Now it was Friday morning and not a hint of magic was discernible in the jumble of bicycles and strollers filling the entrance of their Ramat Eshkol building. There was still a lot of hard work to do, no shortcuts or sleight of hand — or takeout, either.

Tziporah swung the stroller in the direction of Sanhedria. Hopefully the butcher would still have a nice cut of brisket for her. She would do the Asian marinade, the boys always liked it, and if she made a Chinese noodle salad on the side, she could cut the meat really thin and get a lot of slices out of it. Enough to make the guys feel that sense of expansiveness — could you call it luxury? Nah, not really, not in their old apartment with the speckled tiles and noisy ceiling fan — that Benny managed to cast over every Shabbos meal.

She’d have to make a quick run to the grocery on Rechov Paran. There was still time, still a good few hours before gan pickup. Shabbos expenses are on Hashem; no need to keep a running count of every shekel you spend on the salads, she reminded herself as she passed the outdoor tables filled with young couples relaxing in the spring sunshine, Doonas and Bugaboos parked alongside.

But something still squeezed at her as she maneuvered her stroller around the cute young couple carefully bringing their trays from the bagel counter to their table: a salad and iced coffee on the wife’s tray; a glistening omelet, bagel, and steaming coffee on the husband’s.

“Whoops! So sorry,” the wife said as her iced coffee sloshed just a bit too close to Momo’s stroller.

“No problem, nothing happened. You’re good,” Tziporah said, smiling with what she hoped was easygoing graciousness. A little stain wasn’t going to ruin her very used Baby Jogger.

She turned purposefully toward the grocery store, but something made her look back at the couple settling into their seats. The wife had a Marc Jacobs crossbody bag without a single scratch, and her sneakers were so perfectly white that Tziporah wondered if she’d landed in Ben-Gurion stocked with a fresh pair for each day of the summer. Tziporah wasn’t an expert on sheitels, but she knew that the sleek ponytail wig on this woman’s head had cost someone many thousands of dollars.

Most of all it was that utter relaxation, the complete lack of any burden, that got to her. She could almost touch the exclusive patch of sunshine that this couple possessed, the island of contentment they seemed to take along wherever they went.

I’m lucky too, she told herself fiercely. I never thought we would still be here, five years and three kids after our wedding, paying our way month by month, making it work. We’re living the dream, that dream everyone in America wishes they could have. The one they advertise in all the magazines. Benny’s doing amazing things with the bochurim, building relationships and seeing results he wouldn’t be able to achieve anywhere else. And everyone knows we’re the best couple, with the model home every bochur wishes he could emulate one day.

But watching all the young couples with their open credit cards, living in newlywed la-la land, while trying her hardest to stop thinking about their budget, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were living on the same planet.

“Hey, Rebbetzin, need help with the soup?”

Tziporah knew that had to be Akiva Mandel. Lots of bochurim felt at home in her little apartment. Lots of them felt comfortable holding her kids during a Shabbos meal. But very few felt a natural urge to help her out in the kitchen.

“Thanks so much, Akiva,” she said. “That would be great.”

She lifted the heavy pot off the hotplate and lined up the bowls on the counter. Akiva took two bowls of hot soup and made his way to the living room.

“Here, I found a helper,” he said. “Yitz, help the Rebbetzin with the soup, she’s feeding a lot of guys tonight.”

Yitz Waldman obligingly made his way to the kitchen.

Tziporah put two bowls of soup aside. “Here, boys, take the rest, leave these to cool off, they’re for the kids.”

She quickly rinsed the fish plates as the clinking of spoons overtook the sports updates that had previously filled the dining room.

By the time she made it into the dining room with her own bowl of chicken soup, half the boys were done eating. Benny started them on “Kah Echsof,” and once they had a steady hold on the melody, he began a mellow low harmony. Chaim Markowitz mirrored Benny’s low tones with a high counter-harmony in his clear, reedy voice. The last of the bochurim finished their soup as the tune swung into its chorus, and Tziporah drank in the waves of song filling up every crack and crevice of the apartment. Akiva’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, and from Yitz’s lap, her Yehuda followed the song’s progression with big, brown, wondering eyes.

Tziporah almost ached from the peace of it all. Yehuda’s childhood concept of Shabbos was so different from hers. When she’d been a little girl, Shabbos had meant protracted battles in the cold war between her parents: Ima’s long harangues about the miseries of life in Maine, Abba’s truculent silences over the challah, soup, and fish. There was little singing, little peace. Even after Abba had surrendered and they’d moved to New York, the cold war never really ended. Shabbos yom menuchah never arrived.

The final note of the song lingered, then quivered, then faded. Benny closed his bentsher. “So the parshah this week, actually all the parshiyos lately,” he said. “Wait, guys, tell me — did you all finish your shnayim mikra yet? You’re all with me?”

He took in the sheepish glances and ducked heads. “Okay, I hear, busy week, always hard settling back into yeshivah after Pesach bein hazmanim. Stay tuned though, we’re starting a great new shnayim mikra incentive at Yeshivas Ner Olam! Part of the Friday program. It’s gonna change your lives, I promise. Now, back to the parshah…”

The boys relaxed back into Benny’s magic atmosphere — no judgment, no pressure, just encouragement and inspiration. Tziporah brought out the chicken, the Asian brisket, kugels, sides, and salads. Yehuda and little Miriam carried out the soda self-importantly. Good food, good conversation, good vibes. Benny knew his crowd, shifting from the parshah to yeshivah updates to memories of his own days in Ner Olam, back when he’d been a bochur ten years ago.

“Reb Motti’s beard was a little redder then,” he said, “but other than that, I’m telling you, nothing changed. I overhear him giving shiur these days, and I feel like I’m back in the room, this kid coming fresh from the Five Towns all confused and lost, not knowing I’m finally gonna discover what life is all about.”

Tziporah had watched this happen before, but she was entranced anyway. She loved watching the way her husband’s raw honesty got the guys every time.

There was total silence as Benny retraced his first few weeks in Ner Olam, the exposure to rebbeim who were the Real Thing, the first test he’d actually killed himself for, the way he celebrated that 83. “You hear me, guys? I had mastered 83 percent of the masechta! I got 83 percent, and I knew it cold! Never in my life had I done anything like that before. It made me drunk, it made me crave more. Did you ever feel that? That’s what we’re doing here, that’s what we’re aiming for.”

The room was quiet. Benny leaned into the pause.

Then he smiled. “Chaim, help me out, ‘Kah Ribon.’ ”

The singing accompanied Tziporah on her trips to and from the kitchen and echoed in her mind long after dessert and bentshing and the last “Thank so much, Rebbetzin, the food was sick! Especially the brisket!”

It kept playing in her mind as she washed the piles of her dishes, sliding stack after stack into the little sink. She knew that even her fancy Asian marinade didn’t come close to the food these guys could buy from their local takeouts back home. And the chairs at their dining rooms tables in the States were a lot more comfortable than those stackable plastic Keter chairs she’d arranged around her folding table.

But they were genuinely hungry, these guys, and she and Benny were able to sate them.

It was 11:45 p.m. All the dishes were done, the floor was swept. The plastic chairs were stacked and back in the spare room.

Tziporah was tired. It had been a long day. At least the kids had gone to sleep nicely. She hoped that Miriam wouldn’t wake up at her usual 6:30 a.m.

The guys had left, except for Akiva, Yitz, and Chaim. The faithful trio was now spread over the blue couch, talking earnestly with Benny. The room crackled with intensity — Benny’s face cupped in his hands, brows low over his eyes, listening hard to his guys.

“Good Shabbos, everyone,” Tziporah said with a little wave. She yawned.

“Thanks so much for everything, Tzip, it was amazing,” Benny said.

“Yeah, Rebbetzin, unbelievable meal,” the others chorused.

Tziporah went to bed.

It was 3:08 a.m. when she heard the retching from the kids’ room. Miriam was crying. Oh, no, it was too late. In the yellow glow of the nightlight, Tziporah could see her bed covered with vomit.

Tziporah helped Miriam out of bed and walked her to the bathroom. “It’s okay, Miriam, Mommy’s here, it’s okay, finish up here in the bathroom,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. “We’re going to clean you up and change you, you’re going to feel much better, don’t worry.”

What was that?

There were voices — deep male voices — coming from the dining room.

Benny was still there talking to those three guys.

Tziporah looked at her watch again — 3:14. Was this normal?

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 924)