The idea that had seemed so good half an hour earlier now seemed outlandish and weird

S

holom Wasser gently placed Kalman on top of a high stack of chairs near the wall and stroked the child’s face. “I’m going to continue dancing a little bit,” he said. “Will you be okay here?”

The little boy shrugged, reaching into the pocket of his vest for an orange lollipop, and nodded. He would be just fine.

Sholom hurried back into the circle, grabbing the shoulders of the first two people he saw and resumed singing. Edus Hashem ne’emanah, ne’emenah, machkimas pesi.

There was nowhere he would rather be, and nothing he would rather be doing than jumping up and down in a huddle of people who felt the same way he did, consumed with love for the Torah and happy to express it. The shul wasn’t one he was used to. Penina’s cousin’s neighborhood was different from his shul, but Simchas Torah is Simchas Torah.

The men around him stopped moving, jumping in place as they repeated the high part again and again, Edus Hashem, ne’emanah, ne’emenah, machkimas pesi and Sholom jumped along with them.

It was special, but Sholom couldn’t stop the image from rising in his mind: a full beis medrash in Modena, New York, the old floorboards creaking in protest as bochurim jumped and danced, rebbeim and talmidim and alumni all celebrating their shared joy in the Torah they had learned. The yeshivah would have its songs, its minhagim and special traditions.

This was beautiful, this huge Lakewood shul with the Jerusalem stone and thick carpet and trays of herring and bottles of whiskey lining the tables against the wall, but he wanted to do Simchas Torah in Modena, with his boys.

There were real waiters here, in uniforms. He wanted to be in yeshivah, with the high ceilings and thick, streaked windows letting the sun shine in.

One day, he knew, one day it would happen.