"Yidden are givers, Yidden are generous, just speak to their hearts and they’ll open their pockets. Why doesn’t Motti realize that?”

The Hirschfelds were nervous, that was obvious. The introductions were stilted; the husband answered Motti’s questions tonelessly and the wife could barely speak. Motti sat them down in his little office, then went to the mini fridge to get them drinks. There was a full container of mango-banana juice, perfect. Plus a box of rugelach, not that they would touch any. Still.

He put down some cups and moved his chair to the edge of the desk — less of a barrier, less formal.

“First of all, I want you to know that you’re at the right place,” he said. “You live in Beitar, Givah Alef, right? So you probably know at least four families we’ve worked with. And all of them, baruch Hashem, had a lot of hatzlachah.”

In his mind he ticked them off: Fried, who needed that expensive procedure for his special-needs baby. Morgenstern, a fire left them with almost nothing. Blum, the mother who collapsed a month before her oldest daughter’s chasunah. And Azoulai, the one who’d signed as a guarantor for his friend’s loan and was about to lose his house. All those campaigns had gone well.

Back when he’d started three years ago, Motti could only count off a handful of successful cases, but at this point he was considered the best in the business. And it took real talent to succeed in this line of work: besides the financial and logistic technicalities of dealing with the fundraising forums, the banks, the legalities, he also had to build a storyline that would grab people, and get it written up nicely.

In the early days he’d used Google Translate, but then Ushi Moskowitz, the American who placed the ads on the sites, told him he had to upgrade — some mistake with a ball to the heart instead of a bullet to the heart. So now Motti employed two young women, native English-speakers, to create the actual text. But he remained the mastermind, the one who knew how to catch people’s attention with the right headline, the emotional pull, the pathos that each story had to relay.

“Reb Nachum, right?” He nodded encouragingly at the fellow sitting stiffly before him. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, the family, and what brings you here. And here, let me pour you a drink, it’s always easier to talk after a drink.”

Nachum Hirschfeld’s story sounded pretty typical — three weddings close together, a child who needed expensive health supplements, an ailing mother-in-law. It was all legitimate, all familiar, but not enough. Motti needed that one detail that would serve as the axis of the campaign. He couldn’t pressure them, though. He was building trust.

“You’re being very helpful, Reb Nachum,” he said encouragingly. “I think we’re getting a good picture here, we’re going to be able to put together a very strong campaign for you.”

Hirschfeld looked straight at Motti. “You think?” he asked. There was no light, no hope at all in his dark eyes. “Why would some Yid on the Internet want to donate to us?”

Motti traced a circle on his little notepad. Then he looked up. “I can’t share my files with you, Reb Nachum, but this I can tell you, because I learned it from my father and I see it with my own eyes: Yidden really want to give. You just need to open their hearts and they’ll open up their pockets.”

Hirschfeld shrugged, but the eyes seemed less wary.

“But listen, Reb Nachum.” Motti leaned forward. “I need your help to open their hearts. You know, it’s on a screen, you’re not knocking on their door and meeting them in person. We need some way to connect, to make your story real. Tell me some more about your shvigger, how you help her.”

Mrs. Hirschfeld cleared her throat and Motti grabbed the opening. “Maybe the Rebbetzin can help us out. Tell me, who takes your mother to the doctor?”

“I do.” The woman’s voice was low but clear.

“Good, good.” Motti wrote sick mother, doctor’s appointments on his notepad. “Tell me some more about it. How much time do you spend on the bus, and then waiting at the doctor’s office? Who takes care of the family when you’re spending the day at the doctor? How do they manage?”

Mrs. Hirschfeld described the bumpy route of the Beitar bus, the borrowed wheelchair she had to maneuver down two flights of stairs, the phone calls from her children as she waited in Shaare Zedek. Motti took careful notes, and circled the phrases that he thought could be expanded by his writing team.

“Beautiful, such kibbud eim,” he said. “Here, let’s fill out your bank details, and let me take down your contact information. I think we can get this campaign going by the end of the week. We’ll need a picture — the best would be some of the little kids with their savta — you think you can get me something like that?”

The Hirschfelds looked at each other.

“I don’t think my mother… the internet…” Mrs. Hirschfeld stammered.

Motti sighed, a deep sigh that conveyed his sincere and total regret. “I know, I hear you, a thousand percent. But it’s a new world, everything’s digital over there, in America. And what wouldn’t your mother do for her grandchildren, of course she wants to see them married… You think about it, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”