and more benevolent and upright place, imbuing the people around him with all kinds of superior qualities that in reality they didn’t possess. They were no different from anyone else, he thought bitterly. No better and no worse. Simply the same as all godless people who stepped over others to get ahead.
OTD, short for people who had left the good and righteous path of Orthodoxy to live lives that adhered to no law or ritual. How we pride ourselves on how superior we are to them! How deep is the sorrow we profess for their parents and relatives who must suffer the disgrace of their relationship to such miserable creatures! But if the truth be told, who was really, firmly, on the path of righteousness, and who far afield? It was not what the people of Boro Park wanted to admit to themselves.
“I’ll take care of it,” Fruma Esther said firmly, waving away all their objections. “Listen, children,” Fruma Esther began sadly, “I understand what you are going through, and it breaks my heart. But there are still good people in this place. We are not Sodom and Gomorrah. Let me see what I can do.”
“What can you, or anybody, do? We can’t apologize to Grub. We can’t send Shaindele back to him. And that’s what they’re demanding in order to leave us alone.”
“Are you sure that’s why all this is happening? Because Grub is so important to the Bobelger?”
“Not directly, but because it is known that he is supported by the Bobelger Rebbe himself. And so, if we say anything against him, it’s like we are insulting their rebbe.”
“That’s what this Grub wants you to think, him and his followers. That’s why he’s gotten away with this for so long! I’m sure the menuvel on the bicycle who did this to Leah is a close relative of his, another grosse tzaddik. He probably cut the tires, too. Believe me, it’s only a few bad apples. And they are only angry and helping Grub because they don’t know the emes. Yaakov, you said you had a name, a girl who you saw with your own eyes coming out of his office, crying?”
“Yes, but she won’t testify against him. She wouldn’t even agree to talk to me.”
“Never mind. Give me the name.”
“What are you planning to do? Please, Bubbee! Don’t start with these people. You could also be in danger.”
“I should be afraid of these nishtgutniks?” She scoffed. “Let them threaten the bedbugs! I’m too old for that. Besides, I have a plan.”
“Please, I beg you, don’t get mixed up in this, Fruma Esther, please!” Leah begged her, truly afraid.
“Yaakov, give me the name of the girl, and give me the car keys. Leah, you call your mother and pack up for the trip. I’ll try to make sure the car is ready for you around noon. Don’t leave it out front, Yaakov. Drive away as soon as you get it back. Are you listening to me?”
“But what are you planning to do?” Yaakov asked her helplessly, unable to think of any alternative.
“Never mind. Sometimes old people have an advantage that young ones don’t. I ask you to trust me.”
Defeated, Yaakov gave her the car keys and the note with the name of the girl. He was out of ideas and out of hope. He had to trust that the God he loved and believed in really could work miracles that were beyond his comprehension, and that Fruma Esther was His messenger.
33
A DANGEROUS MISSION
“I’m not bothering you, k’vod harav?” Fruma Esther asked humbly, her arms filled with plastic containers and tinfoil-covered pans.
He stood by the door, smiling at her. “I’m disappointed. Last time, you promised to call me Shimon Levi,” he admonished her with mock severity. “Here, let me help you.”
“It’s all right, all right. I can manage,” she insisted, but he wouldn’t budge, taking the heaviest parcels from her, scrupulously careful not to touch her in any way. She followed him into the kitchen, automatically leaving the door open behind her because of yichud.
He looked at her quizzically. “What, it suddenly became safe in Boro Park?”
“Oy, the door!” She went back, locked and bolted it, then pulled up the shades.
“It’s all right?”
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “If everyone in the neighborhood can see what we’re doing, it’s not yichud. So what have you brought me this week?” Rav Alter smiled.
“Schmaltz herring with apples. Chicken soup with knaidlach. Stuffed cabbage and a tzimmes kugel. And for dessert, pareve chocolate ice cream.”
“What, no rugelach?” he said jocularly, wide-eyed with mock indignation.
“Actually”—she blushed—“this time, it’s a babka.”
He raised an eyebrow. “With chocolate, or cinnamon and nuts?”
“Both!” she told him triumphantly. “One you’ll put in the freezer for Shabbos. Go sit. I’ll warm everything up and bring you.”
“You’re not going to make me eat alone?”
She pursed her lips, happy as always to keep up the pretense that she was simply bringing him food as a chesed, and they were not actually spending the evening together. “Oy, I’m so full, but I’ll keep you company. Maybe just a spoonful.”
It had been going on for the past three months, a private celebration of friendship to which Rav Alter looked forward all week. It wasn’t just the food—although he was thrilled with that as well—but mostly the happiness of having familiar, homey smells permeate his sterile house. No one cooked here anymore. On Shabbos, he went to his married daughter’s or his daughter-in-law’s. And during the week, he ate at the yeshiva.
Yes, the food was a pleasure. But most of all, he enjoyed the company. Spending time with a kind, pious woman so much like his dear wife who, for a few hours at least, chased away the bottomless loneliness and bereavement of his life, helping him to remember what it was like to be a couple.
What a joy it was to have a normal conversation where he wasn’t forced to rack his brains for brilliant insights or agonize over the correctness of halachic judgments! With her, he could take off his black suit jacket and smack his lips over his favorite foods, eating more than was good for him without risking the admonishments he got from his well-meaning daughter and daughter-in-law who watched over him as if he were an irresponsible child. The older you got, the fewer things life had to offer that still gave you pleasure. Food was the last, joyous bastion that made it worthwhile to get out of bed in the morning, he sometimes thought.
She arranged the rolls on the table. From the scent, he could tell they were still warm from her oven. “Go wash; I’ll bring the herring and the soup,” she said.