The small group stood around a modest headstone that bore, in Hebrew, the name Tova Freed, and the first verse from Mishlei: “Eishes chayil mi yimtza.”

Annie’s cheeks, whipped into glowing pink by the frigid, slashing wind, stood in startling contrast to the gray and white, snow-covered dimness of Mount Zion Cemetery.

Why have I never come here before?

It was difficult, but certainly not impossible, to travel without a car to this large and venerable cemetery. A long train ride, transfer to a bus — two hours from Coney Island’s Stillwell Avenue station to Maspeth, Queens. Yet she’d never made the trip. Every year, ever since Moey had been able to squeak out Kaddish for his mother in his youthful, high-pitched voice, her father would ask his children if they wanted to accompany him to their mother’s grave on her yahrtzeit. And every year brother and sister refused.

Why have I never come here before?

It was, she realized in a swift moment of introspection, the pain, the yearning almost too hard to bear. She wanted a living, breathing, loving mother. Not a stone.

Why have I come here now?

It was 11 Shevat, her mother’s yahrtzeit. Her father, as always, was going to recite Tehillim at Mamma’s grave. This time, though, there was another task to be done.

“It is the minhag,” he told Annie a few days earlier, “to invite a deceased parent to a wedding. Would you come with me, Chanaleh, to tell your mother about your upcoming chasunah?”

Annie surprised herself by agreeing. For the first time she felt she could go to see her mother’s headstone, for now she was bringing Mamma tidings of joy. She was bringing her chassan to the place where her mother’s earthly remains had been resting quietly all these years, leaving Annie to bear the burdens of childhood all by herself.

Standing before her mother’s grave, she wondered: Was it right to feel a surge of joy as she looked at Abe, who’d insisted on driving them, standing quietly in the background?

Yes, I think Mamma would want me to be a happy kallah.

Her father had slowly recited the Tehillim traditionally said on a yahrtzeit. Now he was standing before the stone, his face impassive.

Papa loved Mamma, that I do believe. Is he remembering how he sent her to do chesed, and caused her to die?

For the first time in her 19 years she looked at her father the way a person would look at a stranger. She noticed, suddenly, the gray hairs peeking out among his thick black beard, the furrows in his forehead, a tiny slump of shoulders that had always been rigid.

Annie was preparing for her wedding with Reb Leibush’s oldest daughter, Toibe, a teacher in a new school called Bais Yaakov that had opened just a few years before. One of the things she’d mentioned to Annie had particularly fascinated her. “As you and your chassan stand beneath the chuppah, all of your sins are forgiven.”

Looking at Papa staring down at Mamma’s stone, for the first time she didn’t see a father bringing up her and Moey. She saw a lonely man, a man living without his eishes chayil for almost two decades.

Papa, if your dedication to others caused Mamma’s early death, it was done without intention. And you have paid dearly for your mistake. Papa, just as my sins will be forgiven — so, Papa, I forgive you for taking Mamma away from me.

The frost-covered grass crunched under their feet as the small group returned to Abe’s Pontiac for the ride home.

Telling Harry was easier than Moe had expected it to be. For a very unexpected reason.

Uncle Sam had kept Moe busy, filling out forms, taking physical fitness tests, dealing with the thousand and one details that the army demands when transferring its soldiers. Finally, just hours before his transport was leaving, Moe found the time to hitch a ride to Tripler.

First surprise: Harry was actually sitting up in bed. With the bandages on his leg and stomach covered by a light blanket, he looked almost like the old Harry. His face, though still pale, had lost the waxy, frozen look it had worn since he’d been wounded.

“Great to see you, Moe.” Harry’s voice, too, sounded stronger, less labored. “You’ve been neglecting me lately.”

“I guess it’s been good for you, Harry. You look fine.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better. And I’ve got some news for you.”

“Me too. So who goes first?”

Harry laughed; a good sound. “Let’s hear your news, Moe.”

I sure hope he’s not too upset. “Looks like I’m shipping out.”

Harry raised a still slightly charred eyebrow. “You’re kidding. Where are they sending you?”

“Would you believe, New Jersey? OCS had an opening.”

“That’s great. Go get ’em, Moe.”

Moe felt a wave of relief wash over him. Harry had sounded — not jealous, not abandoned or depressed — just happy for his friend’s good fortune.

Hashem, he’s such a good person. Please help him get better.

“So when are you leaving?”

“About four hours. They didn’t give me much notice.”

There was a pause, and then Harry spoke. “You didn’t ask me about my news.”

“Oh, right. So what’s going on?”

“Nothing much. Looks like I’ll be shipping out too.”

In his excitement Moe jumped out of his chair, almost kicking over the IV pole. “You’re kidding! They’re discharging you?”

“Well, not as fast as you’re going, but the doc told me today that if I continue to heal at this rate, in about two, maybe three weeks they’ll discharge me to home care and rehabilitation therapy.”

Oddly, crazily, Moe felt his eyes filling. Tears of joy — his friend was recovering. Tears of sorrow — what a long road of pain and struggle Harry had before him.

With a huge effort of will he controlled himself, hoping that Harry hadn’t seen his weakness.

“So Harry, are you going to stay here, or go back home?”

Harry shifted his weight a little, winced as he moved his burned leg, and settled back down on the pillow. “I had an idea about that, Moe, and wanted to talk to you. See, my parents are staying in England for a long while, especially now that we’re in it with the Brits. My sister would be happy for me to move in with them, but she’s expecting a baby, and she lives in the middle of nowhere in Iowa, and I don’t want to go there. So…” He paused; it had been a long speech and he needed to catch his breath. “So, Moe, I was wondering — do you think I could stay at your father’s hotel?”

Moe stared. Harry… at the Freed Hotel?

With Papa?

Harry spoke with renewed energy. Clearly, he’d given this a lot of thought. “There’s a veteran’s hospital near Fort Hamilton, where I can get treated. Uncle Sam will pay for my room and board. I love the ocean, and…” with a smile, “I get Mrs. Horn’s cooking.”

“But… it’s so quiet there. Are you sure?”

Harry’s smile dimmed. “Look, Moe, I’m being realistic. My soldier days are over.”

Moe tried to interrupt, but Harry wouldn’t let him. “Don’t fool me; I’m not fooling myself. With luck I’ll be able to walk again, maybe stroll on the Boardwalk, but there’s no army career for me. While they’re rebuilding my body, I need a quiet place where I can rebuild my life.”

Harry at the hotel? Why did the idea bother him so much? Moe remembered his words to Annie: He treats me like a stranger, and Harry like a son.

Okay, so maybe he was jealous.

Jealous of a man who might never walk normally again?

Jealous of a soldier facing months of agony as his burn wounds healed?

Jealous of the man whose life you saved?

Jealous of your best friend?

Moe stood up. “Harry, you’re right — the hotel is just the place for you. I’ll write to Annie and get it all arranged.”

He reached into his kitbag and pulled out a small book. “Keep this Tehillim safe for me until I get back to Coney.”

“You know I can’t read it yet.”

“Don’t worry, Harry. After a few months in the hotel, you’ll be reading Tehillim better than I ever did.”

The two men shook hands and Moe turned away. He had a ship waiting for him.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, 511)