Faiga looked at me, a glint in her eye. “You need to pay attention. I can’t always be working your life out for you”

Elka

“Elka?”

I looked up, startled to hear my name being called. I knew I was supposed to be listening to the teacher, but my mind kept bringing me back to Simchas Torah, to the happiness and sadness that I felt at the same time in the Yeshivah. I kept remembering Mama’s face, with the same mix of joy and sorrow. Now the teacher was calling my name, and I didn’t know what she wanted. Frantically, I looked over at Faiga, who shared the desk with me, in the hope that she would clue me in. But she just stared straight ahead, ignoring me. What had Morah asked? Rivi, who sat on the other side of me at our desk, pointed to the pasuk, and with a gentle sigh of relief, I began to read.

As soon as Morah moved on, I breathed more easily and tried to concentrate again. But it was really hard. The scene of all the bochurim trying, and failing, to dance joyfully with the Torah they had worked so hard to learn all through the year kept replaying in my mind. It was exactly how I felt. Trying to move on. Trying to continue. And failing.

“Why didn’t you help me?” I asked Faiga as we trudged home together. The heat of the summer had finally broken and the rains had not started yet, so the walk home was actually pleasant, even in the middle of the day. “When Morah called on me, why didn’t you show me where we were?”

Faiga looked at me, a glint in her eye. “You need to pay attention. I can’t always be working your life out for you.”