My Son, The Rosh Yeshiva

I
still don’t know why we’re saying yes to the shidduch.
Since he was little, I knew Yudi would have no shortage of shidduch suggestions when the time came. I know I’m his mother, but you can believe me when I tell you that Yudi has this unusual combination of charisma and intensity. Some people snort when mothers say “this one is a future rosh yeshivah,” but if you’d have seen Yudi as a 10-year-old, explaining the Gemara to his friends, or as bar mitzvah boy delivering his pshtel with aplomb, you might have said it, too.
I’m not surprised that Yudi’s close with Rabbi Scheinfeld; he’s always had this penchant for seeking out and attaching himself to greatness — first in high school, then in beis medrash, and now in Israel. When we talk every week, he fills me in about their private chavrusashaft or the Shabbos meals he eats there, and I’m sure he feels my pride over the phone line.
But I never dreamed Rabbi Scheinfeld would redt a shidduch for my Yudi. Maybe that’s why I can’t say an automatic no. I mean, how could a maggid shiur living in a tiny apartment in Yerushalayim know what my Yudi really needs? He only sees Yudi the masmid, Yudi the blossoming talmid chacham. He doesn’t know where Yudi comes from. He doesn’t have the most basic understanding of our family, our lifestyle and our values. Not that we don’t value the same limud Torah Rabbi Scheinfeld values. We know where Yudi’s talents lie, and we want him to shine. But that’s exactly why this shidduch is so wrong.
I have no doubt this Malka Rosenthal is a wonderful girl with beautiful middos and a good upbringing. But I’m also pretty sure her parents — who moved to Israel when she was 10 — are very, very different from us. She may check out on paper, but there’s no way we can gauge all those elusive qualities that make a girl suited to a boy. Is this the kind of girl I’ll be proud to bring to shul with me? Will she understand how things are done, how things should look, how important nourishing meals are for a budding talmid chacham? I imagine that living in Israel, with many siblings and a small apartment, it will be very difficult for her to intuit Yudi’s standards.
But Chaim tells me you don’t disregard such a chashuveh maggid shiur’s suggestion so cavalierly. “Let them go out,” he shrugs, “or sit in, or whatever they do there in Israel. It will be good experience for Yudi before he comes back and really starts shidduchim.”
I’m a good wife, always have been, so I keep my doubts inside and let Chaim speak to Rabbi Scheinfeld.
We don’t agonize too much over Yudi’s appearance for this date, but I do remind him to shave and polish his shoes, and I urge him to wear the light blue tie — the one I bought him for Succos that brings out the color of his eyes. I highly doubt the Rosenthals are all that discriminating, but no son of mine will show up for a date looking anything less than his best.
It’s funny, because the night before his date, I get two phone calls with shidduch suggestions for Yudi. Real suggestions. The best, brightest, and most balabatish girls of last year’s seminary crop. In a way it’s good Yudi’s going out with this Malka, I think. Then he’ll really appreciate the dates I have lined up for him come Pesach.
But when I speak to Yudi after his date, there’s something in his voice that makes me nervous. “It was really nice, Ma,” he tells me. “I know it’s too early to say anything, but you know … well …” His voice trails off and I feel a threatening twist in my stomach.
“I’m happy it went well, sheifelah” — I somehow find a noncommittal tone — “and I’m sure you’re the type of boy who could handle a conversation with anyone. So, how’s the learning going? And tell me, do you think you’ll have enough of those steak and schnitzel suppers to last you, or should I send you some more?”
“Your suppers are great, Ma,” Yudi says warmly, but I notice he hasn’t really answered my question. “I’m fine, I’m good until the end of the zman. Don’t worry about me so much. Now, about this girl … do you think Tatty could speak to Rabbi Scheinfeld about a second date, or should I just do it myself?”
I draw in my breath. A second date? Why would you do that? I want to scream, but instead I just say, “Let me talk to Tatty, okay?”
"I
t’s all your fault!” I yell at Chaim, after making sure the doors to his study are tightly closed and the kids are occupied. “Why did you let him do this? Why did you let this happen?”
Chaim continues sorting through the day’s mail, making piles of bills, tzedakah appeals, invitations. Sometimes I think he consciously lets me scream out my angst because he knows it will be easier afterward, after it’s all out.
“You know Yudi is young and dumb! You know he’s under the influence of that maggid shiur over there! You know boys this age are likely to fall for the first pretty girl they see! What’s going to be?” I’m almost shaking with anger. “How do we stop this?”
Chaim looks at me, bemused. “What are you so worried about, Idy?” he asks. He’s probably thinking Yudi is still 12, still under his thumb and ready to switch directions or yeshivos or life mates just because his father said so, I realize. And I know, too, what language will make him take notice.
“What do you mean?” I snap. “I’m worried Yudi’s going to marry this girl who is completely and utterly unsuited to our family. He wants a second date, don’t you see where it’s heading? We’re going to have to fly everyone in for a wedding in Israel, and we’ll probably have to buy them an apartment there, too. And I can’t imagine this Rosenthal family will be able to help out at all, so you’ll be paying their bills for the rest of your life — not that you’ll ever see your son again. He’s going to stay there forever. You’ll have these Israeli grandchildren who can’t speak English, who won’t know how to sign the checks you’ll have to send them. And it’s your fault!”
“Hmmm,” Chaim pulls his fingers away from the mail. “You think this is really serious?”
Finally he’s seeing the light.
I
t was an awkward conversation — and I usually have an easy time finding my words — but sometimes a mother has to do what’s best for her son. It’s a shame this was my first time speaking with Rabbi Scheinfeld; I wonder what he thinks of me and I hope he understands why I had to stop the shidduch. Look, he’s probably young himself. Or maybe he’s an out-of-towner or something, and he doesn’t understand all the nuances. A mother’s heart knows what’s best for her son. And Yudi will get over it; just wait until Pesach when he sees what kind of families are interested in him. Families that can build him a yeshivah one day, when he’s ready to become something big.
Y
udi calls me every week to wish me Good Shabbos, just like the well-brought-up boy he is. But there’s something in his voice that sounds different. Sad maybe? Accusing? Distant? I try not to pay too much attention to it, prattling energetically about the latest simchahs and shul news. Every now and then I hint to the opportunities waiting for him when he’s back.
He’s my son, my star. I want him to shine, but I also know better than anyone else which firmament he belongs in.
W
hen I was a young mother, trying to juggle the kids and the house, Yom Tov was a burden. Now that the kids are getting older and I don’t see them all that much — and now that they’ve become mentschen who can sit around the table and have real conversations — it’s such a treat to have them all back under one roof.
Yudi’s such a wonderful boy, it’s amazing to see how he balances his bein hazmanim schedule, learning in the mornings and helping me out in the afternoons. I don’t how I’d make Pesach without him. None of the other kids have that knack for fitting everything into the freezer the way he does, or planning all the errands so efficiently. During one of those freezer-packing sessions, when the girls are busy in the Pesach kitchen in the basement and the younger boys are shoe-shopping, I tell Yudi about his options.
“The first girl I want you to meet is actually going to be a very nice date,” I tell him. “It’s a Klein girl, you know that family whose grandmother was with Babby in Auschwitz? The one she met in Florida 30 years later … Anyway, the Kleins have this daughter Suri who sounds perfect for you. I just wanted to find out what your Chol HaMoed schedule is like, so we can work something out.”
Yudi’s eyes look duller than I remembered. “I don’t really have a schedule, Ma,” he says. “I’m available for a date whenever it works. I just need to find out how to do this dating thing on Pesach when you can’t even have a soda.”
“Great, I’m going to call Gitty back right away!” I ignore the lukewarm response. It’s normal to be nervous about shidduchim. “Let’s get moving with this. I have lots of other names, but everything I hear about this Suri just feels so right.”
Yudi’s only response is to firmly close the freezer door.
"B
ut why?” I protest in dismay. “What went wrong?”
“Nothing, Ma, really,” Yudi says miserably. “But nothing went right. There was just no … no connection. It felt like a waste of time.”
Iyar. We couldn’t find anything to talk about.
Sivan. She doesn’t care about any of the important things.
Tammuz. I can tell already, she’s not the one.
Av. Too shallow for me.
Elul. I can’t imagine talking about anything serious with her.
My mind is telling me something but my heart doesn’t want to hear. At night I let the inevitable wash over me, seeing myself flushed with shame in a shabby wedding hall, stumblingly introducing my mechutanim to my shul friends who have flown in for the simchah. I see Yudi waving goodbye as I depart back to America, leaving him in the blistering sun and poverty of the Middle East. How can I let the nightmare come true?
But how much longer can I watch this lonely, quiet Yudi resignedly dating — and nixing — the glowing prospects in my notebook?
My heart is telling me something my mind has yet to comprehend. Sometimes things make sense even when the logistics don’t add up. Sometimes you have to leap before you look — because if you look, the chasm below will freeze you with fear.
Oops! We could not locate your form.